What Men Want Ch 01

For Emie

*

'There you are, class of '79.' Mary-Jane's hand quaked just a little, as she took the yearbook from the school secretary.

'Is there anywhere I can...?' Her eyes cast about for some private space.

'Oh yes, the visitors' room is two doors down on the right. I think it's empty right now.'

Seated alone, Mary-Jane opened the imposing, hard-backed volume and leafed her way past the introduction to the staff photographs with an odd sense of trepidation. She could not even be sure that she would find him here; after all, what had she learned for sure about the man during those few brief hours in his company? She was even hazy about his name. Wasn't that weird, considering the significance in her life of that night? A night seared on to her memory in such vivid detail...

It took only a cursory glance over the pages for her to pick out the portrait that made her heart lurch. Oh my God, that's him, that's him... He did work here. The photograph was inadequate, could only convey part of his physical impressiveness, the sheer force of his magnetism. Yet there he was, staring out of the frame charming and civilised, as he had seemed in that moment when he first spoke to her. But this was not the real man at all, only what he chose to convey. There were other images coming to mind, intense, colour ones, deeply at odds with this picture of suit-and-tie respectability. Images that still made her heart race after all that time, that made her sex moisten and gently spasm, as she sat there in this High School visitors' room.

Joseph Sadler, Fraser High School sports coach and educator. On that one occasion her educator... Her self-appointed instructor in a crash course that had, she realised, moulded her whole sexual being. To this day every fantasy she masturbated to could be traced back to him. Every submissive little quirk in her erotic nature was rooted in that brief, crazy encounter. A chance encounter for her, a simple floating on the tide of events - but in hindsight she could see how different it had been for him. There had been no element of chance in his plans - just a quietly determined, supremely skilled hunting down and capturing of his prey. It was an older, wiser female, who could guess at his innermost thoughts on that revelatory evening; who could imagine the intensity of desire that had driven him to seek his satisfaction that night, the nature of the lust that had made her his perfect quarry.

***********************

Saturday 25th August, 1979.

Joe Sadler adjusted his tie in the mirror and gave himself a more appraising stare than usual. Hair still thick and dark, no tell-tail hints of grey, even around the temples. A facial structure that continued to stand by him - strong brow, nose and jaw line, that would still, with a little care, convey a sense of masculine power long after he reached retirement. Skin taut for the most part; yes, years of outdoor training had produced a slight cragginess around the eyes and forehead, but that only served to underscore his handsomeness with an air of authority. All vanity aside, one day on from his thirty-eighth birthday he had never looked better.

That in itself galled him a little. A face like his, the hard-packed torso covered up by his silk shirt - they should have been earning him countless thousands by now. The dignified end to a glowing sporting career should have given way, amidst plaudits and celebratory dinners, to lucrative celebrity endorsements for sporting goods, for shower and shaving products. What a difference a match makes. One bone-crunching foul. One cartilage-tearing knee injury, that had laid low a sporting-god in the making. A dream wiped out in a split-second. High School wrestling coach, that was his lot in life now. In a respected educational establishment, admittedly, that topped up his salary just to keep him there. Helping bone-headed students to attain sports scholarships, one of them occasionally making the grade as a professional. And this was his 'job satisfaction'.

'Hey, that Foster kid could make the Olympic squad, makes you proud, huh?' He had suffered that and a dozen other fatuous remarks one night before, at the wholly unsought-for birthday party set up by his sister. A whole evening hemmed in by platitude-laden family members and beer-bellied friends from his College days, whose conversation ranged from styles of barbecue to the education of their brats. Truth be told the only guest he had welcomed was Arnold Venkman, divorce lawyer and true friend, the man who had salvaged his pride and at least some of his belongings during the recent acrimonious proceedings with Angela. The rest of them could go to hell and take their green, suburban smugness with them.

No, the only party Joe was interested in took place tonight. A real birthday celebration, one that would provide enough relish to take from his mouth the previous evening's tang of defeat. The venue was prepared, the host looking his best. The only thing missing was that single special guest with whom he would properly usher in his 39th year. She would be leaving home, he thought, at much the same time as him, heading for some venue like The Butterfly Suite over in Sterling Heights - yes, he would make that his destination too. She would have no idea of the twist her evening would take, of her exclusive invitation to Joe's festivity. But this he would ensure - she would provide him one sweet night's entertainment, before she saw her home again. Whoever she was.

Joe checked through the house to make sure that everything was ready - subtle lighting, a bottle of baby oil placed on the bedside table and, most importantly for the latter part of the night, a little chemical pick-me-up at the ready in the dining-room. It paid to have contacts in the world of professional sport. He picked up his car keys, slammed the door behind him and set out to catch his butterfly.

***********************

Mary-Jane Dodds arrived at Pammie's front door to find her own sense of excitement mirrored in her friend's face; it was the same any time they planned an evening at Macomb County's hottest night spot. 'Hey, I wondered where you were, the taxi's due any... M-J, you look amazing!' Mary-Jane cast her eyes down and blushed. She had checked herself out extensively in front of her mom's full-length mirror before coming out, experimented with a few catwalk twirls, feeling a thrill at the sight of the beautiful young woman reflected before her. And yet it still surprised her to hear someone else put words to that same immodest thought. 'No really,' Pammie enthused, eyes drinking her in, as she entered the house, 'you look fabulous! Where did you get that dress?'

'You like it?' Mary-Jane bit her lip and tried to hide how pleased she was with herself at the gauzy chiffon that so lightly swathed her body. 'It's a two-piece. I found it last week in Gantos - cost me two months' allowance! I swear it's the most expensive thing I've ever bought!' She beamed with embarrassed pleasure.

'God, it was worth it!' Pammie exclaimed, echoing Mary-Jane's girlish delight. 'You look so sexy... And I love what you've done with your hair, it looks so good pinned up that way - you're a princess! I'm so jealous!' Mary-Jane's face burned at Pammie's praise. It was not as if her friend would be starved of male glances herself that evening, with her cascade of blonde hair and her slender figure, set off by a shimmering, blue disco frock. All of which made the effusive outburst more gratifying.

But in the back of the taxi, as they covered the few short miles to the venue, Pammie drew up close to her, an expression of mock concern on her face. 'Now look, I hope you're not going to be a wallflower tonight.'

'I am not a wallflower!' Mary-Jane laughingly protested. 'I just - like to sit and soak up the atmosphere sometimes...'

'You cannot go out looking that good and hang around in a corner somewhere,' her friend insisted. 'This is The Butterfly Suite we're going to. You've got to - well - flutter a little!'

'But you're a way better dancer than I am. I feel so self-conscious out there!'

Pammie rolled her eyes. 'There's nothing wrong with your dancing! And no guy looking at you on the dance floor tonight is going to be worried about your disco moves, believe me!' She slipped an arm round Mary-Jane's shoulder and gave her a playful squeeze. 'Come on, don't you want to try and meet that special somebody?'

'Well - maybe,' Mary-Jane responded doubtfully. The thought was far from unappealing and The Butterfly Suite was cute-guy heaven, but her romantic notions had never advanced far into reality, even there. Any time a boy spoke to her, her natural bashfulness kicked in and he appeared to lose interest. It just seemed easier to look - to enjoy whatever male beauty was on display - and then go home without any social awkwardness.

Pammie persisted jovially. 'Come on, M-J, don't make me feel like a freak here. You can't tell me when we go out you don't have any - you know - fantasies.' Her voice dropped meaningfully on the final word, suggesting that she meant rather more than a lingering goodnight kiss.

Mary-Jane felt a tightening in her chest. Pammie would have been amazed at the late night flights of imagination she sometimes indulged in. That she knew what it was to touch herself and had regularly indulged in such a practice for some time. That she had discovered what exquisite sensations were to be felt exploring her own body. Or that so often, when undertaking these explorations, her thoughts were fed by a particular well-thumbed paperback, now shut up safely with her diary.

She had discovered the novel two years previously, rummaging through a box of tatty paperbacks in a local garage sale. It had lain shamefully at the bottom of the box, hiding its tawdry front-cover sketch of a naked and anxious young woman, until Mary-Jane had lifted it out and flicked through its pages. The Violation of Violet was a lustily exploitative piece of sex-fiction, the words of which had repelled and fascinated her enough to make her purchase it for fifty cents from a middle-aged man, who had eyed her curiously as she handed over the money.

At home she had devoured the story, a disturbing tale of how College-girl Violet was lured by an older boyfriend to a remote lakeside cabin, where she became a reluctant source of carnal pleasure for him and a group of his friends. The book had recounted, in lurid detail, the increasingly debauched acts to which the heroine had been subjected over a long, gruelling weekend. Mary-Jane knew she should have been appalled at the gratuitous descriptions of poor Violet's sexual plight, but the crude words and vivid images drew her back many times and the depraved actions of the male protagonists became somehow incorporated into her nocturnal thoughts, as she fingered between her thighs.

Silly really - these fantasies were a huge remove from the undefined sense of romance she felt, when glancing at men amid the disco lights; such thoughts were strictly for her bedroom, tidied away in some secret corner of her mind for private use only. They had no bearing on the events of her real life; she was sure she had never met any men remotely like the characters in the novel.

'Well I really don't,' she finally responded, shrugging off her friend's fantasy-related inquiry without quite meeting her eye.

Pammie shook her head in amusement. 'My God, no wonder my dad thinks you're so sensible. I don't think he'd let me go out, if he didn't know you were with me.' The taxi drew to a halt just short of The Butterfly Suite's main entrance. Pammie handed over the fare and grinned at Mary-Jane in a sudden thrill of excitement. 'Here we are... It's party time.'

Outside the club was the buzz of Senior High School and College students, ready to eat up the final few weeks of balmy, late-summer recess. Well-groomed, well-heeled young professionals were queuing up as well - glamorous, would-be disco-queens and sharp-suited men, all using The Butterfly Suite's rigorous dress-code as an excuse to indulge their most expensive tastes. Mary-Jane's eyes gazed on the more striking female fashions being paraded and flicked rather more discretely over the selection of males in attendance, as she and Pammie progressed through the club's foyer into its dazzling interior. Disco lights spun crazily, mirror-balls fragmenting their beams into hundreds of sparkles that swam about the dance floor. Lipps Inc.'s Funkytown was already drawing people from their tables. There was a fluidity of motion to the whole place and Mary-Jane's eyes darted from one handsome club-patron at another, as she followed Pammie towards the bar.

They ordered grasshoppers and took them to a secluded table, where they could giggle at the more desperate dance-efforts on display and swap notions of which men were the most attractive. Mary-Jane rolled the green liquid around her mouth, to fully enjoy the taste of mint liqueur on her tongue. After the initial frissons of anticipation she felt the atmosphere and alcohol soak through her and she relaxed into the evening. The music was hot, the guys were pretty and she was with her best friend in the hippest club outside of New York. Nothing else was needed for a good night. So if Pammie's 'special somebody' came along to sweep her off her feet, well, that would just be a bonus.

***********************

Joe swung his Lamborghini into The Butterfly Suite car park around nine, having stopped off for gas. The club, he thought, as he locked the car, would be filling up with an enticing range of attractively packaged females: secretaries freed from their office constraints for a devil-may-care weekend of dancing, College cheerleaders now bedecked from their disco wardrobe, and yes, Senior High School girls, just beginning their flirtations with womanhood... And for the first time in years Joe felt at liberty to enjoy it all freely.

His few sorry years with his wife - what had made him think marriage was a good idea? - had taught him the difficulty of taming a rampant sex-drive. During all the hard-fucking years of his early bachelorhood it hadn't been an issue; his knee injury had prevented him from indulging his libido as widely as if he had been a rising sports star, but his natural attributes and social confidence had opened up ample sexual opportunity nonetheless and he had seized it all greedily. The marital bed, however, had imposed constraints against which all his instincts had raged; his attempts at monogamy foundered within a year, but due to the discretion with which he controlled his sexual thirst, it was another three before one of his infidelities was discovered.

Separated from Angela, he had been primed to give free rein to his ravenous sexual appetite once more, but Arnold Venkman had pleaded with him to keep his cravings in check until the damage limitation of the divorce proceedings was concluded. Joe had conducted his carnal activities with stealth for another year, driving across the state line on occasional weekends, so he could fuck College girls on campuses remote from home, or booking out-of-town hotel rooms and passing details surreptitiously to cocktail waitresses of where they could later join him for a strenuous night of his demanding sexual attention. Then there had been some delicious evenings, when he had played fast and loose with Arnold's advice; like the night where he had exchanged increasingly lust-charged glances with the young wife of the Vice Principal, on a Fraser High staff evening out. Eventually Joe and the lady in question had tactfully absented themselves from the table and reconvened in the men's room; the thought that the husband had continued regaling his colleagues drunkenly with his thoughts on education reform, while Joe had been mere yards away in a toilet cubicle, rammed to the balls inside the man's moaning wife, brought a smile to his lips even as he approached The Butterfly Suite's main entrance.

Joe smiled fleetingly for another reason. At thirty-eight he was single again, all divorce-court mudslinging and curtailing of his sexual pursuits behind him. His wife's lawyers had been at least partially fended off, so that he still owned his fast car and bachelor apartment. He had trained his way back to a peak of fitness in preparation for this day and, as he paid his way into the swirling lights and pounding beat of the club, he could feel his own life-force pulse within him. The inertia of his birthday party was dispelled utterly; he had come out tonight to prove he was alive.

For Joe the air in The Butterfly Suite was almost static with sexual energy. Spectacular women in high heels and wraparound, strapless dresses were eyeing men over cocktails or swaying daringly to Night Fever on the dance floor. He paid for a whiskey and soda at the bar and set off around the club at a nonchalant stroll. The evening was still only getting underway and he had plenty of time to seek out exactly the right girl. It was a luxury that came with his level of attractiveness, combined with self-assurance - something he had faked as a young man, but which had by now soaked itself into the very way he thought. Other men, even good-looking ones, made do with whoever would respond favourably to their advances - went home with a blonde, when their preference was for a brunette, settled for the girl with the mild air of desperation, when they really wanted inside the panties of her sexily confident friend. Joe could remember having to make few such choices; he weighed up the options, made his choice based on precisely what he craved on any given evening and usually had his cock thrusting in and out of that choice's wet pussy before midnight.

Tonight, for example, he had no desire for sophistication, either social or sexual. He could pick out the sleek, moneyed professionals and the pouting College girls at a glance, could see numerous delicate or curvaceous female forms that he would gladly have brought to his bed on another night. The glamorous socialites and glittering disco sirens, however, could leave with whoever else they wanted. This night called for something worthy of the occasion. It called for innocence, absolute purity. A clean page on which to scrawl. He had spent a good half hour casually roving around the club before he saw her.

***********************

Mary-Jane sipped at her second grasshopper and peered into the dancing crowd to see if she could spy out Pammie. When her friend had been asked to dance some twenty minutes previously, it had occurred to her that abandonment might be her fate; love Pammie though she did, she knew her companion's loyalty would hardly outweigh the appeal of any halfway-attractive boy on an evening such as this one. She did not hold it against the girl; she was perfectly content to sit and observe, while Pammie danced and flirted the night away. Watching men, sometimes candidly photographing them in the local park or down by the lake during high summer, had been a pastime of Mary-Jane's since her early teens; she loved studying finely carved facial features or the ripple of a muscled torso when a man went diving. But her thoughts never strayed far beyond the purely aesthetic.

Sure she had dated boys, and there had been one fumbling encounter in the back seat of a car with a High School football jock. The guy in question had proved as clumsy as he had been excited. Her breasts had been briefly fondled through the thin material of her blouse and he had carried out some fully-clothed dry humping against her; she had been intrigued by the bulge in the crotch of his jeans, as he did so. His excitement had grown so intense, however, that he appeared to go into some form of seizure, during which he lost control of his whole body and began to shudder and cry out incoherently. It was only afterwards when he mumbled abjectly and drove her home, that she realised he had ejaculated into his own pants. The overriding memory was one of deep embarrassment. Looking, she felt, had its pleasures, minus the possibility of total mortification.