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I am in a story posting mood here -- (grin).. This is a story that evolved out of a conversation/fanatsy held on my BBS a year ago , having buffered it , the two users got together and wrote this ... ******************** Copyright 1986 Magus PERFECT He awoke with a start, as he always did. It took a moment or two before the fact that he was in his own bedroom registered on his consciousness. He'd been dreaming, such a strange dream. It was about a woman. He'd dreamed of making love to this wonderful woman. Something soft, firm, and silky rubbed against his hip. It was the first indication he had that it might not have been a dream. With a quick jerk of his head, he looked over to his left. Yes, there she was, just as he remembered her from his dream. A beautiful, young woman, rounded and warm, cuddled into an embryonic ball on the left side of his bed. If what he thought he might remember about last night was true, he needed to think. He really needed, badly, to think. He got out of bed as gently as he could, partly out of consideration for the woman, but mostly because he desperately needed time to think before she awoke. He needed some distance from this enchantress who could evoke such feelings from him even as she slept, as if distance could break the spell she had woven over him. As the cobwebs began to lift from his sleep-lulled brain, he felt the chill of the cold morning. He, quietly, pulled a blanket out of his closet and wrapped it around his naked body. Almost on tiptoes, he moved to an overstuffed chair across from the bed. He seated himself, and for the next few minutes he stared blankly at her sleeping form. With a shudder, he began to understand that a thousand miles would not suffice to break the incredible feeling of a magic bond between them. He tried for awhile to convince the rational part of his mind that this flesh and blood body was the dream woman he remembered. It was impossible. He knew, but not without a trace of sadness, that there were no dream women in the real world. He, of all people, ought to be sure, after all. He had tried hard enough to find one. She stirred. Unaccountably, the moment brought her reality back to him. In a quick, burning flash it all came rushing back into his memory. The swiftness, the intensity, of it made him shiver with a combination of pleasure and fear. It was so good last night. She seemed so ... perfect. Damn it! What will last night do to his life? Will he want her all the time? Damn, once he'd accepted the fact that perfection would never enter his life, he'd begun to learn to treasure his aloneness. What would happen to that solitude now? And what would happen when reality set in? Would this magic leave, as it had in every marriage he knew. Marriage! Okay. Time to slow down, get a little perspective. Time to remember exactly what had happened the night before. Okay, yeah, it was coming back now, coming back in detail, coming back slowly, piece by piece. This would work. He'd be able to think about it objectively if he could only remember it just as it happened. Initially, it had come back to him as one perfect, seamless whole. Now the events were taking shape in his mind in the order that they'd occurred. Temporality was being restored. Yeah, now he would be able to think about it like a logical, clear headed, sane human being. It had all started with a walk along the beach. He'd come to savor the feeling of walking on the beach alone at night. He enjoyed the bitter taste of the salt spray on his lips, the gentle rhythm of the waves keeping him company. It was the last week of winter and the beach was deserted, or so he thought. He had laughed to himself as he had a memory of walking along the beach at night when he was younger, when he was in his teens. He'd had this fantasy that, if he just walked along the beach long enough, he'd come across that perfect woman of his dreams, the one destined to be his soul-mate. Young and inexperienced, he had believed in soul-mates, perfect partners, and other such mythical creatures. Older now, he knew that such concepts were just so much romantic claptrap. Now he was content and whole, complete in his solitude, no longer searching and, therefore, no longer empty and wanting. Or so he told himself after each failed relationship. He remembered that it was just when he'd laughed at the memory of his adolescent fantasy, it was at that precise moment, that he saw the dark figure walking in his direction from further down the shore. He remembered an almost overwhelming desire to run. Some voice in his head warned against taking a chance on being disappointed again. But it was too late. He felt inexorably drawn to the lone figure, almost as if there was a tow-line attached to his gut. It was a woman. He would have been surprised if it had not been a woman. He'd known it would be a significant woman. Somehow he knew. They exchanged pleasantries. That was not unusual. They were the only two people who had braved the late winter chill to walk along this shoreline. It was only natural that they'd say hello, and laugh about their common obsession with being near the ocean that night. He asked her if she'd like to warm up with a drink at a bar a couple of blocks off the beach. He thought he saw her head dip a bit, as if she was unsure. Could it be that she was feeling something mysterious in this too, something inexplicable and frightening? But she quickly accepted, and surprised him by taking his arm as they walked back to the boardwalk. He tightened a bit at first, but that arm felt so natural there, so right folded in his, that he loosened up immediately. As they walked with their arms entwined, his tongue loosened even more. He found himself telling her things that he'd never told anyone before. He found himself, even more amazingly, feeling perfectly comfortable hearing the most intimate things about her. He found himself listening to things so personal that it would have embarassed him terribly to hear them from anyone else. He found himself. By the time they'd walked the few blocks between the beach and the bar, he felt she knew him better than almost anyone else. He knew the same was probably true about his knowledge of her. I guess I slept about three hours after we collapsed from sheer mental and physical exhaustion. I awoke about half an hour before he did. I don't want him to know that I'm awake. I need some time to consider last night's events. So I lie here with my eyes closed, cuddled into a protective ball, occassionally grabbing a quick look through squinted eyelids, to convinve myself that he's really still there. The first thing that crosses my mind as I peek at his partially blanketed torso is that, if he knows nothing else, he sure knows how to make love to a woman. I muse to myself that I would like to thank every woman who came before me for everything they taught him. Then, like cold water poured on someone getting out of a hot tub, an awareness fills me that I need him. I've never needed anyone, but I need him. I shudder at the thought. Usually, after a pleasant night of lovemaking, I would wake up in the middle of the night, plan my escape, and simply leave: cold, clean, effective. But here I lay, watching him contentedly, wondering if he was disappointed to find me still here in his bed. The truth is that the thought of needing him bothers me, but not enough to motivate me to leave. How did this all start? It began with my birthday. My girlfriends were going to take me to Bradley's to see the young men dance for dollars in their revealing g-strings. I declined. The dancers are younger than I am; too young. No, I wanted to be alone. Cape May at this time of year, late winter/early spring, could serve as Webster's definition of "alone". I had the moon to keep me company, though. "Full moon tonight," I sighed to myself. "Perfect moon." It occurred to me that only Man creates imperfection. We take what Nature has made perfect and manipulate it to our so called advantage. What will we do to that perfect moon once we can afford to send enough people up there to exploit it? I can see the same shameless manipulation in my own profession. I thought then about the Jameson and Jameson Paints campaign. "Colours taken from Mother Nature's own palette." What a farce! It was my own slogan, even the idea of using the pretentious British spelling of "colours" was my idea, and I am ashamed of it. How could those silly, chemically manufactured pigments ever hope to compare with Mother Nature's painting of a summer scene? But I had vowed not to think of work on my birthday. There was so much I was ashamed of. So there I was: thirty and alone. I was thirty and alone on a beach in South Jersey. Well, damn it, there were worse ways to spend your thirtieth birthday than to be alone on a beautiful beach on a moonlit night, with the moon reflecting off the peaks of thousands of waves like a myriad shining diamonds. I could be in a plastic house with my plastic friends smiling plastic smiles at me. No, that's too cynical. I really do like my friends. I was just glad to be there on the beach alone that night, that was all. As I watched the tide roll in and erase my footprints from the sand, I realized there was hope after all. Nature was always capable of erasing Man's meddlesome imprint and renewing hope. Could nature even remove Man's imprint from my heart and remove the emptiness I felt there? Good lord, look who was all of a sudden becoming melodramatic in her old age! I suddenly felt the impulse to run barefoot through the foam. I kicked of my Nikes and ran along the pounding shoreline. March had come in like a lion all right. The water, and even the sand, was cold. I'd probably catch my death, but I relished the moment because, for the first time in a long time, I felt as free and carefree as a child, just as if Nature had answered my question on the spot by lifting the weight from my heart. I sat there for about a half hour, a stupid smile on my face. After putting my shoes back on, I felt an impulse to get up and do some walking. As soon as I'd dusted the sand off my ass, I saw him. I was alone on the beach with a stranger. Was this experience going to be romantic or dangerous? Or, just maybe, was it going to be both? I was inexplicably drawn to this guy on the beach. I knew instantly that we would hit it off. We would talk, perhaps even go to bed. How did I know? There was something about the way he came walking up to me, it seemed almost familiar, and then ... I saw something in his eyes. His eyes were so sensual, and so penetrating. I shook my head in an attempt to break the magnetic pull of his mesmerizing eyes. Anyway, we shared some inane pleasantries before he invited me for drinks. Whether it was impulsive or instinctive, I quickly accepted. I took his arm as he led the way. Usually I'm not quite so direct, but I knew where this was leading. He knew I knew where this was leading. I didn't want to fuck around with this one. Immediately, he began asking cutting questions, and I found myself pouring my heart out. I, too, started asking him questions that I never before would have even considered asking a potential lover, for fear of frightening him away. But what did I have to lose? Nothing. On this birthday of my discontent, things were beginning to look up. He didn't seem scared, though I thought I picked up a slight shiver through his sleeve. Must have been the cold. They talked in the bar for hours. There was none of the usual pressure to hit on her before the opportunity slipped away. He wasn't sure at which point it became a certainty that they'd make love that night. Maybe it was when they'd first said hello. Maybe it was even earlier, when he'd first seen that mysterious, dark form on the shore. Maybe it was years earlier when an adolescent version of himself had searched for her along the sands of many beaches. In any case, it was certain that they'd make love. What a great feeling to be able to just sit there and patiently discover her, let her explore him, and not be hung up about when to make the move on her that would bring her to his bed. No, it was even more different than that this time. They'd bring each other to their bed. What was it they spoke about? Her name was Liz. Liz, it seemed right somehow, as if he'd always known her name would be Liz. She lived in Brooklyn? Then what was she doing on a beach in South Jersey? It was her birthday (A Pisces! Could it possibly be true? He'd been expecting a Pisces all along.), her thirtieth birthday, a birthday where lives need re-examining. She was a successful account executive for a major Manhattan advertising agency. She had money, at least enough money to make her life comfortable, at least enough money that she didn't feel guilty when she bought the more expensive of two scarves just because of the designer's label on it. She had accomplishments, a veritable slew of awards for her layouts of paint products, fine-grain leather products, etc. She had independence, which somehow translated into never sleeping with the same man more than twice, and never letting anyone, ever, put their arm around her. But she was thirty years old, for godssake, and she felt an emptiness in her womb where she should by now have produced a child. She absolutely abhorred herself for so completely falling into the stereotype, but that was how she felt. She felt a hole in her heart where it should have, by now, have been filled by the love of a husband and children. She felt that something had been denied her soul because she had waited so long, in vain, for love. Now,at thirty, she was sure that no such emotion existed. So, she'd remembered this beach down in Cape May from a vacation several years ago, and, on an impulse, drove down here to be alone, to take stock of her life. "If you were looking to be alone, why did you accept my invitation to the bar?" he asked, shyly beginning the dance of love. "Somehow, I knew I could take better stock of my life with you than without you," she said as the puzzled expression on her face flickered in the soft candlelight. He dropped his eyes, breaking the lock between their gazes. It was going too fast. He had to re-group, get a chance to build his defences back up again. "If you want one so badly, why haven't you had a child yet?" he asked, trying to gain some time. Again her eyes looked straight into his for an instant. He knew she had seen through his stalling ruse. "It would seem meaningless if it was created out of an act of passion rather than an act of love," she answered with a wry smile. "Kind of old fashioned romantic, isn't it?" "I know," she confessed and he thought he saw her blush. "The attitude surprises me too." "And sex, for you, has never been an act of love?" "No. How about you?" He surprised himself by agreeing that he, too, had never made love while having sex. A couple of hours ago he would have protested that every act of sex had been, for him, making love. Now, sitting here with her, all those liasons seemed somehow shallow. "I mean," she went on, "I've had men tell me that, for them, it was love, and maybe for them it was. But, for me, I felt a man's penis stir around in me for awhile, nothing more. It always leaves me feeling emptier than before he enters my vagina. For me, it was just a fuck. I mean, I could reach orgasm and all, but it was never enough. I know there's something more." She paused, lost in her thoughts. "I'm just a hopeless dreamer," she said as a fine mist covered her eyes. "Maybe you were unsatisfied because the men left you still thinking of it as a vagina," he said, totally out of control. He'd never said anything like this to a woman before, but he could not will himself to stop. "For chrissake, a gynecologist should examine your vagina; a man should make love to your cunt. He should help you feel every last bit of sexual energy there, not like you've just rubbed body parts together." He studied her face for signs of shock, for outrage at his obscene references. And, yet, he was not surprised when a sly smile crossed her lips. Her eyes half looked away in shyness, but the sultry smile stayed on her sweet, full mouth as she asked, "So, can you make it feel like a cunt?" So there it finally was, out in the open. They were going to make love that night. He felt he ought to say a few words, sort of welcome his dream after its long journey from the shadowy world of possibilities to the harsh light of reality. Could it survive here? Words would have burst the bubble. Without another syllable, he threw a few dollars down on the table and, taking her hand with an infinite amount of tenderness, he led her out of the bar. They walked silently, their arms held tightly, hungrily, around each other's bodies as they walked the few blocks back to her car. I'd been to Watson's Pub before on previous excursions to Cape May. It was a quaint little bar with Victorian decor, serving ales and marguiritas at tourist prices. The bartender, a man who looked like he was in his later forties, nodded to David as we entered. Obviously, this wasn't David's first time, in any sense of the term. Why did that bother me? David chatted with the bartender while he waited for our drinks. I idly listened as a sportscaster on the wide screen TV set installed just above a silent juke box described the latest action in a basketball game. The Cape May regulars interrupted their beer drinking to cheer whenever the 76ers scored a basket. But even the cheering seemed somehow more sedate than the passioned frenzy one experienced in Manhattan bars when the Knicks were on top of their game. Life here, as in most seaside towns, always seemed slower, more peaceful, in tune with the rhythms of the ocean itself. David came back, smiling as he offered me my drink. We toasted each other. The clink of our glasses sounded deafening for just that one, finite moment, as if that, and the sound of two pulses racing, completely filled the bar. I can't remember who started first, but we talked like best friends who knew everything there was to know about each other, but who had been out of contact for a few years. I remember thinking silently (maybe he could read my mind anyway), and rather defensively, that it didn't matter what I said to David. I probably would not see him again after that night anyway. But, when I relaxed with him, I could almost feel an exchange of energy between us. Briefly, for just a moment, I looked into his eyes as he sat across the table from me. I felt love surrounding us. The thought quickly vanished as my rational mind chalked it up the wine and my birthday. Birthdays naturally have a romantic tint to them, but love was out of the question. In my mind, I have only two categories of events: the possible and the impossible. Any hint of something in the "impossible" category seeming to happen was a sure sign that the wool was being pulled over my baby-blues. Over the years, love had slowly but surely meandred its way over to the "impossible" side of the balance sheet. As the conversation deepened, and a tight knot right in the pit of my gut told me that I was falling very desperately in love, my defense system went on auto- pilot. I became harshly aware of a need to find a fault in this attractive, intelligent, and very sensual man. Most guys I knew were either into dominating or being dominated. The dominating type probed for a weakness in your character, and then, oh so solicitously, proceded to "help" you. They thought I needed them to protect me from the big, bad wolves in my life. I learned wolf-slaying a long, long time ago. The ones who wanted to be dominated, on the other hand, really craved protection. This would satisfy my ego for awhile, but I would always end up bored and tired. This guy seemed different. I listened, as if I were a third party to our own conversation, and realized he was sharing as much of himself as I was. Maybe he was different. Maybe not. New act, same show? God, if that fatal flaw would only hurry up and show itself! David Burnes was his full name. He managed a small manufacturing plant in Cape May. He told me all about his work. I remember being utterly fascinated at the time, but the details escape me now. He'd married too young. As he and his wife grew up, they realized they didn't have the perfect marriage. They didn't have the perfect children. They weren't perfect parents. Resentment, frustration, the intrusion of reality, broke the whole family apart. Now, at the bar, he wondered out loud, more to himself than to me, whether there could really be a perfect love. I knew the disillusionment he was feeling. I held my breath as our eyes locked once again. So many of my friends' marriages had died because they tried to hold on to the perfection they thought they had found in the first place. They ceased to grow, desperately trying to cling to a status quo that had passed them by long ago. One of the first things I'd learned in the advertising game was that the very best commercial loses its impact if you run it too often. And, yet, here were people trying to re-run the early stages of their relationships over and over, and sadly wondering where the magic had gone. I heard it again and again, "Why aren't things like they were in my parents' and grandparents' day?" Everyone figures that if it worked then, it ought to work now. But I'd seen so many agencies that started out with a fresh approach end up getting suckered by security. When they stopped trying to find that new slant, every campaign looking just like the last one, they went under. I've never married, but various "permanent" (hah!) attachments have taught me that it's the same with relationships. Holding on to love was the swiftest and surest way to lose it. Would it be the same with David? How in hell was I so sure, after spending so little time with him, that our love would always be growing, changing, fresh? "Our love"?!? Holy, merciful god, where did that come from? Damn it to hell and back! That fault was taking its own sweet time showing up. Only one chance left ... lovemaking. If sex turned out bad, I could breathe a sigh of relief. If he was like most other men, if he thought that his damn cock was the center of the world, I could write him off in a minute. On the other hand, if he was too slavishly devoted to my needs, too insecure to allow me to give him pleasure in return, I'd be equally revolted, but I'd keep him around for a little while, at least, if he ate pussy well. If, by some miracle, making love with David was the balance of giving and taking, if the pleasurable energy of pleasing and receiving create a constantly spiraling circuit of love and lust, love that was lust and lust that was love, then, as gauche as it might sound, I'd be his forever. Once in her car, their desire could no longer be denied. There was a flurry of mouths and hands, searching, exploring, yearning to feel and touch and taste. He knew that it would not be consumated there and then. He knew that neither of them were the type to make love in a car. But he did not know how to stop feeling the softness of her tits or how to stop gently stroking the wetness of her cunt. For, in his hands, her body had indeed come alive, imbued through and through with sexual energy. It was impossible to think of the parts of her body by their common names. God, why wasn't there a sexual name for a mouth? Why wasn't there a sexual name for this ravenous beast that was now feasting on his tongue, and now, with tiny little nibbles too delicious to bear, devouring his chest? How was he going to stop the flow of the intense pleasure she gave him wherever she touched him? How was he going to stop it long enough to get them to the bed that awaited them in his house, where they could truly make love? And then, for the first time in his life, the woman that he was with took charge. The words came out haltingly, through a throat almost too choked with desire to speak. "Let's go." He was awed by her strength. He loved her strength. Why had he spent so much time on weak women? Why hadn't he realized how much he would love a woman of strength? It was she who broke away, long enough to start the car. And then, as he directed her over the mile that separated them from his beach house, their hands were all over each other's body again, exploring, learning. Several times he saw, out of the corner of his eye as he feasted on her beautiful neck, that she almost ran up on the curb. Never for a second, though, did he worry for life or limb. He had come to trust her that much. Finally, they were in his driveway. As they stood at his door, she was behind him, her hands underneath his shirt, her fingers playing devilishly with his nipples. Why had no other woman known so instinctively how sensitive his nipples were? He was always a bit embarassed about it, as if it was somewhat effeminate. But at that moment he just reveled in the pleasure. He fumbled the keys several times, his hands trembling with each wave of sexual energy that inundated his body. Finally the key turned and they were inside. From the door to the bed was a blur of the mutual ripping off of clothing. For the next several hours there was not a single moment when some part of their bodies weren't touching, feeling, probing, desperate to give and receive pleasure, desperate to express love. Through all this, the thought kept going through his mind that he had no logical reason yet to love her this much. Though he felt like they had known each other forever, in reality he did not know very much about her. How could he love her this much? But ought love to be logical, anyway? When finally, physically exhausted, they had fallen almost comatose into each other's arms with a mutually whispered "I love you", he knew that the first moment on the beach their hearts had spoken to each other more than enough for them to love each other for an eternity. Soon enough, his heart would inform his mind. David rolled over onto his stomach. I layed very still. I needed some time alone, time to think. So there it was, my last shot at finding the crucial fault in David was gone. We'd made love just as I'd always dreamed two people in love would, like we were meant to make love to each other. I couldn't find any fault in him, other than his being human, with all his human needs. And, in my eyes, being human only made him all the more perfect. God, why was I so scared by the fact that he was everything I'd always wanted? He was very intelligent, widely read, arrogant within limits, exuding inner confidence, very sensitive. His one fault, ironically was that he was too perfect. Searching futilely for a perfect love for as long as I had been, I'd developed a deep seated mistrust of the "real" thing. I sighed as I realized what a nice back he had. He loved it when I'd kissed him slowly down the center of his back. He murmurred with pleasure as my tits rubbed gently against his back while I hugged him. When we made love, the more I did for him and to him, the more he enjoyed himself. What a novel experience for me! I began doing things to him that others had refused as too intense, or too perverted. They must have been insane. There were so many men and women who wanted love, but were afraid of intimacy. How lovely it was to be able to give. As his beautiful, smooth cock had moved hungrily in my mouth, I felt myself actually suckling on his pleasure. His pleasure fed me, and filled me, and, finally, made me happy. He, too, seemed to open up. With little motions that only lovers can decipher, he led me into the things he liked for me to do, and eagerly picked up my signals in kind. I could tell that for him, too, this was a totally new experience. In all my midnight fantasies of the perfect love, I'd always envisioned a feeling of overwhelming sexual energy exchanged between two true lovers. None of my friends had ever experienced this so I assumed it didn't exist. But, lordy, last night did I ever truly experience it! My body trembled at his touch. How would I, could I, ever leave this man? My, no, our bodies were one. When, time after time, last night we'd climaxed together, the heat had merged our beings into one. The first act totally seared away my incredulity. We were on our sides in the classic "69" position. I was filled with the pleasure of intently sucking on his cock, pausing only for gasps of passion as his tongue stroked an especially sensitive portion of my cunt. That itself would have been delight enough, but, as I was stroking his body, my hand passed over his ass. I was filled with an overwhelming desire to stick my finger up his asshole. Could I? No, it would be impossible. Surely, he wouldn't allow me to. Every man I'd ever had was too sensitive about the homosexual implications to even let me go near their asshole with a finger, or even with my tongue. Surely, David could not be secure enough in his masculinity to let me give him the pleasure I so wanted to share with him. Damn it, though, it would make the perfect test of whether he was who I thought he was or not. To my surprise, without conscious direction from my higher brain functions, my finger went probing into his asshole. David's response was instant and electric. He went wild with passion. He attacked my snatch like he was a man who hadn't eaten in weeks and was restricted to a diet of pussy juice. I remember, even now, how charged I was with power. With a single finger, I could control the entire undulating body of a man who outweighed me by a good 75 pounds! No wonder men concentrated so much on penetration when they made love; it was such a rush of power, and this dear, perfect man had given me the great gift of being secure enough to allow me to experience it with him. The energy circuit this set up was tremendous. I was so filled with love for him that, when his cum splashed against the back of my mouth in hot spurts, it felt like mother's milk, a gift of love. At that same moment, I felt my pussy contracting around his tongue, undulating in waves of orgasm. "Of course," I remember thinking with a flash of enlightenment. "When two people are truly in love, simultaneous climax is not a cliche, it's only logical. When you love someone, experiencing them experiencing such a high level of excitement just naturally excites you." I knew then I could explore any territory with David. As I lay there afterward, panting for air, I thought, with a bemused smile, that next time I saw David I would have to remember to bring a vibrator. The second act was even more significant. I told David that it would really mean alot to me if I could, for awhile, just give to him without his trying to give me anything back. I expected him to reject the request, to tell me that he was too masculine to be totally passive. To my great surprise and delight, he put his hands behind his head, leaned back on the pillows, and promised not to move. I licked and kissed and nibbled all over his beautiful body at will. True to his word, his only movement was when he arched his back in passion. As I lapped at his nipples and gently stroked the soft insides of his thighs, I thought that this was what women in a lesbian relationship must experience. Being heterosexual, I was fortunate to be able to find it with a man. I finished up by straddling his hips and taking his erect prick deep inside me. I leaned back, putting my hands on the bed for support, moving slowly up and down on his long shaft. What a kick. Technically, he was indeed penetrating me, but, because I was really in control, it didn't feel like an intrusion, as it normally did. Several times I took him just to the point where I could feel he was about to cum, and then I became very still, letting the climax subside without ejaculation. Then I would start up again, slowly building the tide of urgency. When, finally, I could no longer keep from cumming myself, I brought him all the way to the point where he splashed his passion deep within my cunt. I actually cried for the beauty of the experience. After a short period of rest and talking, it was David's turn to be in control. He gently rolled me on my stomach, and entered me from the rear. I thrilled to the hard power of his rough thrusts. Giving me some of my own medicine, just as he felt me about to climax with the downward pressure on my clitoris, he rolled onto his back, his prick still inside me. In that position, his hands were free to roam all over my body, and he truly did let his fingers do the walking, all over my tits, my pussy, and my ass, as his mouth was busy devouring my neck. He was vibrating my clit with one hand and alternately being rough and gentle (I loved both) with my nipples when we both came. This was followed by some more rest and talk, some more caresses. The man had stamina all right, but he told me that he'd never before, not with any other woman he'd ever known, been able to do it so many times in one session. Even as we lay there, too exhausted to keep going, I could feel another majestic erection against my thigh. But, as willing as the spirit was, the flesh could no longer move. David rolled over his stomach to sleep, one arm draped lovingly over my midriff, and I was left alone with my thoughts. He was perfect. At least, he was perfect for me. And I knew I was perfect for him. We were perfect together. Last night, after he'd fallen into a deep sleep, I reached over and ran my fingers down his back. He stirred slightly. A cheshire cat smile spread over his wide, trusting face as he reached over and pulled me to him so that my back melded into his chest. We slept cuddled together in one position or another all night. I slept the sleep of the well contented. So here he was, the next morning, freezing his ass off, wrapped in a blanket, cuddled in an armchair, staring at the woman he loved so perfectly, and it was time for his heart to start spilling the beans. The perfection of his feelings bothered him. He was able to put his finger on that, at least, right away. Strange as it might seem, he knew he would have felt much more comfortable if he just loved her a lot, if he could find some obvious faults that he could overlook because he loved her. He would feel a damn sight less vulnerable if there were just a few minor, glaring faults. Then, if things got too sticky, he could just focus on the faults and get the hell out of the relationship. He knew that particular gambit very well. It had worked for him before, seeing him through one marriage and several affairs (before last night he would have thought of them as "love" affairs, but that was impossible now). When he wanted to not be there anymore, he would just start a fight about not putting the cover back on a tube of toothpaste, and out he'd go. Damn! Damn! Damn! Was her perfection going to deny him his exit when he wanted to go? And then his heart told him that he wouldn't need any such ploy with this woman; that when they both wanted to be together their love would be perfect, and when either one wanted not to be there for awhile their love would still be perfect. But perfection had never worked out well for him. Perfection had always ended in disappointment and pain. It seemed to him that he could actually remember for a moment the warm, snuggled feeling of being held close to his mother's soft, tender breast, the warm fluid feeling of her milk trickling down his little throat. Yes, that was perfection, as a child understands perfection. Then, one day, there was the trauma of no longer feeling the warmth and the love, having it replaced by a rubbery substitute dispensing some strange substance he didn't recognize. And later in life there was not even this, only the painful feeling of glass or china between his lips, and liquids that traded caffiene for the warm, soothing mother's milk he sometimes still tasted in his dreams. His first kiss, bestowed on him with tenderness and curiosity at the age of twelve by Jennie Halpern, that was perfection, as a pubescent young man understands perfection. The pride of walking into the soda fountain store with the prettiest girl in the seventh grade on his arm, while all the other boys and girls ooohed and aaahed at what a perfect couple they made - that was perfection. Even the teasing he endured from those of his chums who had not quite matured to the point of liking girls, that was perfect too. It made him feel so much older, more worldly than those around him. And then the pain, the nights spent with his stomach doing wild dervish dances in his gut when Jennie dumped him for Ronald Lipft, who got two dollars a week more allowance than he did. It was weeks before he could bring himself to go to the soda fountain again. Then he found that the derision that his "friends' had been saving up all that time was paid to him in full, with all the interest accrued. All this right in front of Jennie and Ronald who tittered gaily to each other in a corner booth. College, that had been perfect. The protest marches, the involvement with causes. He had honestly felt that he and his small band of compatriots would really achieve immortality. The desperate search for knowledge in the books and in the words of their "hipper" professors, knowledge they would need to build a better world. It was so perfect. And, then, the disillusionment as, one by one, both his peers and his teachers were either claimed by death from drug overdose, or worse: by assimilation with the establishment. Finally, he too found a nice girl and a nice job and settled down. Seeing his three children, a girl and two boys, born. What a feeling of perfection that was! He was certain he would not make the mistakes with them that were made with him. This perfection would last forever. After all, they were flesh and blood. And then his marriage to Sally got worse and worse. He could not believe it, but he found himself actually resenting the kids. They were the only reason he was staying in that purgatory of a relationship. They were his jailers. Then, to assuage the guilt he felt at resenting his own children, he tried to drown them in things, flooding them with every gizmo any Madison Avenue marketer could conceive. And they began, in their childish wisdom, to resent the withdrawal of his love and its replacment with things. Given no choice, they began to resent him and love the things. When their alienation from him became complete, there was no longer any reason for him to stay in the marriage for their sake so he left, almost as if it had been a strategem on his part. The kids were glad that the court awarded their custody to their mother because she had also gotten the 50 inch projection TV in the settlement. After the divorce, he'd immersed himself in his work, and for awhile that seemed to achieve a certain perfection too. With all the hours and the tremendous, single-minded dedication he was now able to give his work, he quickly rose up the corporate ladder. But all too soon he found that success meant that he simply got more paper to shuffle from Person A to Person B. He was simply a bigger link in an eternally meaningless chain. For awhile, he almost believed in the perfection of single life: a different woman every night. What a heady feeling! What a shot for his ego! But this was the shortest perfection of all. It did not take him long to realize that he wanted a relationship, not fleeting interactions, and he was not meeting anyone he'd want to have a realtionship with. So there he was last night, prepared to believe in the perfection of solitude, until Liz walked into his life. Now, what was he to do? Perfection had hurt him so much in the past. And, then, his heart finally spoke up, and he knew what it said was true. Perfection had not worked for him in the past because he had tried to use it for more than it was meant for. Perfection, by definition, cannot be improved on, and if you try, you destroy it. He had wanted his mother's nursing to last forever, and perfection was only able to exist in one moment at a time. He had tried to use little Jennie as a status symbol, and she had done the same to him, moving on when she found someone with more status. Neither he nor his friends had been "involved" because of the issues themselves, but only because, in that place and time, "involvement" bestowed social acceptance. When they reached an age where social acceptance was bestowed for other reasons, such as a good job and a house in suburbia, they'd opted for that instead. God, and this hurt the most, he'd tried to use the kids; first as a validation of his bad marriage, and then as his passport out. One after the other, he'd accepted perfection, not for the joy of perfection itself, but for other reasons, reasons that eventually destroyed that very perfection. And what about Liz? He didn't know how, but he knew with a certainty he'd never experienced before that he loved her wholly and completely for the perfect love they felt for each other. Yes, they'd go on living their own lives, being involved with the whole broad spectrum of life, each happy in knowing that, somewhere, there was a person they could share those experiences with. He knew their lives would be entwined forever, but, even if they never saw each other again in this lifetime, the perfection of this moment, sitting quietly, shivering with joy, watching her lying so beautifully and peacefully in their bed, was enough. He loved her so much. She stirred, slowly opened her eyes, and caressed him with her gaze. "How are you doing?" he asked with infinite tenderness. Yes, we are perfect together, and perfection scares me because it would hurt so much to lose it. But, damn it, for once in my life I'm going to take a chance on happiness. She blessed him with a smile that he would carry in his heart far past the last moments of eternity. "Perfect," she purred. He knew everything was going to be all right. 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Call Romantic Encounters BBS 201-759-8390 3/12/2400 201-759-8450 3/12/2400/9600V32/19200 +++++++++++++[All original text is Copr.1990 by Kenneth Jamieson]++++++++++++ Kenneth Jamieson - Xanadu Enterprises Inc. - Amiga Software Development. uunet!tronsbox!tron1 -----> Home / Penthouse BBS (201)-759-8450/8568. +++ No opinion reflects AT&T Bell Laboratories Policy * = AT&T Trademark. ++ -- David Zinkin (drz@po.cwru.edu) -- RGH Radiology and CWRU Psych/Chem ('92) "You know, you perplex me. Normally, people who lack physical appeal make up for it with an actual personality!" -- Dr. Frasier Crane ("Cheers")