Frank and I agree to meet at the Arboretum. Sometimes, when I have never visited a place before or I’ve been to a place alone, it’s difficult for me to be an accompanied tourist. I become disgruntled, and veer away from enjoyment of my surroundings. I have never been to the Arboretum alone, though. I associate it with shared discovery.

I spot Frank standing under the covered walkway closest to the Visitor’s Center. I wave and hurry to meet him. He suggested this place. I remember telling him, “Oh, I love the Arboretum! I took my aunt there!”

“I don’t want to go into the Visitor’s Center, not right now, anyway. Let’s hit the trails,” I suggest.

As we stroll into a wooded area, I remember more of my first visit here.

“When my aunt and I were here, we had an interesting experience.” I wait for a sign that he wants to hear. He looks toward me, eyebrows arched.

“We explored for awhile and then hiked to a clearing on a ridge, further down, that had been developed into a rest area with a shelter,” I relate. “I decided to explore some of the thickets at the edge of the clearing. I noticed some short trails and started down the closest one. I have this habit,” I inform him, “of walking with my head down, looking for treasure. I picked it up from my father. ‘You never know what you might find down there, Shen’, he’d say. Anyway, I spotted a leather handbag in the bushes. It contained everything, including identification and keys, except money, of course, and credit cards, although there was an automatic teller slip that showed the owner had made a sizable withdrawal that morning. I was excited, but I realized the good fortune I’d stumbled across was not mine, it belonged to the owner of the handbag. My aunt agreed, and we headed back to the Visitor’s Center. When we turned in the bag, we learned that the owner had been there not 15 minutes before, reporting a mugging and theft. I had noticed her driver’s license was from Alaska. The clerk at the counter told us she had been visiting and was devastated by the incident. We were assured that she would be back; she had been taken to the nearest police station to report the theft and contact someone to rescue her.

“We headed back into the Arboretum, taking a different route through that wide clearing,” I point to the clearing, visible through our treed area. “We continued wandering across the grass,” I sweep my hand back and forth, “ and we both notice a man, probably in his early thirties, lean, dressed in a red and black plaid flannel shirt, a blue down vest and khaki slacks, entering and exiting the clearing. We didn’t take much notice of him until he approached us. He asked us how to get back to the Visitor’s Center. We explained the way, and he took off. I remember my aunt and I exchanging glances as he left, but saying nothing.

“Later, we decided to go to the Woodland Zoo. I wasn’t familiar with the area and we got lost on the way. At one point, cruising around Green Lake, I got confused at an obtuse intersection and turned too sharply, knocking the curb with my front passenger tire. I straightened the car and we decided we to stop in the nearest parking lot, just down the street, and reconnoiter. When we turned into the parking lot, my tire blew. I guess I’d knocked a bubble into it that gave from the pressure of the turn. We coasted into a space and got out of the car to inspect the damage. I had a jack, but it was a scissor jack, and without my owner’s manual, my aunt and I had trouble figuring out how to use it. We tried our strength on the lug nuts. They didn’t budge.”

“Anyway,” I continue, retrieving his hand in mine, coaxing him to walk with me, “I noticed this fellow at the far end of the parking lot and decided to ask him for help. We really didn’t want to wait around for Triple A in the middle of the day, approaching afternoon rush hour. By this time, he’s noticed us and headed our way. Lo and behold, it’s the same guy we directed at the Arboretum! ‘You found your way out!’ I remember yelling at him. He remembered us, and agreed to help us. While he changed the tire he told us he’d just moved from Texas and was exploring the city while he still had the time before starting work. He was looking for a job in construction, he said, and was optimistic about being able to move his wife and child out shortly. While he was telling us this, I suddenly realized, this is the person who mugged that lady and stole her pocketbook. It was as though I had just seen a video clip from his life. As he gave each nut one last cinch, we chatted about places he should visit in the city. When he stood up, I opened my wallet, pulled out five dollars and offered it to him. ‘I wish I had more,’ I said. ‘We really appreciate your help.’ He refused the money and told us he was pleased to ‘be of service’,” before I am able, Frank drops my hand, raises his and claws quotation marks into the air. I laugh and nudge him.

“Anyway, he excused himself to a bathroom at the end of the lot where he said he could wash up, refused our offer of a ride someplace, and we shook hands and said good-by. Right after we got in the car, my aunt said, ‘I’m glad you offered him money. I was going to. That was awfully nice of him.’ I agreed, and after a little bit I said, ‘You know, I have no reason for thinking this, but I’ll bet he is the thief at the Arboretum.’ She said, ‘You thought that too, did you? I was wondering about that.’ After a little longer she said, ‘Well, times are hard for a lot of people. I hope he gets on his feet.’”

Frank is silent for a time. “That was awfully generous of you and your aunt he says.

“You know, Frank, when something is easy, I don’t think of it as a display of generosity, I think of it as being humane.”

Frank looks at me. “In other words, it was easy for you to trust him, even though he was probably a thief,” he reasons, continuing with my explanation. “He was good and bad, like all of us. In the morning he was desperate, and operating from basic survival instincts. In the afternoon he was more secure, confident of his ability to survive, able to extend himself on behalf of someone else.” I nod. “In other words, you don’t think you had any reason to be afraid of him.”

“No,” I answer. “What you just said, I think that’s right.”

“You don’t think you were in any danger,” he pursues.

“No,” I am becoming defensive. “What is your point?” I insist.

“Don’t get upset,” he consoles, and leans toward me, closing the space I’ve just defined. “I’m used to being protective.” We have wandered into the clearing. He stoops to pluck a small purple wild flower at the edge of the clearing as we turn away from the woods.

“You’re not supposed to do that, it’s stealing,” I scold.

Frank approaches me, slips his finger under the base of my bra between the cups, and secures the stem under the fastening. “If it’s a gesture of atonement, it’s not immoral. Besides, no one will know, if you keep it close to your heart,” he says.

I do not move away, but I correct him, “Everyone will know, if it is close to my heart, Frank.” My voice is low and serious. I glance at him.

“I’ve been considering that,” he sighs, and caresses the back of my arms reassuringly. I don’t pry. We understand each other. I am satisfied.

We continue walking. “I can’t help it,” he concludes, returning us to the theme of our conversation. “I feel protective towards those I love.”

I look at him. He does not stammer on the “L”. He does not drop his voice in fear. He notices my gaze and meets it.

“‘Anyway’”, he stabs at the air again with his fingers, I laugh and motion for him to proceed, “this isn’t the safest area.” Frank sneaks a smile at me then continues distractedly. “There’s a lot of crime here. A lot of rape.”

“Frank,” I retort, “I’ve never been raped! Why should I be afraid that something like that is going to happen to me when my experience tells me it probably won’t?”

“Oh, that’s right,” he counters sarcastically, “and you’ve never had bad sex, either.”

“That’s right!” I affirm, wondering where he’s leading.

“So, you’ve never been raped. You’ve never had bad sex. You’ve never even been uncomfortable about a sexual encounter,” Frank states, although I know he’s asking a question.

I don’t respond immediately. I am trying to remember an interlude of uncomfortable sex.

I am facing Frank, my stare grazing the right side of his face. His gaze is expectant, then searching. Finally, I notice, he is considering something, while I continue my mental tabulation. He interrupts my thinking, “Haven’t you ever wished you hadn’t had sex?” His tone is skeptical, his emphasis is on the word “hadn’t”.

I am silent for a moment. Sex I didn’t want, I probe. I reach further; sex that started out good and ended badly. Obligatory, mechanical sex. Nothing.

“No,” I report from a distance. “I guess not.” I return Frank’s gaze. “I can’t think of anything,” I admit.

“No abuse?” he prompts, arching his eyebrows.

I shake my head, then raise it slightly as I remember, “Well, there was an incident once when an old lover of mine started examining my vulva, progressed into roughly stretching my lips, grazing the skin, asking rudely what ‘this’ and ‘this’ and ‘this’ were, upset me, caused me to slap him away, and then pronounced my vulva ‘uglier than most women’s pussies’. I laughed at him. Rudely. He was chastised. But that’s it.”

He tries again. “No clumsiness.”

I smile, realizing I’ve misunderstood. “Oh! Clumsiness!” I laugh, remembering. “Of course! Oh my! Yes! Clumsiness doesn’t make for bad sex, though,” I declare.

Frank isn’t laughing. “Really?” he inquires, his tone guarded. He settles himself onto a rock, a few feet into the shade of a mature deciduous.

“No, not at all!” I exclaim, surprised at his doubt. “We’re all clumsy, or at least expecting to be clumsy, the first time we...” I pause. I don’t want to say “fuck”. I don’t want to say, “have sex.” I certainly don’t want to say “make love”. Why don’t we have a word, I wonder, to suggest the activity, like “skiing”, objective, but not cold like “coitus”, without editorial inflection? I decide on “screw”, for its insinuation of a task, earnestly plied.

Frank lifts his eyebrows further. “So?” he disputes.

“Think about it, Frank. Was your first experience unpleasant?” His unbridled sensuality primes me to expect him to say no.

“No,” he confirms.

I sense he doesn’t want to continue, but I am in pursuit of a point. “Did you feel clumsy, your first time?” It was with his wife, I think.

“At first,” he begins. “And afterwards.” He pauses, then smiles, laughs. “I didn’t know the proper etiquette for recovering from orgasm in someone else’s company!”

I laugh, too, reminiscing about my own untried concern, not being aware that my partner would experience the same semi-conscious recuperation that I would. I remember struggling to make thoughtless conversation, and Myku, nodding helplessly, struggling to listen, struggling to respond. Only a friend would try to remain polite under those circumstances, I think. I am suddenly grateful that Myku was my first lover.

“What agony!” I agree. “Did you feel clumsy with me? The first time?”

My voice is humid. I clear my throat, attempting to snap myself out of pressing this conversation into carnality. I want to remain distant, wordy, for awhile. I walk toward him, though, and sit tailor-style in the grass before him.

He is smiling, regarding me, or maybe recalling our first sexual encounter. “I did when I stopped the car to kiss you.” He touches my lips. I pull his hand toward me and lick his finger, in response. He stares at the place my tongue whetted.

“I didn’t think you were clumsy, either. I thought you were,” I pause, wondering if I’m going to be speared by my choice of words, “masterful.” I am very quiet. I drop my head and do not look up. I hope he doesn’t begin to fawn.

Frank raises my chin. He is smiling, regarding me with pleasure. “Thank you,” he murmurs. I feel it, notice he is saying it, rather than hear it. His expression turns serious. His gaze, thoughtful. “Maybe that’s why you’ve never had bad sex,” he suggests.

I’m not sure what he means. He continues to study me, offering no help. I think about what he said. I do not look away. I want him to see the change in my expression, should I discover that I disagree. “Are you suggesting,” I ask, “that women get what they ask for, sexually, even if it’s abusive?”

Most men I know would rear back into a protective crouch. Frank does not, although he winces, so I know I’ve caused him to reconsider his comment. “Well, no, I see what you mean. I, hmmm.” His manner softens, his voice reaches out, “I was being personal, with that remark. I feel ‘masterful’ with you. I feel as though I know what you want, and you know what I want, even on a moment’s notice. Even as our needs change, our needs always seems to match. I know you’re not just doing things to try and please me. I don’t understand it, but I can’t imagine that I’m doing that all by myself.” He looks down, away from me. It is a shy gesture. I am touched by his vulnerability. “It’s a remarkable experience, really,” he looks across at me, again, “being with you.”

I scoot across the grass, closer to him. I reach for his hand and guide it into the enclosure my legs have created. I rub his palm back and forth against my pudenda. “I know, that’s how I feel.”

He is enchanted by my gesture. He retrieves his hand as gently as he retrieves his quotidian, out-in-public sensibilities and shakes his head, sniffing his fingers.

He recomposes himself, smiling, settles his elbows on his thighs, his chin in his hands, and asks me, “Okay, so why do you think you’ve never had bad sex? Just lucky, again?”

“All right,” I plead. “I know it must sound strange, especially since I’ve never been married. And I think you’ve already guessed, I haven’t led a cloistered existence,” I defend. “All I can tell you, Frank, is that I’ve never been forced to have sex when I didn’t want to, and I’ve never been forced to continue when I’d lost interest. I’ve never even felt bad about refusing or stopping sex. I figure, if one of the two people involved isn’t interested, whether it’s me or my partner, what good does it do to continue the sex? When I first heard that it is common for women to fake orgasm, I had to be told why. It didn’t make sense to me. I’ve always assumed, if it doesn’t feel good, stop doing it.”

Frank is nodding, but clearly surprised.

“Look, Frank,” I assure him, “there’s something you don’t know. I’ve always made it a practice to only get sexually involved with men when I feel a strong mutual attraction. I don’t know why, but soon after elementary school I realized it did no good to want someone who doesn’t also want you. It’s like, I figured out the key. I think that piece of information made me a, well, to put it in the current vernacular, a more informed and successful consumer.”

Frank laughs. I take note of how good it feels.

“It never occurred to me that I should have sex to be polite or pass the time, the way you converse with strangers at a bus stop,” I continue. “It never occurred to me to trade sex for anything else, unless I also wanted the sex. Then, it was no longer a trade. I mean, what could compare?!? I’ve always been indignant at any suggestion of a trade for sex, and I think it took people, well, men, young men, even, by surprise and they’d back off. And it never occurred to me to drag some reluctant soul into partnering with me if all I really needed to do was masturbate.” I raise an arm into the air and rotate it as though I am displaying a tool. “I mean, we all come equipped with a significant other attached to our wrist.”

Frank blushes at the neck and lifts his chin slightly to dissipate the heat. His easy embarrassment in conversations like this amuses me. “How, then, do you explain the money you collected from Mr. Warner?” His eyes glitter, camouflaging the last of his blush.

“The money is part of what made the experience erotic, and, besides, it wasn’t introduced until after I’d already decided to...”

Frank stops me before I am able to say, “fuck him.” I smile.

I expect him to understand. Before he can react, I raise on my haunches and kiss his neck open-mouthed. It seems natural for me to look up at the end of the kiss and say, but, I catch on a splinter in my confidence as I study his eyes and my mouth gapes.

Frank is watching me. “You were going to say?” he prompts.

I raise my eyebrows and lip sync, dramatically, “I love you,” soliciting assurance with a nod of my head at each syllable.

“I know,” he mouths silently, nodding. “It’s all right,” he adds, this time in voice. I am totally involved, on my knees, my face level with his, staring at his mouth. “I love you,” I see him pronounce.

A provocative rush passes through me. It embarrasses me. I thought I knew this. I thought it would not surprise me, the first time he said it. I cannot think of what to say. I am stunned, and tingling. I hate the word love.

Frank has begun to trace my slack lips with his tongue. He is not teasing. He is sympathizing, energizing. I regain my momentum and roll his tongue into my mouth, like a cat lapping at a fat, slow fly on the windowsill. His lips close on mine, separated them, press down.

I feel a hard cramp in my abdomen. I moan. It must be apparent to Frank that I am not moaning from a pleasure cramp. He stops, kisses me on the side of the mouth, flicking my lip with the tip of his tongue, his usual flourish, and looks at me. I snicker, embarrassed, now, and back away. “Did I bite you?” he asks.

I laugh. “No, I’m on the second day of my period and sometimes, when I become, ahh, sexually stimulated, I cramp when I’m flowing.”

He studies me and says, “So, you really were fertile that night...”

It was two weeks ago, I calculate. He knows something about the finer points of women’s reproductive systems, I am impressed. The issue though, is, “You didn’t believe me? Why on earth would I mention it, otherwise?!?”

“Yes! I,” his arms are dodging my words.

I rise and step back from him.

“Yes, I believed you!” he insists. “You felt fertile! I just hadn’t thought about it ‘till now. I mean, your period.”

“Oh,” I reply. “My flow, womanhood,” I feign at instructing him. “Does it bother you?” I ask innocently.

“No.” We are both standing, now. He shakes his head and slips his arms around my waist.

“I don’t believe you,” I test, wriggling out of his embrace, leading him off the rise. “That remark of yours, that I ‘felt’ fertile. What does that mean?!? All men are weird about women’s cycles. There was this check out clerk at Skyway Market,” I am prancing down the rise, flaunting my knowledge of male behavior at him, “I saw him maybe three times a week so we recognized each other, said hello, talked about the weather, flirted a little, and one day I bought a box of tampons and he avoided noticing me while I stood in his line, handled the box like it was a purse-size packet of dynamite, never, ever looked at me, then finally said, ‘Thank you for shopping at Skyway,’ like I’d never been there before!”

Frank erupts in guilty, involuntary laughter.

“Ah hah! Gottcha!” I shout, dancing up and lunging at him, dancing away. “My dad used to believe that women go into heat,” I taunt, on my toes, encircling him, jabbing at him. Frank is amused but scandalized, his eyes are darting about, searching for witnesses.

“You did feel fertile!” he insists. “You felt like, like loam. Fresh loam.” He lifts his hands in surrender.

“And what do I feel like otherwise?” I ask, curious, but with a defensive edge.

“All right,” he concedes, restoring himself to some dignity, forcing me to settle down. “I believe women possess a special, fearsome voodoo when they are menstruating...” he stumbles over the word, and starts to giggle.

I anchor his chin between my thumb and forefinger, holding my other fist to his mouth as though I am directing him to speak into a microphone.

He grabs the mike. “If you were in my bed every night, I’ll bet I wouldn’ mystify you,” he says into my clenched fingers, looking at me intently. His voice is husky, direct. He drops my hand, catches it between us in both of his, and lowers his voice, “I want you in my bed every night,” he repeats.

I have not responded. I can tell, from my reflection in his eyes, that my expression is impassive. I am breathing evenly. I am feeling tall.

He shrugs, “I’d like to see you during the day, too. I’d like to know what you’re doing, I’d like to do things with you, I want to eat with you, sleep with you, I want to live inside your life, I want you inside mine,” he shrugs again, not smiling, but more relaxed. “I want to fuck you every night.” He stops and looks at me dangerously, “I want to marry you. As soon as my divorce is final.”

I can think of nothing to say.

I am wondering if my stance is betraying my thoughts when Frank reaches for me and pulls me to him. His arms encircle my back, covering as much of me as possible. I raise my arms around his neck and press myself to him, encouraging maximum contact. We both sigh. It is hard for me to imagine myself married, but easy to imagine a marriage to this man. I have not acknowledged him in words but I am smiling, and I detect from his sigh that he is smiling, too.

Text & Graphics © 1999 by Gail Rae Hudson

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