



							   The Professor's Wife

											  By BillyG
											  (hayden@mindless.com)


			   It was noon, lunch break at the University, and I noted
		  that there was the usual cast of students and office workers
		  sitting in the warm Spring sun as I took an accustomed
		  shortcut to my office.  Idly glancing at a woman who was
		  sitting with her skirt drawn up a bit, sunning her long
		  legs, I smiled to myself for the umpteenth time, thinking
		  how lucky I was to have obtained the office I had.

			   At first glance, it was no prize.  On the ground floor,
		  along with three other offices, it was accessed from a
		  single central office, the so-called reception room.  None
		  of the office spaces was large, for the University had been
		  growing at a completely unanticipated rate and over the
		  years, the large offices had been partitioned into ever
		  smaller units.  Some, like mine, were almost laughable.  My
		  space, the one I'd connived and manipulated to get, was
		  easily three times longer than it was wide. In comparison,
		  the inside hallway may have been only sightly wider. It was
		  so narrow that while sitting at my desk, there was
		  inadequate room to walk behind me.  Still, I loved it.
		  Later I found out that my manipulation hadn't even been
		  tested; no one else wanted it!

			   You see, it had a major benefit - an outside door that
		  opened onto a tree-studded, sunken courtyard that in midday
		  was flooded with sun and oh yes, lots of good looking
		  students.  At least the women were, I thought to myself.
		  More, the courtyard was open to the parking areas, the
		  central research laboratories, the Outpatient Clinic areas
		  as well as the main hospital. With an outside door, I almost
		  never had to take the tortuous subterranean halls to our
		  "reception" area; I always walked through the outside
		  courtyard.  Mostly it was the convenience and the illusion
		  of great space at one end of my office, but on sunny days
		  like this, there was a bonus - the sun-worshiping women who
		  congregated there.  Yes, that was a major bonus.

			   That morning, trailing along slowly, my hands sunk in
		  my pockets, head down, I might have looked like an
		  absent-minded young professor. The young professor part was
		  right, but my head was down because I was looking at the
		  various sets of legs that were on display.

			   "Mornin', Dr. Burbank."

			   I'd been speculating on the geometry of my angle of
		  vision, looking at the long thighs of a woman sitting on one
		  of the square concrete planters outside my office door.  If
		  I were just a few inches lower, or if she lifted her legs
		  just a smidgen . . . .

			   I glanced up and saw Janey, my "administrative
		  assistant" smiling at me. Actually she wasn't *my*
		  assistant; I shared her with three other guys, but they were
		  gone a lot so it seemed like she was mine.  Janey had once
		  divulged to me her take on the title, 'administrative
		  assistant.' "Hell, we're all secretaries - as least that's
		  how I think of myself - but if that call us 'admins' they
		  don't have to pay us overtime or buy us flowers on
		  Secretaries' Day."  I remembered that and bought flowers.

			   Janey tilted her head at me and gave me that knowing
		  smile.  She'd caught me ogling her legs (again).  "Nice day,
		  huh, doc?"

			   She often called me "doc" when we were together.  She
		  wasn't trying to be familiar or disrespectful.  It never
		  occurred to her, I'm sure, for she was married to a
		  well-known, full-professor - on the academic, social ladder,
		  placed well above me.  I was what was euphemistically
		  referred to as "junior faculty," a new Assistant Professor,
		  promising perhaps, but not yet proven.  Proven as in tenured
		  where one's Curriculum Vitae was weighed.

			   I liked Janey.  I liked her looks and her spirit and
		  mostly, I liked her wit and intelligence.  As many young
		  academicians, I unconsciously judged peoples' intelligence,
		  usually from some lofty high ground, and I'd found her's to
		  be keen and sometimes superior to my own.  I hadn't admitted
		  that to her.  I didn't need to.  She was like me and already
		  knew it.

			   "Cat got your tongue?" she asked.

			   "Uh . . . guess I was wool gathering," I replied,
		  trying not to look down at her legs.  The fact of the matter
		  was this: I was infatuated with Janey.  She didn't seem to
		  know this and I'd never made a move on her.  She was a
		  respected woman in a high-profile marriage to a
		  politically-prominent Professor of History.  There was talk
		  that he was on a fast track to a university presidency.
		  More importantly, I didn't hustle married women, period.
		  Oh, the thought crossed my mind. All the time actually.  But
		  it hadn't been too great a temptation.  At least not as long
		  as I kept working the insane hours I did.

			   "You have some messages," she added, swinging her legs
		  aside as she stood up.  I saw a flash of white.  Her
		  panties?  I tried not to look. And failed.

			   She gave me "the look," that knowing smile that said
		  she knew exactly what was happening.  Only we didn't talk
		  about it.  Not directly, anyway.

			   "None of them are important," she continued, "but they
		  want you to head a committee - a resident selection
		  committee."  She wrinkled her nose.

			   Janey spoke of "they" as if it were Us and Them.
		  'They,' of course, were the entrenched power structure who
		  were artful at delegating scut work, like the resident
		  selection committee.

			   "Shit!  I hate the ponderous, self-important process of
		  committees. They're so cumbersome and so inefficient.  I
		  have an idea.  Tell 'em I'll do it only if they'll let me
		  pick the rest of the committee."

			   "And you won't pick anyone else, right?"

			   I nodded with a little smile.  "Much faster and far
		  more efficient that way."

			   She made a fist and pulled it straight back to her
		  side.  "I'll draft the letter."

			   We walked into my office and she paused to pick a dead
		  leaf from one of my plants by the window.  "You're the only
		  doc with plants.  Know that?"

			   "That's because I'm the only doc with an outside office
		  and has someone like you to keep 'em alive," I retorted,
		  stating the obvious. Before Janey I subscribed to Darwinian
		  selection - if they made it they made it.  Life's tough.

			   As she reached behind the potted plant to pick a few
		  more questionable leaves, her blouse was drawn tightly
		  across her back, outlining a bra strap.  I wasn't sure -
		  sometimes I wondered if she wore one at all.  She was small
		  breasted (I thought) with sometimes very prominent nipples
		  (I knew) and in the unconscious way some men have, I was
		  very aware of her body and what she was wearing.

			   I glanced at my watch in the way time-conscious people
		  do; I still had a half hour before my lecture.  "Did you
		  finish my notes?" I asked.

			   "Yes," and she nodded to a manilla folder on the center
		  of my desk. Then she flashed me a sly smile.  "I made a few
		  corrections."

			   I groaned.  "Yeah, a few.  Will I even recognize 'em?
		  As my notes, that is?"

			   "Oh sure.  You're a quick study."

			   "Do you correct Bob's papers?" I asked, suspecting she
		  did.  Bob was her impressive - stuffed-shirt impressive -
		  husband.  My opinions weren't confined to just the medical
		  school.

			   She dropped the leaves in the waste basket and replied
		  without looking at me, "I used to, but he's become so . . .
		  so stuffy. (I *knew* it!).  We fight over dumb things,
		  really little things.  It's like he's got to be right all
		  the time.  And it's getting worse.  Every time he receives
		  an award or something, he becomes so . . . well, so stuffy."

			   I made a noncommittal "Hmmm" sound.  I had my own
		  opinions about Professor Renaissance, but I kept them where
		  they belonged, in my head.

			   One leaf had fluttered and missed the wastebasket.
		  Janey bent at the hips to pick it up and of course, my eyes
		  went to her ass where the tightly-drawn skirt revealed a
		  clear panty line.  As she stood, she swung around toward me,
		  again catching my eyes looking at her.

			   "Lecher," she said with a serious face, and then smiled
		  as she walked through to her desk, just out of sight around
		  the corner.

			   We had an easy, friendly relationship, Janey and me.
		  With my colleagues she was polite, formal and friendly but
		  in a distant way. They were so concerned with their own
		  little worlds they hadn't a clue. My colleagues - we never
		  talked, at least not about anything outside of the tight,
		  small world of academic medicine.  And let me tell you,
		  that's a *small* world.  If they had any social interaction,
		  I wasn't a part of it. Thank goodness.

			   Picking up the new lecture notes, I pulled the swivel
		  chair over to the outside door and, with my feet planted on
		  either side of the door jamb, I leaned back to check the
		  form.  I wasn't worried; they'd be better I knew.  I just
		  wanted to be sure I wouldn't get lost in a new format if I
		  needed to look at them at all.

			   Paging through the notes, I gave them little more than
		  a cursory study.  I was still thinking about my 'secretary'.
		  Janey didn't complain or tell tales out of school, but I
		  knew that things weren't going well for her and Bob.  Last
		  week he'd stopped by, mostly, it seemed, to harangue her
		  about something or another.  He didn't know I was right
		  around the corner and assumed the place was empty.  He
		  quickly became so abusive I was embarrassed - for him, and
		  for Janey.  When he left, she said out loud, obviously to
		  me, "So, what'd you think of that little scolding?"

			   "Sorry," I called out, "I couldn't help but hear."

			   "Yeah, and the people down the hall as well."

			   With some chagrin, I recalled the bitter disputes that
		  characterized the failing relationship I'd had with my wife
		  not many months before she left. That'd been several years
		  ago.  Not long after, she'd moved in with a physics post-doc
		  who now, I understood, was on a greased track to tenure.

			   I was in no position to assume any moral high-ground.
		  Relationships are studded with "growth opportunities" I was
		  told.  When I'd mentioned this to Janey once, she laughed
		  out loud.  "Is *that* what you call them?"

			   My courtyard entrance enabled me to slip in and out
		  routinely without the department secretary knowing I'd been
		  there.  When she told someone that she'd look for me, she
		  really meant it.  Saved lots of hassles.  As often, it
		  seemed, those quiet-foot approaches also kept me hidden from
		  Janey.  Or perhaps she knew but chose to ignore it.  Or
		  maybe she was just open.  Anyway, I'd overheard several of
		  her conversations with someone named Marie, obviously a
		  friend and confidant.  Janey was consistently and
		  embarrassingly self-revealing in those girl-girl phone
		  chats.

			   I knew, for instance, that while she and Bob had once
		  had a "vibrant sex life," it was now reduced to "an
		  occasional mercy fuck." The bitterness of her tone suggested
		  that it was she who was at mercy. Last week I'd overheard
		  her say, "I don't leave home without it. Why, my vibrator,
		  of course."

			   I banged my chair and rattled an open drawer to remind
		  her I was there.  It appeared to make no difference.  A few
		  minutes later, she rolled her chair back, looked into my
		  office and, red-faced, asked "Well, what do *you* do?"

			   I'd just been thinking about what I did.  Was even
		  thinking about going to the Men's room to do what I did.  I
		  sputtered, feeling the heat rise in my face.

			   "That's what I thought!" she said in a tone that
		  suggested she'd been reading my mind.  Her laughter removed
		  any sting.

			   Over weeks and months, an easy familiarity had grown
		  between us. Oh, nothing was said overtly, but our nonverbal
		  communication was zinging.  Just the day before she'd come
		  into my office late in the afternoon, so late I knew most
		  folks had gone home, and she sat on the corner of my desk.
		  I had gotten rid of the one other chair that used to be
		  there, trying to make a little more room. And to discourage
		  over-long visits by students and residents.  The cafeteria
		  was my usual social and professional meeting place.  It was
		  always deafeningly noisy and offered the relative privacy of
		  cacophony.

			   She dropped a document on my desk that was so marked
		  with a red felt pen, it had a bloodied appearance.

			   "Oh, make a few changes?" I asked, picking up the
		  paper.  Janey didn't just make grammatical corrections, she
		  often made huge formatting changes and deleted tons of good
		  stuff, really nifty expressions. "Do you order red pens by
		  the case?"

			   We'd clashed on this before.  I thought I was a
		  better-than-average writer. "You are," she agreed, "but that
		  doesn't mean you can't profit from a few little changes."

			   Flipping through the bleeding pages, I asked, "A
		  *few*?"

			   She turned slightly and leaned forwards, pointing to
		  something on one of the pages.  I never saw it, for one of
		  her legs dropped to the floor and the other lifted slightly,
		  and suddenly, almost at eye level, I was looking up her
		  skirt.  All the way!  They *were* white, and with lace trim.
		  Her voice had receded to an unheard murmur.

			   Then I became aware of the quiet.  I knew that more in
		  retrospect, for at that moment I wasn't aware of much aside
		  from her.  Thinking back, I could feel the sun's warmth at
		  my back, bouncing off the courtyard tiles and I could hear
		  the birds twittering in the trees and I could feel a strain
		  in my Calvin Klein's.

			   Janey had reddish, short, curly hair and I wondered
		  about the other. I could see a darker shadow.

			   "See enough?" she asked in a soft voice, breaking the
		  silence.

			   Startled and red-faced, I looked up and sputtered, "Yes
		  . . . I mean no . . . oh shit, I'm sorry."

			   Getting up, she added, "That's OK, Dr. Burbank.  I
		  understand." And she left.

			   Understand what?  What's to understand?  That she
		  drives me crazy? That late at night, aroused and frustrated,
		  her face . . . no, her legs come to mind?  That she's
		  unattainable?

			   Totally unnerved, I left to go on rounds.  At least in
		  that arena I could put together a few cogent thoughts.
		  There, the house staff presented to me a fascinating case, a
		  man with an impossibly complicated vascular history
		  compounded by advanced coronary and carotid artery disease.
		  Where to start?  Should we even start? What's most critical?
		  Before I knew it, a couple of hours had past and I'd
		  forgotten about Janey.  Or at least, Janey's legs.

			   The courtyard was in soft shadow in the early evening.
		  Someone was playing music in the distance.  Most of the
		  lights were out; my door remained open and the lights on, a
		  beacon for me.  I slipped in and stepping out of my loafers,
		  I sat down and put my feet on the desk and just stared at
		  the wall.  I've got to change that calendar, I thought. I
		  mean, *two* years old!  Geez, I'm too young to be absent
		  minded, I argued, but still, what about that damn calendar?

			   Tap, tap, tap - I knew that sound - Janey's high heels
		  on the uncarpeted hallway floor outside our offices.  No one
		  else walked with such purpose.  The sound turned into our
		  reception room and I heard something thud against the wall -
		  her purse?

			   "Shit, shit, shit," she murmured as the springs of her
		  office chair squeaked. Even the sound of her picking up the
		  phone was loud in the tomb-like silence of our wing.  She
		  punched in some numbers, holding each one an unneeded extra
		  second, adding emphasis to her apparent anger.

			   "Marie?" she asked, leaning back in her chair.  I knew
		  that squeaking sound as well. "Marie, I just need to vent
		  for a few minutes. OK?"

			   I was uncertain.  I didn't know if I should just lay
		  low and allow her the opportunity to "vent" or if I should
		  announce my presence. Still pondering that dilemma, the
		  one-sided conversation continued. "Yeah, he stood me up
		  *again*, the bastard!"

			   I knew that Bob had the tendency to rank almost
		  anything as more important than a meeting with Janey.  Once
		  it'd been a grad student's flat tire.  It was a 'she' grad
		  student, an attractive one at that. Janey later recounted
		  that Bob had asked reasonably, 'What else could I do?' AAA
		  turned out not to be the reply he wanted.  "Well, I know
		  what *I'd* to with that damn tire iron!" she'd hissed into
		  the phone before slamming it down. I guess she was pissed.

			   I thought about slipping out again.  Yeah, that's what
		  I'd do.  I was good at that.

			   "I've been here almost two hours," she went on, "and
		  the son-of-a-bitch just called and said he couldn't make it.
		  My best black dress, heels so high I'm about to fall over,
		  and no bra!  That's right, honest.  No underpants even!
		  Damn!"

			   No underpants?  I was frozen.  In my mind's eye, I saw
		  her perched on the corner of my desk.  I could see her
		  thighs, the soft skin, the deep shadows . . .

			   Jesus!  Fifteen years of formal education after high
		  school - hard, competitive work requiring intense
		  concentration . . . and I was stopped dead in my tracks by .
		  . . by the image of no underpants.  Suddenly I was tense
		  with expectation. Of what, for Christ's sake?

			   "I'm so damn mad at him, I feel like going out and
		  getting drunk. What? Oh I *know* I can't drink without
		  throwing up all over myself, but I still feel like it!"

			   I'd entertained a number of visions about Janey but
		  throwing up wasn't one of them.  Maybe we could share a
		  drink, I thought.  I smiled at that one.  I'd never had
		  *one* drink in my life - that's why I didn't drink anymore
		  either.

			   "Oh, I don't know.  Go home, I guess.  What else can a
		  middle-aged professor's wife do?  Yeah, I know.  I'm on the
		  pity pot."

			   Middle aged?  Janey was my age, maybe a few years
		  older, and *that* wasn't middle aged!

			   "No, I don't know where *he* is either.  Damn.  Aren't
		  there *any* men who show up anymore?"

			   I leaned back in my chair just a little bit more.  And
		  fell right over!  Down I went with a crash, my head jammed
		  against the wall, my legs dangling over the upended front of
		  my swivel chair.  I was dazed and just lay there, stockinged
		  feet in the air, momentarily out of it. Or I was until Janey
		  rushed into my office.

			   "Bill!  What are *you* doing here?"

			   "Uh . . . resting?"

			   Pushing her fingers to her mouth, she asked, "Did you
		  hear everything?"

			   "No," I lied; I hadn't heard Marie's side. "Well, not
		  *everything*"

			   As if my odd, recumbent position has registered for the
		  first time, she rushed over to help, reaching down to pull
		  me up.  In so doing, the low scooped neckline of her
		  cocktail dress fell away.  She had told Marie the truth.  No
		  bra.

			   She glanced down at herself and then shrugged, "Well,
		  you heard me. I *said* I didn't have any underwear on."  Her
		  face was as red as mine felt.

			   Because the back of the chair was jammed, it wouldn't
		  swivel and I flopped about, unable to completely extricate
		  myself from my upside down position.  I heaved and Janey
		  tugged.  Just as I was pulling over the top, her high heels
		  betrayed her.  She slipped and fell on her ass, legs in the
		  air.  Yes, it *was* the same color.

			   "Oh shit!" she muttered.  "Can it get any worse?"

			   I'm strong and pulled her up easily.  We came together,
		  belly to belly.  Her eyes were blue and she had freckles
		  across her nose.  Her lips were moist and parted.  One lower
		  incisor was a tiny bit out of line.  I could smell her
		  breath, her hair.  We just looked at each other.

			   In a sudden move of unaccustomed intimacy, she placed
		  the tips of her fingers on my cheek and said, "Thanks,
		  Billy."

			   I grabbed her wrist and said, "I'm sorry, Janey . . .
		  uh, sorry about your date."

			   She traced a line on my cheek again and with a slightly
		  bitter smile said, "So am I," and turned away.

			   "Can I do anything?" I asked, following her into her
		  area.

			   Picking up her purse where she'd thrown it against the
		  wall, she shrugged her shoulders and said, "Like what?"

			   Christ, I didn't know what.  "Uh, maybe you'd like to
		  talk.  I mean with a guy.  I mean me."  I always was quick.

			   She faced me, at first with a puzzled look on her face
		  and then with a squinty skepticism.  With her fists on her
		  hips, she asked. "Dr. Burbank, are you trying to get into my
		  pants?"

			   "I thought you weren't wearing any."

			   "A figure of speech."

				It was late.  She was pissed and I was confused.  We'd
		  been doing this unacknowledged dance for weeks.  And I knew
		  she didn't consider herself a victim of sexual
		  discrimination.  What the hell, I'd play it out a little.

			   "Janey, there's a world of difference between *wanting*
		  to get in your pants - hell, I'm a warm-blooded guy - and
		  *trying* to get in your pants.  I'll cop to the former, but
		  what's that go to do with anything?

			   "Everything."

			   "Huh?"

			   She sat down and crossed her legs.  I managed not to
		  leer.  "Don't be so damn dense, doc," and then she smiled at
		  her own D-triplet.  "You heard my phone conversation."

			   I started to object and she held up her hand, silencing
		  me. "Billy, I've been listening to your phone conversations
		  - occasionally on purpose - and I know you can't help but
		  hear mine.  No one's fault, although it *is* embarrassing,"
		  she added with a little smile.

			   She looked at me.  Staying silent seemed like the
		  wisest course.

			   "So you know I'm feeling unloved, unlovable, and
		  vulnerable as hell."

			   I moved around to the front of her desk and sat in a
		  miserably uncomfortable straight-back.  I thought the desk
		  between us would offer her a measure of perceived safety
		  from pants invasion.

			   "Tell you what, Janey, I'll sit over here and I
		  *promise* I won't attack you or even make a move on you."  I
		  said the latter with my hand over my heart, looking upward.

			   She burst out laughing.  "God, your sincere act
		  wouldn't make in a second grade play."

			   I gave her my very best hurt look.

			   "OK, OK, Billy.  I *do* trust you, you know."

			   "That I'll do what?" I asked.

			   "Or not do," she answered cryptically.

			   We looked at each other across her desktop for long
		  moments and then, as if she'd made a decision, she put her
		  elbows on the desk and propped her chin with her hands,
		  saying, "So, where do we start?"

			   "How about at the beginning?" I suggested, stretching
		  out my feet, trying to imply that we had lots of time.

			   Her story was a familiar one.  We've all heard it
		  before.  Two young people, both very bright and academically
		  successful, fall in love, get married, one of 'em (Janey)
		  makes the sacrifices necessary to enhance the other's
		  career.  He becomes successful, takes her for granted,
		  neglects her and eventually, little by little, they fall out
		  of love.

			   Indifference and long neglect sucked the juices from
		  their marriage. Except they evolve this deal, this
		  partnership that is very successful on the surface and
		  neither are willing to just chuck it all, but aren't able to
		  be really honest about it. Honest with themselves much less
		  each other.  Neither are willing to talk about it, so they
		  continue the dance of dishonesty and slowly grow to dislike
		  each other. Shit! In one form or another, I'd heard it so
		  many times. Once, a long time before, I'd lived it in the
		  very same way.

			   Recognizing that I didn't know how to do relationships
		  after my own divorce, I'd managed to stay away from
		  involvement, even commitment, for several years. Mostly I
		  was all right with that.  However, there were times - often
		  late at night - when something was missing.

			   "Why dontcha just tell him?" I asked.  I'd reduced
		  life's most vital principles down to a few hard core
		  actions.

			   "Just tell him?"  She shook her head.  "Too
		  complicated.  Too difficult. Yeah, that's it.  Just too damn
		  hard."

			   "Then you're screwed, you know."

			   "How's that?" she asked.

			   "I'm perhaps the last person to talk, but it's clear,
		  the best things in life aren't things."

			   "What?" She gave me the old one-eyebrow-up look.

			   "Well, I can only talk with any certainty about my own
		  stuff, but it's become clear to me that I can't *buy* peace
		  or happiness or contentment, or whatever the hell I think I
		  want.  I can't buy it with money and I can't buy it with
		  achievement."

			   "What's left," she asked, leaning back.  It did nice
		  things to the front of her cocktail dress.

			   "It's gotta be an inside job," I replied.

			   "Meaning?"

			   "That's where real peace lives.  And happiness."

			   She looked at me for long minutes, not changing
		  expression. Neither accepting nor rejecting.

			   "So, how do ya do it?"

			   "It's simple - tell the truth. That and accepting life
		  on life's terms."

			   She smiled ruefully and said, "May be simple, but it's
		  not easy."

			   "Never said it was, girl."

			   She glanced at the big clock, shook her head and stood
		  up.  "Thanks for the talk, doc, for listening to me.  It
		  helped.  I'm not sure just how, but it did.  I think I just
		  needed to be heard."  She turned to leave and then turned
		  back, moving towards me.  "And thanks for not hitting on me.
		  I don't think I could have resisted."

			   I held out my arms and she stepped into them.  We
		  hugged silently for a long while.  It was the first time.  I
		  could feel her breasts high on my chest.  With those damn
		  high heels, she was taller than me.  The push of her pubic
		  bone was just above my own.

			   "Friends?" I asked.

			   "Hmmm . . . more I think."

			   She kissed me on the lips - warm, soft, too brief and
		  was gone.

			   The following week she called in sick two days, but
		  she'd left a message at my home that she was really OK and
		  she'd explain later.  Then I had to fly back east to New
		  York and then to Dallas, first to a medical meeting and
		  second to give a talk at a second meeting, a surgical
		  symposium.  When I checked my messages back home there was
		  another one from Janey that said something like, "Thanks for
		  the advice. I'd like to talk again."

			   That wasn't a proposition; I knew that.  Still, I
		  tended to drive well beyond my headlights and negotiate
		  deals I'd not received.  I began thinking in terms of how I
		  felt about this lady.  I'd known for a long time that she
		  was smart and attractive - more, that she was very sexy. I
		  just hadn't thought about it in a personal way.  It was like
		  fantasizing about a movie star - while hot, it wasn't really
		  personal. Janey, however, was occupying quite a bit of space
		  in my mind and I wasn't sure where it was going, if
		  anywhere. She didn't fit in any agenda I had and it was a
		  little scary.

			   It wasn't about sex.  Sex for me wasn't a moral issue.
		  But messing with someone's life or their marriage
		  potentially was.  "Sport fucking's OK," I said to myself,
		  "but you gotta be sure it's really just sport."

			   That's about as far as I'd taken it - which is to say
		  almost nowhere - by the time we ran into each other again
		  the next week.  Janey was watering my plants as I came
		  charging through.

			   "Oops.  Sorry, I'm late for a procedure.  Coffee
		  later?"

			   "How about dinner?" she countered as I was lost to view
		  in the courtyard.

			   I suppose it wasn't 'til I'd finished a moderately long
		  surgery that I remembered what she'd said.  Dinner?  Hmmm.
		  Someplace dull, innocent and safe, like a business meeting,
		  or someplace dim and romantic and probably dangerous?

			   She opted for the danger.  I tucked my trepidation away
		  with the rest of my denial and took her to a candle-lit,
		  hole-in-the-wall restaurant that usually requires several
		  weeks for a reservation. Except I'd operated on the guy who
		  owned it and he thought I was some kinda big deal.  I let
		  him think that, evidence to the contrary.

			   Over coffee and desert she got down to business.
		  "Well, I told him."

			   "Good, I guess.  Told him what?"

			   "That as far as I could tell, I didn't love him
		  anymore."

			   She'd been studying her coffee with an intensity until
		  she looked up and added, "I asked him what he wanted to do
		  about it."

			   "And?"

			   "And he was scared to death I'd leave him.  That it'd
		  'look bad' or something."

			   I put my hand on hers and said, "Janey, what do *you*
		  want to do?"

			   She traced a pattern on the back of my hand, not
		  speaking for a moment. "You know, Bill, I'm not really sure.
		  And that's OK.  I don't know where this is going, but I like
		  the start.  I don't need to hurt him and right now, I don't
		  really need to leave him.  Mostly I want him to know how I
		  feel, that I'm a person and not a politically correct
		  fixture."  And then with a little more vehemence, "And I'm
		  not some damn doormat!"

			   She paused, looked away a moment and then took a deep
		  breath before making eye contact again.

			   "I don't know how to say this, Billy.  It sounds weird
		  in my head and it'll probably sound weirder when I say it,
		  but I've got to say it or I'll just bust."

			   I smiled and nodded.  Words might screw it up.

			   "I told him that I was a sexually aware person, that I
		  suspected he'd been messing around and that was OK as long
		  as he practiced safe sex."  She smiled to herself, adding,
		  "He almost gasped at that one but didn't deny it."

			   She was studying her empty coffee cup again.

			   "More coffee?" I asked.

			   "No, I'm floating already.  Can I tell you more?"

			   I just nodded again.

			   "I told him that if the occasion arose and it was right
		  . . . well, I told him I might have sex with someone else.
		  And no, I didn't want to 'share stories.'  I told him I
		  wasn't going to move out and didn't need him to move out, at
		  least not right now, that I wanted time to sort things and
		  hoped we could stay friends."  She shrugged and added, "Or
		  at least have a truce, an understanding as it were."

			   Well, that was the gist of it.  She was going to change
		  things, herself mostly, and didn't have a schedule.
		  "Anything I can do?" I asked.

			   She gave me that old familiar impish look and in a
		  husky voice said, "I'm not looking for some guy to save me,
		  to rescue me or to fix me.  And that includes you, big boy."

			   "Good, 'cuz I can't fix anyone."

			   "But I treasure our friendship.  You're smart and . . ."

			   "Don't forget 'good lookin'," I interjected.

			   "And not-too-bad-looking.  Mostly I like your energy.
		  That and your honesty.  Remember the 'tell the truth' part?"

			   "Did *I* say that?"

			   "I'm attracted to you," she said and then added, "but
		  I'm not going to leave my husband for you.  Yeah, yeah, I
		  know.  You never asked me, but I want to get it out on the
		  table."

			   "Thanks."

			   She leaned forward as if to whisper something in my
		  ear, so I leaned forward and just happened to look down the
		  front of her dress. Yep, bare as far as I could see, and
		  that was a long way!

			   "You looking at my titties?"

			   "Busted."

			   "You'd better.  I wore this dress for you and I'd be
		  pissed if you didn't notice."

			   "Uh . . . wanna have, uh, some more coffee, say at my
		  place?"

			   "Yes I would, but I want you to know up front that
		  we're not going to do it tonight.  Not that I don't want to.
		  I do.  But we're not going to.  Understand?"

			   I kissed her fingers, trying to frame my response.  I
		  couldn't, so I gave up and told her the truth.  "I can't
		  believe how much time my mind has given you in the last
		  months.  I wake up aroused, holding myself, thinking about
		  you and how much I want you."

			   She beamed.

			   "But it's even more important that we do whatever we
		  need to so we can be friends.  As twitchy as I get near you,
		  it's more important to me that we're friends. Then, maybe
		  then, we might become something more."

			   "Lovers?"

			   "Yeah, that's the word I was searching for."

			   "Good.  Let's go to your place and . . . and be
		  friends."  She paused and then added with a smile, "Either
		  you're just saying all the right things . . . or you have
		  great technique."

			   "Me?  Technique?  Hah!"

			   As we drove to my house I shared with her that I'd been
		  out of the dating game so long I didn't know what
		  'technique' was.  I thought my greatest technique was asking
		  the Department Chairman's wife to dance at the annual party.
		  What more was there?

			   I had a nice place in the hills, far too big for one
		  guy, but that was the detritus of my former marriage.  I'd
		  done most of my own work, including the decorating.  I was
		  proud of that.  Once, after having given a brief tour to a
		  woman at a party there, she'd looked around and said, "Not
		  bad.  Who's your decorator?" I swelled up and trying to
		  sound modest, answered, "Me."  She looked skeptical and
		  remarked, "Not bad . . . for a guy."

			   Janey glanced around and said "Nice digs," as she
		  plopped down in a large sofa in front of the fireplace,
		  patting the place next to her.  I sat a place away that I
		  might give her room and be able to face her.

			   She slipped her pumps off and turned to face me.  The
		  hemline of her dress, which had started out several inches
		  above the knee, was pulled to mid thigh.  Was it because she
		  was slender that her legs looked so long?

			   "Don't get carried away with this 'friends' thing.  Sit
		  closer to me, please."

			   That was easy.  I moved next to her and laid a hand
		  across her shoulder. "Do you have a witching hour?"

			   "I told him I was having dinner and not to wait up -
		  not that he would - that I'd be home quite late.  He asked,
		  'Tomorrow?'  I said, 'Maybe.'"

			   "Will you stay?"

			   "I don't know.  Probably not, but let's just see."  She
		  turned to look at me again and added, "This is all new to
		  me, you know."

			   "That makes two of us . . . the blind leading the
		  blind.  Boy!  Are we hot or what?"

			   She leaned against me and said, "You're sweet.  Not a
		  stud, but sweet."

			   "That make me a studless muffin?"

			   "I suppose I'll find out, if I hang around long
		  enough."  She snuggled closer and looked up at me.

			   I recognized the offer and knew it wouldn't be made too
		  many times. "Can I kiss you? I asked.

			   She answered by pursing her lips and closing her eyes.
		  I just touched her lips with mine, initially softly, even
		  chastely.  That lasted a few seconds until her mouth
		  softened and opened and I felt the tip of her tongue trace
		  the underside of my upper lip.

			   It lasted a long time.  She was breathing in my mouth
		  and leaning into me.  She somehow twisted around to face me.
		  I guess I'd pulled back to give her more room, for when she
		  wrapped her arm around my neck, her torso was draped across
		  mine, half on top.  I could feel her breasts against me.

			   She began licking my neck near my clavicle and I was
		  running my hand up and down the bare skin of her back.  I
		  didn't know where to touch.  My hand caught the back of her
		  dress and tugged on it.

			   "Wait," she said, as she stood and slowly pulled up the
		  hem of her brief cocktail dress.  She paused, showing me a
		  tantalizing view of her thighs and a peek of her panties.

			   "Yes!" My throat was dry and my voice suddenly hoarse.

			   As she pulled the dress up over one breast, I saw her
		  taut nipple, a prominent highlight contrasted to the deeper
		  shadows under the bunched hem.

			   She smiled at me and then pulled the dress over her
		  head and dropped it to the floor.  "There, that's better."

			   It sure was.  In the subdued light she stood there
		  wearing only very brief panties.  "I'm gonna leave these
		  on," she added, I supposed setting boundaries.

			   I admired her small, firm breasts with prominent
		  nipples and slightly puffy areolae.  She was lean with a
		  narrow waist and womanly hips.  Her pantied mons was
		  prominent and terribly feminine. "You're beautiful, Janey.
		  You're simply awesome, know that?"

			   Falling on me again, she wormed her way closer and
		  replied, "No, but I love to hear it, doc.  Tell me more!
		  But first, aren't you way overdressed?"

			   Following her example, I shed my clothes in front of
		  her, slowly dropping each item alongside hers and like her,
		  I left my briefs on.  I felt a little embarrassed because of
		  the obvious tent until she touched my thigh with the tips of
		  her fingers, just inches from my bulge, and said, "Nice."

			   She pulled me down to her, again managing to land
		  partially on top of me. "Any music?" she asked.

			   I popped up again and pushed the CD Play button.  The
		  sound system was always on.  "I feel like a yo-yo," I
		  admitted.

			   "Buster, you don't look like a yo-yo.  Let's try it
		  again.  Oops, I gotta pee first; where's the Ladies?"

			   Gesturing, I said, "Right around the corner.  It's on
		  the other side of the fireplace.  Can't miss it."

			   "Be right back," she said.  I liked the way the
		  near-thong of her panties exposed about two-thirds of her
		  butt.

			   After a brief minute or so, she yelled out, "Can I use
		  your toothbrush?"

			   "Help yourself.  Anything." I yelled back.

				Things seemed to go so much smoother in the movies.

			   Janey came running back and launched herself at me.  I
		  fell back onto the couch, holding this wriggling, feminine
		  body, one hand cupping her pantied butt and the other
		  wrapped around her waist. She had both arms wrapped around
		  my head, her thighs astraddle mine and was planting little
		  kisses all over my face.

			   Unplanned, the fingers of my hand slipped inside her
		  panties and I yanked it back, fearing I'd gone too fast, too
		  far; that I'd offended her.

			   "That's OK.  I like it when you feel my butt."  She
		  wriggled to signal her pleasure as I cupped her cheek again.
		  It was soft and surprisingly firm at the same time.  "I
		  think I've got a good butt. What do you think, guy?"  She
		  held my face in both hands and continued kissing my eyes and
		  my mouth, my neck and my ears. Soft, nibbly little kisses
		  with touches of wet tongue, the tips of her nipples just
		  touching my chest.

			   I was getting harder and it was cramped, caught in my
		  briefs.  I tried to readjust myself with one hand and she
		  looked down.  "Hey, are you hiding something from me?"

			   She slid back off my thighs and grabbed my tented
		  undershorts in both hands.  "Come on, doc, lift up.  Help me
		  here."

			   What could I do?  It sprang out, spring-loaded, almost
		  quivering.

			   She paused, her head tilted to one side.  "Nice cock,
		  Billy!"

			   Kneeling between my splayed legs, she rested her hands
		  on my thighs and brushed her curly hair back and forth
		  across my hardness, murmuring and cooing.  The pleasure was
		  exquisite.  I knew I couldn't hold it much longer, for that
		  worm of deep desire was moving through my pelvis.

				She kissed the head of my shaft and then took about an
		  inch or so into her mouth, sucking softly.

			   "Jesus!  Janey . . . that's incredible!"

			   She wrapped her hand about the base and began inching
		  me further into her mouth as she continued to slowly stroke
		  me.  It was so intensely pleasurable I couldn't believe it
		  was happening, that I was that lucky.  Was this 'not doin'
		  it?'"

			   On mindless automatic, my hips were lifting, thrusting
		  upward, trying to get deeper into her.  I held her head and
		  she held my insistent cock in a firm grip, controlling my
		  depth.  Then I began to lose resolution.  I couldn't tell
		  just what was happening. My back was arched; I was touching
		  with my shoulders and my heels, and her wet warmth went down
		  and down around the base of my shaft.

			   "Uh . . . Janey . . . Janey, I don't think I can hold
		  it back.  I'll cum if you keep that up, babe."

			   She took me deeper.  That was it!  I began to lose it.
		  At that pinnacle, I couldn't think of her or myself or
		  anything; I was simply frozen in the moment.  It started and
		  all I could do was groan. Near-painful spurts of pleasure
		  rocketed from my depths.  It seemed to go on and on, never
		  ending. I sagged and then fell back, drained, empty.

			   Some time later - I don't know how long - I gradually
		  became aware of the sound of the stereo and a weight - Janey
		  - on my thighs.  She was still holding my cock, now soft and
		  totally spent.  I guess we both drifted off.

			   Still later I awoke to silence, still on the coach,
		  spooned around her, a blanket over us.  I could smell the
		  freshness of her hair and the musk of us.  I cupped her
		  breast and kissed her hair before falling to sleep again.

			   The sun light woke me.  Or perhaps it was the smell of
			   coffee.

			   "Rise and shine, studmiffin."

			   She stood before me wearing one of my dress shirts, one
		  button holding it kind of closed.  "Coffee, doc?"

			   "You OK?" I asked, scrubbing my face with my hands.

			   "How do I look?" she asked.

			   The morning sun light was at her back.  It made a small
		  halo about her freshly brushed hair.  She looked fantastic.
		  I felt a little ache.

			   "You look fantastic, Janey!"

			   "Well that's how I feel.  And before you ask, I had a
		  wonderful time last night, especially the last part!  I feel
		  so . . . so feminine and so damn sexy.  Thanks for that and
		  more, thanks for not pushing it, for going slow with me."

			   "Janey, if that was slow, I'll become an empty shell if
		  you ever speed up!"

			   "Start taking your vitamins, doc, I have plans for you!
		  I've got a lot of catching up to do and I won't *even* tell
		  you how many things I want to try.  Think you're up to it?"

			   I looked under the covers and then grinned.
		  "Surprise!"



		  ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
		  ~~~~~~~~~~~~


			  That was the beginning really of a friendship that
		  lasted years. We were colleagues and friends and occasional
		  lovers.  Janey's marriage - its ups and downs and the
		  stresses involved with two different people heading in
		  different directions - eventually ended.  It ended not with
		  vitriolic sparks and flames but with a quiet acceptance.
		  Eventually, Janey fell in love with a guy, a business type
		  in a software startup firm. He was ten years younger than
		  she, but only chronologically.  Her biologic age and her
		  emotional age was very young and more, vibrant and alive.

			  I see her now and then and there's a special warmth we
		  share. We've not been lovers in a long time but I remember
		  that last time when she said, "After I remarry, we won't do
		  this anymore, but in case you're wondering, yes, this has
		  been awesome.  I don't know - maybe it'll never be as good;
		  I want you to know that."

			  I remember.


		  THE END


