You work together in the corporate lab, become coffee friends. You hear her talk and talk, can't stop. You tell her about your action figures, your old records, how you could control your TV, your door locks and your toaster from Australia using the internet. Theoretically. Truth is, you stay pretty close to San Jose. You tell her you are sometimes lonely. She tells you that you know her better than anyone else. One day, she confides that she is a virgin, that she doesn't want to be a virgin forever. You nod, empathic, a good listener. The magazines tell you that women fall hard for good listeners. One day, Phyllis mentions that she has friends, buddies, who sometimes have sex together. They call it 'friends with privileges.' It's an off-hand comment. Next, you talk microprocessors.
You decide to ask Phyllis over for dinner. You might have a chance with her, you think. You are a good listener all evening. You're pleased with the quality of your moves. The audio tapes, "Male Sexual Magnetism," are really paying off.
You feel lucky you're not a virgin, like Phyllis, not really. Maybe technically, but not really. You've watched way more porn. You're pretty savvy, you've got moves. You could teach her. She can't keep her eyes off you. You think, with virgins this is a good sign.
Later, you watch Phyllis circle your bedroom turning off lights. You hear her say, "I feel so naive, so nervous." But you've never seen her toss her hair in quite that way before. You smile. You lean on the bed post with a flare. You notice the glancing looks as she darkens each lamp, leaving the last at a low glow. You do not stare at her breasts.
You can see that Phyllis is talking, but she has unbuttoned her shirt and let it slip to the floor. Breasts! Her words are buzzing insects. Something about "slow," or maybe it was "go." You brush your hair back from your face. You've seen this gesture used to good effect in videos. There is hardwood in your jockey briefs.
You hear Phyllis say, "Take off your clothes." Very clear. You're surprised, but you do what you're told. Your jeans drop to floor and you kick them away. You saw an actor do this in a well reviewed movie. You keep your briefs on to cover your boner. She was probably saying "slow" before, so you figure keeping the underwear is best. You are so on the game. You wink, slow with meaning -- meaning you're going to score for sure.
Oh my god, breasts! You struggle not to say this aloud. You succeed. She is talking again, you see her mouth moving. It is all far way, underwater. You can faintly hear, "Over the top, William."
She wants you over the top. You want to grab your boner and point it right at her. You realize this is not cool. From the audio tapes, well worth the money.
"You are way over the top." Phyllis and her naked breasts, and nipples, are all smiling at your briefs. You look down to see your penis flag-poling above your waist band, red tip lit up like a signal flare. Oh, god! You strike a pose, hands on hips, chin up, widened stance.
Phyllis slips her skirt off. Shhhwit, off. No panties! Naked breasts! Sitting on the bed. Heat radiates. Her mouth is moving, again. Something about "taking the edge off."
What does that mean? You feel on edge, rushing to the edge, going over the edge.
You see Phyllis' breasts lean in, her smiling face pulling them toward you. Right there, at the 'over-the-top.'
"Later, we do pacing, William," Phyllis says.
Why'd she say that? What? You want more of this thing. This right now, the edge.
Phyllis reaches out to your briefs. Wait, wait you think. No, don't wait. Advise column gibberish rings in your ears -- take time, please your woman, premature blah, blah, blah. Think about something else... computer code, soccer scores. This advise is useless. Don't look at her. Her fingers slide over the front of your jockeys, pulling your briefs up to cover your glowing red tip. You hear more words coming from the deep barrel that is Phyllis.
"Just take a second." The words come as Swahili, maybe Urdu. You reach to stop her hand. You have no will, you are paralyzed. Where's the slow down move? You try mathematics. Tangent of X times pi, inverse.... Oh, wait. No, do, don't. Suddenly, you are surging in hot release under her fingers. You are lost in this place. Then again with Phillis, smiling up at you knowingly, holding you as you quickly soften under the cover of wet jockeys.
Now, your briefs are gone, and Phyllis holds all of you cupped in her cool hands while she gazes into your grateful eyes. You hear soft sure commands you know you will follow. Phyllis tosses her hair and it falls seductively across her face. "We'll start again. Slow, at my pace." You feel her firm and knowing tug at your hips as she tumbles you into bed.
Those audio tapes, they must've been talking about some other sort of virgin.
About the author:
R. Christopher Knight lives in northern California with his wife, Sally, and their dog, Mali. His fiction has appeared in Storyglossia and Menda City Review.