She’s Every Woman

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Ass

“Mrs. Jameson has asked me to remind the whole class that she will give you your exam on the entire Information Sciences Unit on Monday, including the section that I’ve presented to you this week. If you have any questions as you study this weekend, my email address and my Instant Messenger handle are on the board. Have a great weekend.”

Penny Jameson is an old friend of mine that moved to rural New Mexico some years ago to marry her college sweetheart. After my recent breakup with my fiancée, she was my truest friend. After enduring endless heartbroken phone calls from me, she and her husband Reggie convinced me that southern New Mexico was the change of pace I needed. “Change of pace?” I retorted, “You mean absence of pace entirely.” I had never before left the East Coast. I’d never been out of the state for more than a week at a time. But I was in no condition to resist. Pen is almost always right about what’s good for me. And I knew I could run my dot.com from anywhere with a broadband connection.

About the time I got into a good routine and had learned my way around town, Penny and Reg decided that they were long overdue for a vacation, so that’s how I wound up guest-teaching her classes at the high school.

As the seniors, my last class of the day, filed past me, they said “Goodbye” or “Thanks, Mr. Walsh” and almost all seemed genuinely appreciative of my lessons. Compared to the cynicism and aloofness with which I had approached my studies, even in college, I found their attitudes refreshing and mature. As they began switching on their cell phones in the halls by their lockers, making their weekend plans, I considered my own options for the weekend. I had a huge pile of neglected work as a result of my brief foray into higher education, but I was itching to do something a bit more relaxing.

On my way through the halls, to the parking lot, my thoughts turning to my social opportunities, I caught myself reflexively “eyeing the scenery,” which in this case meant 17 and 18 year-old girls. “GOOD GOD, MAN! Get a hold of yourself. These are children!” I silently rebuked myself, rather unconvincingly. Where were these girls when I was in high school? (To be precise, they were in kindergarten or first grade…) But I didn’t remember my classmates looking like that when I was 17. All week I had been struck by how worldly these young women were. Not only their attitudes, but also the way they dressed and groomed themselves. They weren’t wearing the fashions found in YM and Seventeen, but in the club attire I saw professional women wearing back in the big city.

My students wore tight, small tops, showing bare midriffs, and gripping every curve of their swelling breasts. The worst, however was the rampant use of low-rise hip-hugger jeans, revealing a sliver of underwear to show the world that the owner was not a lacey, pale pink, cotton, Hanes girl, but a leopard-print, silk thong, Victoria’s Secret WOMAN. As I reflected on these things, I found it harder and harder to exert control over my thoughts and my eyes. I picked up my pace and desperately tried to focus on the door at the end of the hall. Subsequently, I stumbled right into the middle of a gaggle of the senior girls from my class, who were the worst offenders. “Excuse me, ladies,” I said as I tried to find the shortest route out of their circle that required the least amount of physical contact. As I wriggled free and studiously turned my face to the doorway ahead, I quickly dismissed the sensation of many pairs of eyes on my departing back as just my warped imagination.

“I need a drink.” I resolved as I sped back to my place.

As I stepped into my apartment, converted from an abandoned textile mill, I took a breath of the dry, sawdusty smell and calmly exhaled. My place was in the old downtown, now well out of the true business district, 5 miles west, where the strip malls had popped up. It was the studio that I never could afford back east and it truly was my oasis. This, despite the fact that the back section was my office, complete with separate entrance used by my part-time assistant and bookkeeper, who organized my madness into a successful business. “I’ll just check my email real quick, then I’ll pour myself a drink and forget this whole week.” I asserted to myself. Some spam, a couple of friends back home badgering me to move back, but no business that couldn’t wait until Monday. Just as I was about to shut off my machine and close the office, my IM chirped at me. It was a handle that I didn’t recognize, but it said “hey, amigo, i’m on a bud’s IM & haf 2 take off, but u gotta check out this website. 2 hot! take NM by storm, see u soon – me,” Who in blazes was this? “r u still there?” I typed as fast as I could. But he’d already logged off.

So I follow the link to what seemed to be a pretty standard, girl-next-door hosted, “100% original content” webcam type of site. On the index page, though under today’s date it said, “One night only: 1-second refresh rate to ataşehir escort all guests on the Randi-cam.” Hmm. That’s interesting. I never got much into this sort of thing. Spending all my waking hours in front of a screen for work made me pretty hungry for human interaction, so going out has always been my preferred diversion. But my curiosity to find out what appealed so much to my anonymous pal got the best of me. Clicking on the link to the Randi-cam, at first I was not all that impressed. It was a medium-res image of an admittedly attractive (but fully clothed) torso of a woman, typing and mousing away at her computer. Her head was offscreen and a double-sized bed was in the background. About the time I was going to shut down and leave, she stopped typing and started to casually caress herself through her sweater.

As she moved her hands over her ribcage and stomach I sensed a sincerity about each move that was oddly captivating. And I realized that’s why I’d never been impressed by these sorts of sites before, because they seemed so forced and plastic. After a light dusting over her breasts, “Randi” then slipped her left hand under her cropped, fuzzy sweater and rubbed her flat belly with a hard, rough movement, back and forth, up and down. Then her hand dipped below her waistline, offscreen. Her breasts surged together and toward the webcam between her upper arms, as they tensed in ecstasy. By now, I was so transfixed, that for the first time I noticed a hyperlink that read, “Chat with Randi.”

As I clicked the link, the page refreshed and a field appeared with a cursor. I typed, “Stand up.” and pressed return. Randi’s right hand blurred over the keyboard and the words “Where are your manners?” showed up in red under my request. “My dear lady, if it pleases you, please rise for your comfort as well as my own. -Your Humble Servant.” I imagined I saw her shoulders quickly shake as if she chuckled, but she stood up to reveal that indeed her fist was stuffed down the front of the tightest pants I’d ever seen. “Aren’t those pants making things a bit difficult?” I typed. Slowly she dragged her hand up along her mons pubis out from behind the waistband and began to unzip her pants. I suppose it was silly of me to be surprised that she wore no panties. She laid the flaps aside, exposing her slash of a bellybutton set in latte-colored skin and the wispiest brown shorthairs known (or unknown) to man. But before she tugged those painted-on britches down, she took one step back and sat on the corner of the bed, showing her neck and a profile of her figure, but still no face.

She crossed her arms over her chest, grasped the edge of her sweater and began to lift it over her head. Just as I detected a shimmer of satin cupping her breathtaking bosom, she abruptly pulled it back down and craned her neck to her left, looking offscreen. She jumped up and her hips filled the camera. One hand frantically sought her zipper pull, while the other was working the mouse like mad. “What’s going on?” I fired off to her, but the image became static and the Chat field was replaced by an icon that read, “Next Randi-cam show at 11:00.”

Whew. I looked at my watch. It was 8:43. I resolved once again that I needed a drink.

Wanting something stiffer than a beer and not in a mood to mix my own drink, I hopped into my truck, an ancient Ford pickup, halfway restored. The only non-redneck bar within 100 miles was across the Mexican border. El Burro Blanca is a decent joint, only 20 minutes from my place and primarily patronized by hard-working locals. There are a few gringos on weekend nights, but most stay closer to El Paso, so I drink unmolested. “Senor, uno Juarez Especiale, por favor,” I ordered as I leaned on the bar. “One bottle of cheap tequila, coming up, sir,” replied the bartender in his most exaggerated gringo accent, flashing me a benign smile.

Ten minutes later, from my position in a corner booth, looking out over a quarter-empty bottle of the local liquor, I watched the door for entertainment, assigning nicknames to the patrons as they filed in. After Juan Valdez and Speedy, a fantastic young senorita strolled in as if she owned the place. In fact, the bartender leaned over the bar and presented his cheek to be kissed, much like an uncle would for a favorite niece. She was 5’10, 140 pounds. Her dark, full hair must’ve accounted for 10 pounds of that. Her skin was a warm cocoa color, shaped into marvelous curves, evident even in a loose sackdress and sandals.

With her back to the bar, she scanned the room casually. Having lost any “cool” two shots ago, I just sat there slackjawed, looking directly at her, as her gaze fell on me. A mild smirk crossed her face briefly as our eyes met, but she continued her visual sweep of the room. Turning my attention again to the bottle, I concentrated on pouring myself another shot. By the time I had finished pouring, she was standing in front of my table, with a shot glass in hand she’d filched kadıköy escort bayan from the bar. “Is there enough in there for two?” she asked, nodding toward the bottle. I said something witty like, “Yeah.” She set her glass on the table and waited patiently for me to fill it. With a wink at me she tossed it back like water found in the desert. “Are you going to ask me to sit?” she said, amusement apparent. I came back quickly with a clever, “Yeah. Please sit.”

Before I could rally my senses in order to offer something to the conversation, she said, “Okay here’s the game: You do a shot, you ask me a question. I answer. I do a shot, I ask you a question. You answer. Got it? Good.”

Me: “[gulp] What’s your name?”

Her: “Rosita. [gulp] What’s yours?”

Rosita. The little rose. A soft petal of a woman. She is floating, hovering over me. I am on my back in a soft bed. She alights on me like a small bird or a delicate fairy, just long enough to touch my skin with her wings, causing waves of bliss to wash over me, filling me to bursting, then she is hovering again. I say her name. Again and again. Calling the bird to come to me. “Rosita, Come to me. Come to me. Rosita, come. Come. COME! I’M COMING!!!” I cried out, realizing that this was a waking dream and I was having an explosive orgasm. As I expelled all the breath in my lungs and let my head fall back on the pillow. I looked up to see Rosita’s deep brown cascade of hair, her clear, nutbrown forehead and cheeks, her round, dark eyes, looking right at me as she removed her lipsticked lips from the head of my spent rod with an audible and delicious “pop.” She was totally clothed and I was entirely naked. She stood up and demurely cleaned the corners of her mouth with a fingernail that she then licked noisily.

“Where am I?” I asked, ignoring the awkwardness of the moment.

“You’re in a motel next to The Burro. The bartender keeps a room reserved in case anyone needs to ‘sleep it off.’ I have an…appointment. But this has been fun.” as she walks toward the door.

“Wait!” I said lamely.

She stopped in the doorway. “I’ve got to go,”

When I dumbly said nothing more, she blew me a kiss and walked out of the room closing the door behind her. The last image I saw of her was a small rose tattoo on her left inner ankle.

I looked around and tried to get my bearings. My clothes were on the chair and my wallet and keys were intact. The alarm clock read 10:32 PM. As I sat up, I thought, “I’m fine. I don’t even feel that hammered. I guess I’ve just been pulling long hours this week and don’t have anything on my stomach.” I got up and went to the bathroom. After hosing down the inside of the bowl, I splashed some water on my face, put on my clothes and went to find my truck.

On the drive home, I was especially careful to drive slowly around Hero’s Bend, where our town’s deputy likes to snooze with the radar gun set to 12 mph over the limit. The understood rule is that if the radar gun’s buzzer goes off and disturbs Deputy Cecil’s sleep, you get a ticket. Truthfully, I was more inebriated by visions of Rosita dancing in my head than the cheap booze from hours before. I was little worried about losing time like that, but I’m most sorry not to recall all the lovely events that must’ve led to the one I do remember. And I wondered if I would see Rosita again.

With diminished enthusiasm about my first little mystery, I returned to my office and my computer when I got home. My IM was chirping away at me: I had left it on. I hate when people do that, but I was in a bit of a state when I left. No further message from my unknown pal from back east. However, there was an inquiry from ConnE1984: “mr walsh? ru there?” Connie? Hmmm…Connie…oh! That’s right — one of my students. Let me see, Connie Morales, last period, senior class. She was painfully shy, eyes downcast whether she was sitting, standing or walking. Her hair was pulled back in a bookish ponytail, and her glasses fit poorly, subject to constant nervous readjustment by their owner. Tall for her age, a source of embarrassment, she would clasp her books to her chest and hunch on down the hall, unconsciously trying to maximize how quickly she left the eyes of her classmates without straightening any more than necessary. Her clothes seemed new, if not exactly up-to-date. Overall, she was a well-groomed, well-mannered “A+” student. I could certainly believe that she was home alone studying on a Friday night, but found it harder to imagine that she needed any help from me.

“is this connie morales?”

“hi mr walsh. I was wondering if you could answer some questions about this big exam”

“sure…ive got time” as I glanced at the clock: 10:57 PM. Damn! Call me a perv, but I wanted to see the 11:00 Randi-cam show.

“connie, ill be right back”

I logged on to the Randi-cam in a separate window and had it side-by-side with my Instant Messenger. As I IMed with my student, I kept one eye on escort maltepe the Randi-cam and half a brain on Connie’s questions. At first she was lobbing me softballs about generic, Computer 101 stuff. Then, about the time she was sliding into more complex IT issues, the Randi-cam buzzed to life. I kept trying to get to the Chat field on Randi’s page, but Connie’s questions were persistent.

“connie, ill be back in just a min., ok?”

“oh, of course mr walsh! im sorry to keep you awake, ill just go”

“wait, connie i promise i’ll be right back”

“ok”

Beside the framed image of Randi’s beautiful chest, I typed, “randi! what happnd? where did u go?” No reply. “what no 11:00 show randi?” Again no reply, but she moved back to her spot on the corner of the bed, her face still unseen. She began to move her hands all over her form as if she had moments before awoken in this unknown body for the first time ever. She was exploring the way her clothes fit, the way each curve met each other curve, and the crevices, poorly hidden by her too-tight pants…

Wait. I have a responsibility to my student.

“connie, do you have any other questions?”

“just 1 more mr walsh, i promise. what are the technical and economical limitations of delivery of streaming content to a customer base of mixed bandwidth capacity? Is there content that can overcome the obstacles? Something to stimulate both a deep- and long-term change?”

“___”

“mr walsh? HELLO?”

In my defense, I’d been mesmerized by the vision of Randi discovering herself. She was removing her clothing as if she could not imagine why she had put it on in the first place. Every patch of tan-colored skin was a discovery of continental proportions. She was expressing that same genuineness that drew me to her so strongly in the earlier show. What delight she found in removing her sweater and bra to give her access to those burdensome, but irresistible orbs pulling down her shoulders! She cupped and hefted each breast in turn, allowing the sensation of their weightiness to course through her fingers and arms and over the surface of her skin. I imagined I could see goosebumps on her arms and stomach in the pixilated image. I had a vague sense that she was gorgeous beyond reckoning, but I was so caught up in the eroticism of how aroused she was, I forgot to ogle her. In retrospect, as I take each limb, digit and square inch of skin as they are burned into my memory and piece them together, the puzzle doesn’t add up to any form that I can compare to any other woman. Her skin was taut, pale brownish and exquisitely smooth. Her buttocks were shapely almost to the point of disproportion, but hard and supple at the same time. Her belly was flat, a hint of a thin layer of fat, like that of a young girl. Her legs were strong in a peasant-ish sort of way, but long and well proportioned. Her arms were lithe and long, and they fulfilled her motions as if they commanded her brain, rather than the other way around. I was drowning in a sensual pool and happier with each lost breath. As Randi began prospecting in the swollen region below those impossibly wispy hairs, she threw her head back as an expression of ecstasy. The first time, she aroused my curiosity about her face. When she leaned her head back second time, I saw the cut of her jawline, and just as her self-ministrations brought her to the brink of release, she threw her head back with great gusto…but the image went to static and then blackness. I recovered my senses and remembered my expensive education, which taught me that hitting the monitor doesn’t fix anything. Then I remembered Connie.

“connie? ru there?” I typed madly into the IM field. No reply.

“Blam! Blam! BLAM!” The front door withstood the blows, if barely. “Just a minute.” I called. As I stood to answer the door I was still in a confused funk, but had the presence of mind to realize that I was hammer-hard from Randi’s little peep show. So I bent over a little, to hide my embarrassing state, as I opened the door.

“Connie?!” I said, even more confused. “What are you doing here?”

“Mr. Walsh,” she replied breathlessly, “when you never replied to my question, I got worried that something was wrong. So I ran all the way over here from Yucca Street” She had this way of half-swallowing her words, as if to make sure they didn’t intrude on anyone.

“Oh, I’m okay. I’m sorry, I…” I broke off my sentence and realized that after a week of classes, this was the first time Connie had looked me in the eye. “Well, I don’t know what to say… At least come in out of the cold! Here, have a seat. How do you know where I live?”

“It’s a small town, Mr. Walsh.” she said shyly, resuming her downward gaze.

“Why did you run ten blocks rather than drive – is your car in the shop?” I asked, trying to put her at ease.

“No. It’s just that my family all works very hard and I was afraid I would wake them.”

“Can I get you something? Or take your coat?”

“No, thank you.”

“Oh, let me shut off my IM, then I’ll answer any question you have, Connie.” Just before I stepped into my office, I glanced back to see what wound up being my last sight of my sweet, shy, bookish student, looking nervously around my living room.

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