“You sound just like the lady on the radio,” the woman in the store said. “We’ve got a new brand of organic peanut butter in. Would you like to try a sample? It’s really good.”
I am the lady on the radio.
“No, this will do fine. Thanks.”
Sometimes, if I’m feeling sociable, I’ll admit to it, but then what usually follows is a disbelieving look, and a strange comment.
I thought you were taller…older…younger…blonde. I hate your fundraising drives. Why do you play so much Tchaikovsky? Why don’t you ever play any Tchaikovsky?
Once, inexplicably and with great indignation,
I thought you were black.
I packed my mousing supplies and my sandwich and soup and fruit for the night in my backpack and started putting on my bike gear again—gloves, the sort of knit hat favored by hunters and rapists, helmet and a scarf to fill the gap between the hat and my lightweight down jacket. Around me, at the checkout, others were doing the same, some with huge backpacks full of organic goodies.
In this pristine Colorado college town you wouldn’t dare
drive
two miles to work. I cycle.
Neither, of course, would you dare to do anything other than humanely trap rodents and release them into a gorgeous wilderness setting. Never mind that they’d have a matter of minutes to appreciate their new home before they became someone else’s dinner—it would be
natural.
It’s my deep, dark secret, sending mice to Nirvana on a delicious peanut-butter fantasy (and they certainly weren’t getting the organic stuff; my sentimentality only goes so far, and besides my concern was with ending, not enriching, their brief rodent lives).
Fall was definitely in the air now, crisp and wood-smoke-scented. Any day now we’d have some snow, and then I’d cross-country ski to the radio station. Funny how I never thought that the difference between Hugh and me could be so clearly defined by our choice of winter activities. He favored the mechanical assistance uphill and the short flashy burst of excitement of the downhill run, over in mere minutes. I enjoyed the diddling around with wax (oh, okay, I admit it—I have actually attended wax workshops…I am a certified cross-country geek). You can indulge in a slow, lazy plod uphill, savoring Mother Nature, or depending on your mood, bound athletically up—either way, you have the long, delicious glide down.
Not that it had anything to do with our sex life, which was pretty good, or more than good most of the time. Quite often I’d prefer the short flashy sessions on the kitchen counter or in the shower or… I wriggled around on my bike seat, wondering if it really was possible to have an orgasm by going over bumpy parts of the bike path, and whether it would be safe to do so. I could imagine myself hearing the local news, to my shame, from a hospital bed.
A massive, multibike pileup on the Douglas Pine Bike Trail resulted in several injuries today. The alleged perpetrator, Jo Hutchinson, a local radio personality who is neither blonde nor tall, showed signs of recent sexual arousal at the hospital. A spokesperson for the police department commented, “This sort of irresponsible behavior is something we take very seriously….”
I unlocked the back door of the radio station and wheeled my bike inside. Other bikes were still there; I was early tonight. The news was on and I listened to it briefly as I peeled off my bike gear. I had an hour before going on air, and later, in the wee hours of the morning, I planned to indulge in another of my deep dark secrets, one that did not involve the untimely demise of mice.
In my own way, I had been as unfaithful as Hugh, and with someone whose name I didn’t even know.
AT PRECISELY SIX MINUTES AFTER MIDNIGHT MY
time was my own, with the last of the news headlines delivered from faraway Washington, D.C. I chatted briefly on air about the weather, a chilly night but with another perfect fall day in store for tomorrow, and the likelihood of the aspens peaking. I brought music swelling into the studio, and checked the dance of the monitor. All was well.
As I switched the mic off the phone rang.
He’s early.
I turned down the studio speaker and removed the headphones. My heart pounded as I answered the phone.
“Jo, honey, what are you doing Friday night?”
“Kimberly!” Despite my initial disappointment I was glad to hear from my best friend, a displaced Texas blonde who ran the station fundraising; a workaholic with a busy social life, she was often awake at odd hours—my hours.
“I have someone for you to meet. A man.”
May-un,
her voice dipped suggestively.
“Oh, for Christ’s sake. I don’t want to meet any men.”
“You should for the sake of the environment. All those electrical devices buzz buzz buzzin’ away in your bedroom. You’re your own little brown cloud.”
The studio door opened. Jason, the assistant station engineer, stood there, buckling his bike helmet under his chin.
“Hold on, Kim.” I turned to him and smiled, for the sake of seeing him look adorably shy and give me a dazzling smile in return. “Hey, Jason. What’s up?”
“Hey, Jo. I just wanted to tell you I’m going home, so you’re on your own.”
“Thanks. Good night.”
He closed the door.
“Ah, the delectable Jason,” Kimberly purred. “You and him alone in that big ole radio station. Why, if it was me I’d eat him up.”
“You’d terrify him.” The thought had crossed my mind, too. Lovely, lean Jason, all of twenty-one (young but legal!), with the obligatory ponytail, faded jeans, hiking boots, single earring, stubble—oh, my God, he was a walking cliché—shy and sweet and good enough to eat, as Kimberly so often pointed out.
“You don’t think he’s gay, do you?” Kimberly asked, as though preparing to revise her list of potential bedmates.
“No, but I wonder about hidden piercings.”
“Me, too. All the time. Now this man, he’s interested in the station, too, so this way I kill two birds with one stone. He’s very eligible, Jo.”
“For me or the station?”
“Both, and honey, I know you can get a volunteer in for your shift Friday, so you’ll find a ticket to the symphony in your mailbox tomorrow.”
I imitated her Texas accent. “I just luuurve a man with a bulgin’ billfold.”
“Oh, me, too, honey.” But the fundraiser in Kimberly was in full swing now. “With the ticket you’ll find a list of the people we’ll be meeting. Memorize their names. Prepare to be charmin’. You can borrow my black taffeta skirt again.”
“And the killer heels?” I asked hopefully. I loved that skirt, its suggestive rustle and the way it flipped around above my knees. Kimberly had an extensive designer wardrobe, as befitted a former Dallas debutante who married an oilman in the days when oilmen made real money.
“You bet. Hey, maybe you could invite him to sit in when you’re on air.”
I don’t think so.
“Maybe.”
We chatted a little more—as usual, these days, I assured her that life without Hugh was progressing as well as could be expected—and after I hung up I realized I hadn’t told her the story of the peeping leprechaun. A pity—she would have appreciated the comedic side of it—but then I would also have had to admit that I’d made the grave mistake of letting Hugh drop his pants.
And that reminded me that soon I’d have to make a decision about renting the apartment.
I’d deal with that later. I fired off an email to my roster of substitute announcers asking for a volunteer for Friday night, and looked at the clock. Half an hour to go on
Scheherazade.
He’d better call soon.
I walked around the radio station, checking that the lights were off and the outside doors locked; also that Jason and everyone else had really left. I returned to the studio, the quiet space with its white walls and racks and racks of CDs, the gleaming console and monitors.
When the phone rang and I saw the screen announce “no data” I let it ring five times, despite my admonitions to the on-air staff to always, always answer the phone within two rings (unless you were on air, of course).
I picked the phone up and answered with a hint of yawn in my voice.
“Jo?” That voice, warm and dark.
“Yeah?” I pretended not to know who it was while my insides melted away and my nipples protruded through my T-shirt.
“This is a wonderful recording.”
“I’m glad you like it.” Now I felt shy, aroused, nervous. I, who put thousands of listeners at ease, now wanted one of them to assure me that I was safe—safe and loved—in his presence.
We chatted for a little while about the music—we both stopped to listen to the silvery flute ascent and descent, a magical, simple motif, and argued whether that, or the violin solo that represented Scheherazade’s voice, or the push and pull of the waves, was the most spine-chilling part of the work.
“Have you read
The Arabian Nights?
” he asked. “No? Oh, it’s a marvelous thing, Jo. Stories within stories within stories, like a maze. Sexy, too, although translators censored it, until the most recent editions.”
As he spoke, I tried to place his accent. Boston or possibly someone who’d once lived in England; he had that clipped precision and diction of a Boston blue blood…some of the time.
A pause, and the sound of movement. “Sorry. I’m putting another log on the fire. It’s chilly tonight.”
“I bet the aspens are pretty from up there.”
He chuckled. He wasn’t to be caught that easily. “Yes, I believe you said during the last break that they would be peaking. Nice try. How are you? I hope that bastard Hugh hasn’t been giving you any grief.”
I told him the story of Hugh’s visit and the leprechaun invasion, or at least a censored version—I used the term
in flagrante
…and heard him laugh with pure delight.
“How long do you think he’d been watching?”
“I don’t know. It could have been from the beginning.”
“Would you have liked him to watch?”
“I don’t know.” I lay back in my chair and watched the sound waves break and dance. We were moving into new territory here. We’d flirted, we’d talked about past relationships, but this—this was getting…well, kinky.
I cleared my throat and attempted to sound dispassionate. “Do you mean would I have liked to have known he was watching, or would I have liked to have found out afterward that he had watched? Oh. Damn. Mr. D., I have to go. Give me twenty.”
Mr. D.
I called him that after I’d tried to find out more about him and he’d hinted he was quite a bit older than me (“Decades, my dear. Don’t ask.” I wasn’t sure whether I believed him) and old school. He called me
Miss Hutchinson
for at least the first dozen calls. It did sound sort of perverted to me—like I was letting him tie me up and spank me or something, or I was wearing a maid’s uniform, or both, but I liked that formality, the Mr. Rochester/Miss Eyre suggestiveness. I knew he was in the station broadcast area, somewhere, and a substantial donor to the station, but through a foundation. I loved his voice, the way he talked about books he’d read and places he’d traveled to and the joy when we found an author we both liked. We shared a passion for mountains, for high, remote places.
For the past six months, as Hugh and I began that painful slide away from each other, Mr. D. had been a constant. A friend. Someone I could tell anything.
There was the possibility we might both disappoint each other if we met. That this relationship could only exist at a distance while we both polished who we wanted to be. And yet he made me yearn for what I didn’t have—adventure, new experiences, the desire to become a sort of modern, land-bound female Sinbad, exploring and learning that one story could lead to another and another…
On the air again, with the pulsing red light outside the studio casting a warm blush into the studio through the glass window, I repeated the information about the last recording, and what we were to hear next, time and temperature…
Hope your evening is going well. A little later, we’ll hear music written to put its patron to sleep, Bach’s
Goldberg Variations
in their entirety, but leading us up to that, a short piece by Stravinsky…
The next time the red light turned on, it was one in the morning. I talked briefly about the national morning news show, which we would interrupt a few times an hour with local news and weather. I hoped that those awake now—lonely lovers, people with insomnia or babies, or students with examinations to study for—would be asleep in four hours when the news began.
The Bach began—music to put you to sleep, but music that had always made me want to get up and dance.
The phone rang right on time.
“Forty minutes of genius and you,” Mr. D. said. “Where were we? Ah, yes. Him watching.”
“I don’t know that he would have found it that sexy.”
“Oh, he would have.”
“Do you like to watch people fuck?” Well, that put us clearly into the sexual, and I was the one who’d asked.
Mr. D., with his usual mastery of deflecting questions, chuckled. “Merry Christmas.” A pause. “I presume you’ve changed your underwear. Tell me about it.”
“You want me to tell you what I’m wearing?” I was surprised. That seemed a little unsophisticated, not what I would have expected from Mr. D. I wondered if he’d jerked off already and was looking for a quick arousal. I was almost shocked, although our increasing intimacy, our shared secrets, our stories, our mutual voyage, had led us here. I knew also, without either of us having to say anything, that we could back off from this awkward moment, and return to our usual friendly banter. Back to the familiar port as if we had never even started our journey.
“I believe it’s a standard approach,” he said.
A standard approach.
“That’s one way to describe it.”
He said, his voice hesitant, “I’ve never done this before. I’m embarrassed, to be honest.”
So was I. I was also turned on, wild and slightly frightened, my hands cold, a little sweat on my forehead. I pressed the speakerphone button and laid the phone in its cradle. “Okay. It’s okay. I’m wearing a black T-shirt. Was. I’ve taken it off. My skin looks very pale because it’s almost dark in here. My jeans, now. Can you hear the zipper? I never wear shoes in the studio, and now I’m pushing my jeans down, and they’re off.”
“I can hear the sound of the denim rustling. But denim doesn’t rustle, does it? I can’t think of the right word.”
“I’m wearing red lace underwear.”
“The truth, Jo. Don’t humor me.” He sounded stern and sad. “I know men are all alike but…please, be honest.”
Tears pricked my eyes. “I am telling you the truth.” I swallowed. I sounded like a scolded child. “I—I always wear nice underwear for you. I want you to want me.”
“Always?”
“Since, oh, the first couple of times we talked. When I realized that you wouldn’t tell me who you are. It was all I could give you.”
“I’m sorry. Thank you. That’s an extraordinarily generous gesture.” His voice was even deeper, slower. “Tell me about this red lace underwear.”
“The bra is a half cup. My nipples are hard. I’m touching them.” I winced. I didn’t want to sound like a hooker but I didn’t know what I should say.
“Go on.”
“The panties…they’re called boy panties—you know what they are? They have little legs, and they come up to just below my navel. Even so, you can see a bit of hair curling out at the top of my thighs. And you can see my pubic hair through them, because they’re lace.”
“Your pubic hair must be dark. I’ve seen your picture on the station website.”
I giggled. “That picture doesn’t show my pubic hair.”
He laughed, too, and for a moment we were comfortable together. “I’ve imagined it. You look bright and intelligent and lively in that picture. And sensual. A smallish, slender woman, that’s how I see you—quite athletic, from riding your bike. What color are your eyes?”
“I’m stripping off for you and you want to know the color of my eyes?”
“Ah. Please, don’t make me beg. I’m already humiliated enough.”
“I’m sorry. I keep getting nervous and saying dumb things. My eyes are gray. They change color with what I’m wearing so sometimes they look blue or green.”
“Tell me what your breasts look like. Please.”
I sat in my chair, my legs spread. “They’re not very big. Although I’m dark-haired my skin is pale and the nipples are pink. I don’t tan easily. My breasts are very sensitive. My nipples get erect easily. I like to have them caressed. Kissed.”
I listened to him breathe.
“May I touch you?” he asked.
“Yes. Where?”
“I’m closing my hands over your breasts, squeezing them. Your nipples push against my palms. They’re very hard.”
“I love that. May I unzip you now?” I was pretty sure he was unzipped, stroking himself, pants spread open, my unknown man in his dark cabin. Did he gaze at his cock and hand, or were his eyes closed? Did he smile or grimace?
“Later. Let me give you pleasure. Stroke my way down your body. Ah, here’s your navel, that sweet little crease. Take off your bra…good. I’m holding your breasts, squeezing them, feeling their weight. I want to lick them.”
I licked my fingers and pinched my nipple. “I can feel it in my clit.”
Oh, God, I’m so crude.
Heat spread over my face.
“I think your clitoris needs some attention, don’t you? Are you wet yet? Take off those pretty panties, darling. I’m kissing the inside of your thighs, where the skin is so soft and silky. I can smell you. Yes, you’re wet. Soaking. Dripping for me. You’re swollen with desire. Your clitoris is as hard as your nipples.”
My skin glimmered in the light, my pubic hair a dark mystery, my hand delving, playing.