Getting it Straight

I was too out of breath to comment.

"I mean, it really, really does." She peered down, brow wrinkled with concern, eyes seeking understanding.

"Uh huh. What things?" I thought it best to humor her. She’d chosen a weird moment to make an idiotic remark, and, if not for her innocence, I’d have been tempted to think she was baiting me. Some women got their kicks luring hapless males into bed and then telling them the "job" wasn’t well performed. When I first heard about the bitches, I couldn’t believe they actually existed since I was too ardent and youthful to worry about such things. Later when a couple of hard-featured tarts tried to shame me, I laughed right in their sulky faces and told them if I lacked luster they had only their lack of feminine charms to blame. As far as my current dizzy darling was concerned I was sure she was beyond suspicion, having probably mistaken post-coital tristesse for something more serious.

"I mean we could be friends, couldn’t we? If we weren’t always doing this, we could talk about things. You know, if we weren’t doing this all the time,"

"I thought you liked this," I protested. Drawing her down on me, I nibbled her ear lobes, then trailed my tongue along the contours of her succulent chin.

She accepted my caresses passively, but when I settled back to relax with her body lying snug on top of me, she moved to disengage. As she slid away, her delectable nipples swung close to my face. I reached for the nearer pink bud of pleasure.

"Oh, Marty, not now. I’m a little tired."

Slightly wounded, I released her. With a sigh she turned on her side, sassy ass brushing my thigh. Desire flared. I ran my fingers along the curve of buttocks and, since she didn’t respond, insinuated my hand between her thighs. She turned over and started kissing my chest.

"Don’t you like it, Tiffany?" I whispered.

She planted an affirmative kiss on my lips.

"Tiffany" almost stuck in my throat. I hated the name because it made me feel as if I’d been sucked into a ghastly conspiracy, as f-----r of sanitized All-American girls whose unintended purpose in life was to spread bland saccharinity throughout the land. The kind of blandness that sent men to war to preserve innocent womanhood from rape. The kind of blandness that launched racial hatred and lynched black men for eyeballing white women. "Tiffany" – YUK. Whenever I heard the name, I saw frou-froued poodles, washed, groomed, and fluffed into huge pompoms, and I’d ask myself what kind of moronic upper-middle-class parents would foist a name like Tiffany to a sweet child. Then I’d see them – a hearty Brooks-Brothered blond giant of a man, a demon on the golf course, flanked by a tanned blonded beauty, queen of fund-raising charity events.

I’d been shocked to find someone with the NAME, a transfer from California, on my summer school class list for "A Survey of British Literature." Shocked because I knew "Tiffany" belonged to a blonde, tall, tanned, slender yet full-bosomed, long-legged, narrow-waisted, neat-tushed nymph with a perfect set of white teeth that she showed a lot because she was always smiling. A typical California sun bunny, she should’ve enrolled in a "non-technical" Communication course or something with dumb inter-personal and group exercises. Sometimes a sun bunny might even attempt light social sciences, those focusing on commonplace human activities like "Dating," "Marriage," "Teen Behavior," etceteras, etceteras. "Theater" also qualified since, away from the beach, California sun bunnies often aspired to be, pardon the revolting cliché, "the latest darlings of the silver screen." My worthy "Theater" colleagues, who valued ability more than a pretty face and gorgeous body, had to redirect a lot of strays.

An "Oh God" escaped me as I looked across at my bedmate.

"Darling," she murmured drowsily, snuggling closer until I bathed in the dewy moisture of her suntanned body. Tousled blonde hair tickled my chest.

I patted her rump.

The first day of summer school I’d spied a tall blonde, who exactly answered the above description, sauntering through the crowd in the hall and greeting slavering jocks in a good-natured way. She had to be Tiffany Delaney, headed to my class. Caught off-guard, I ducked into a friend’s office on the pretext of borrowing slide sheets for the overhead projector. When I strode into the lecture room, the first thing I noticed was a smiling tanned face with a gentle interested look. I disliked her immensely then, but, needless to say, our relationship changed for the better.

"Hey, you haven’t given me an answer." I felt masterful as I pushed her from me. "And make it good or you’ll be screwing campus studs again."

Oh, it would be good! The crazy little fox was on me again, nuzzling my shoulder and shyly touching my ass.

"Sure I love it," she giggled, "but, you know, I want to talk about other things. Sometimes. About literature and things. I mean things going on in the world. I don’t even know what to call you!" On that non sequitur, her voice became a plaintive wail.