To most people I'm a slightly overweight, prematurely gray, extremely eccentric, out of shape technical guy who dozes off at inappropriate moments. Depending on most women's level of tolerance I'm somewhere between pat on the head cute and walk on the other side of the street weird. Nobody besides my wife and the few people who knew me in my former life ever believes I'm a highly-trained cold-blooded killing machine, and my wife refuses to think of me that way, which pretty much leaves me alone in my self-perception.

Except every now and then when somebody makes the mistake of looking me directly in the eye. That's when I tend to get the "whoa" and the hasty retreat and even sometimes the fingers held up in a cross. I've been told that direct eye contact with me feels like having your soul stripped bare. It's not intentional. Really. Well. OK. A little bit. I admit. It amuses me. The other time people begin to suspect that their first impressions may have been a little off is in one-on-one competition. Like right now, on the racquetball court. I'll be very frank, I suck at this game. I'm not like the guys in the center courts with the glass back walls scooping inch-high wickedly fast shots off the floor to the cheers of entralled spectators. But I'm fast, I'm focused, and I'm vicious. Which is why I'm here in the racquetball court at the end of the hall, with no glass wall, and no spectators, playing for the championship of the company's beginner division, against a cute young writer named Terri who has a lot going for her, including the fact that she's in much better shape than I am because she goes out running every morning with her husband while I'm still thinking of getting out of bed. The out of shape thing is starting to be a factor, because this last game, and especially this match point, have been going on and on and on. And the cute thing is getting to be a distraction, because the games have been so close that we've started smiling at each other after every point. Last time she won a point she smiled very sweetly and gave me the finger. And right before I served this one she looked at me with her head cocked just a bit to the side, as though she was really seeing through my facade for the first time, and remarked that I looked like a big cat.

Which was funny, because I'd been thinking of her as a gazelle, bounding across the court with those long legs, and the long neck, and the flat stomach, and the high, round, firm ass in those cute little blue shorts, and the high firm, round breasts bouncing under the white polo shirt, and the pale skin, and the dark curly hair, and the flashing blue eyes, and the perky little nose, and the big wide mouth. OK. OK. Most of these, admittedly, are not gazelle-like features, but I do have a growing urge to chase her down and jump on her.

And now, finally, I've managed to get her in a rhythm, establishing myself in the center of the court and smashing the ball toward the back from side to side, with her running back and forth, back and forth, behind me, just managing to reach the ball and send it back to me. After a dozen of those I can hear her starting to pant. I can sense that she's finally broken a real sweat, and I'm watching the ball, and listening for where she is, and waiting to hear her anticipate, to break for the other side before the ball actually reaches me.

Three more shots and I hear her cheat. The ball's coming to me and she's already breaking to our left, hoping to get there early and put me away with a strong backhand. Everything slows down. The ball's floating in toward me, I take a step back, I line it up, and send the ball right back where it came from, hurtling toward the back of the court behind her turned back. I turn around to watch. Cocky of me. And stupid. Because she turns around too. And she's bounding back for the ball and reaching out with her racquet and in a shot that I'm sure they don't teach to people who play this game for real, arcs the ball way back over her shoulder, over my head, and still, in slow motion, I turn to watch it arcing for the wall and dropping fast and in a moment of awful clarity I know it's going to hit the wall less than six inches above the floor and drop almost straight down. I'm running. I know I'm running because I can feel it, but all I care about, all I know about, is that damned ball. The racquet's hanging down low and the wall's coming up fast and the ball's just started coming up off the floor, and I'm giving it a little tiny flick with the racquet and I'm hearing it bounce back into the wall and then hit the floor once, twice, and I'm smiling as I hit the wall myself. Very hard.

Turning around I'm pretty woozy but I can see that Terri's put down her racquet, and she's clapping for me. So I act like a hero and try to pretend I'm not almost unconscious and I'm walking back to the center of the floor and she's walking towards me, smiling, and clapping, and I'm watching her cute face and her curly black hair, her pale white skin, and her long neck, and her long legs, and her firm high round breasts, and her flashing blue eyes. She's right in front of me, inches away, staring back, and if I'm stripping her soul bare she sure doesn't seem to mind. She's still smiling when I grab her firm young ass and pull her into me, and her tongue's in my mouth, and my tongue's in her mouth and my hand's down the back of her shorts, and her hand's on my cock through my shorts, And I'm kissing her neck and my other hand's between her legs, and she's so wet, and so drenched with sweat and breathing so hard and her nipples are so hard through the polo shirt, that I know she's as ready to come as I am when somebody knocks on the door. And I know that if it weren't for that knock, we'd be fucking each other's brains out in the middle of the floor.