Is She or Isn't She?

Bethany Bouchard
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We met in this place I used to go to, this little hole-in-the-wall coffee shop two streets over from where I work, and a block and a half from where I catch the bus back to my apartment every day. She was tall, with a certain in-born strength that seemed almost unnatural, and despite her broad, athletic build she moved with the grace of a prima ballerina.

Maybe she's an angel, or a seraph, I thought to myself. She is too exquisitely beautifu to be of this world.

As I continued to watch her, mesmerized by her every movement, every shif in her seat, every wrinkle of her nose, every flit of an eyelash, I became aware of her presence not three feet from where I was sitting and felt sure, just from continuing my detailed survery of this captivating creature that she was the very embodiment of perfection. With my mind, I willed her to look up and see me, too. I wondered how long it had taken me to disengage from my musings and notice her attention shift to me. I hoped she hadn't seen the drool.

"Hey there, fella," she said. "Your coffee's getting cold."

Her voice. Her voice! Her magnificent voice was Mendelssohn's "Hallelujah Chorus;" it was birdsong on a summer day. I had to pull myself together; I mentally shook myself and then dabbed at my chin with a napkin.

"Oh, yes," I replied. "I suppose it is...I'm sorry, if I was staring...I didn't mean to stare, it's're so...and...sorry."

Why couldn't I form words in front of this miraculous woman?

I glanced at her nervously to see how she would respond dto my prattle, hoping I hadn't blown it. She feigned indifference. Oh, the mystery! Why couldn't I be coy and cool? I tried again.

"It's're very beautiful is all...I suppose you're used to people st-...but still, I shouldn't have been...I'm Dave."

She calmly laughed it off, and I noticed her voice had a deep ahd husky quality to it, not like those of other women I had dated. Then again, it was sexy, but stil la little off-putting. I just wished I knew how to read her, so I would know if I was wasting my time; however, she hadn't left yet, so that was a good sign.

"Let's say you and I get out of here and go somewhere," she said suggestively.

Not knowing how to take her, I quickly agreed, and picked up her check and mine.

"I didn't get your name," I reminded her, by way of asking what it was.

"You can call me Dannie," she replied.

"Um, should I...?" I started.

She cut me off. "I'll drive."

And that is how we ended up back at my apartment. We didn't even make it all the way back to the bedroom, and it hadn't been five minutes, but she already had my shirt off and her blouse unbuttoned halfway down. Her kisses started out slowly, long and languourous; they were sex on the beach. After a minute though, they became rough and rushed, but I culd still sense the passion in them. Her hands were large, and I noticed the skin on her arms was tough and coarse, like someone who had spent a lot of time in the sun or working outdoors in the elements. And they were hairy; her arms were really hairy. I don't think I can remember any woman in my life being so hairy, unless my grandma, but before I could make comment on it, her tongue was in my mouth.

It took a while, but I finally removed first her shirt, and then her bra. Her breasts were full and perfectly symmetrical, almost too perfect to be real. She moved with animal instinct and lunged for my belt buckle with her hands without stopping the kisses. I tried to feel up her leg which also harbored the same toughness to its skin, but just as I was nearing the bottom of her skirt and going for the kill she pushed me away, spun me around and threw me down on the sofa.

Now I was getting pissed off. Who did this girl think she was? I was the man there; I couldn't remember ever being so bullied by a woman before. It was time for me to take action. I was not going to be pushed around by this beautifully demonic temptress any longer. Just as she made to mount me, I pulled myself out from under her weight, grabbed her by the shoulders, and rammed her against the wall adjacent to the sofa. I held her arms against the wall, pinned her by the wrists and pushed my weight against hers, using the entire length of my body and all the strength tha was in. That's when I noticed a hardening beneath the fabric between us, not mine, "hers."

Let's just say I won't be calling "her" again.

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This page contains a single entry by Bethany Bouchard published on November 1, 2010 1:48 PM.

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