Into My Life

Chapter 9

On Friday, Cyn and I picked up Pattie and we spent the day shopping. It was funny to watch them bargain hunting. "Old habit," Pattie laughed.

I hadn't planned on spending any money, but Pattie found a dress she insisted I try on. "It is perfect for you!" she claimed. I don't know about it being perfect for me, but I loved it and went to try it on. The linen dress was sunny yellow but not overpoweringly bright, sleeveless with a small stand up collar and a simple body skimming line. A string of white crocheted daisies separated the high waist from the body. It looked like summertime. It wasn't all that expensive and I was weakening as I slipped it over my head. It fit perfectly. I came out of the dressing room and Pattie and Cyn both said at once "Paul will love it!" and then looked at each other and laughed in surprise. Of course I bought it.

When we couldn't carry any more, we headed for a restaurant and requested a table where we could have some privacy. Pattie and Cyn had been recognized several times today in spite of dark glasses. As soon as we had ordered, Pattie leaned over the table and asked in a conspiratorial whisper, "So how are things going with Paul?"

I blushed and Cyn put in "He's been giving her a hard time of it."

"I'll bet!!" Pattie giggled. Now I was really blushing and Cyn was laughing.

"No, not that. He won't talk to her one minute, then hot after her the next."

Pattie shook her head. "Men!"

"It's OK now, " I said. "At least I think it is. We talked about it yesterday. We are kind of on hold. Once I finish the articles for Tony . . . "

Pattie looked surprised. "What have they got to do with it?'

"Well, after that mess with Ellen, he's just not comfortable talking to me knowing I am writing about him."

She started laughing. "I thought you two were past the talking stage!"

"I didn't think Paul bothered with talking much anymore," Cyn laughed. "He's been through so many birds since Jane, I don't how he'd find the time to chat up a new one."

Pattie raised an eyebrow and said, "Oh, he's always been known to find the time." She wasn't laughing now and a knowing look passed between them.

Someone walked by the table and our conversation halted for a moment. Once the coast was clear Cyn went on more seriously, "Well, he was no saint, but way back when I first met him, he was different," Cyn argued. "He LIKED girls. He went out with a lot of different ones but it wasn't often just . . . well, just for the night. Even after Jane he still seemed to be looking for someone special, but since then, and especially since that creature Ellen, everytime I see him with someone it is someone new, and with so many of them . . . well, you can just tell he really isn't interested in anything but shagging them. He hardly talks to them, doesn't even introduce them half the time. It is really a bit awful when he brings them around."

Pattie nodded in agreement. "Yes, she really did a job on him." They both turned to look at me.

"Tess, Paul has had kind of a tough year. . ." Cyn began, making a switch from criticizing Paul's bed-hopping to defending him. I thought that was so sweet and so typically Cyn, and rushed in to assure her I understood.

"I know he broke up with Jane, and I know that Ellen said a lot of things to the press that really upset him, but I wouldn't do anything to hurt him," I said.

"I know that," Cyn said. "But it's not Paul I am worried about," she said. "I don't want you to think this is going to mean a whole lot to him."

I must have looked stricken because she hurriedly added, "I know he likes you. You'd have to be blind not to see that. But still, it isn't the same for men and right now especially Paul isn't being very . . . well, nice when it comes to girls' feelings. Maybe you should think about this a little more before you go ahead with your plans."

"Think about it?" Pattie asked, puzzled by the turn the conversation had taken. "What are you planning?"

Cyn didn't answer, and I knew she wasn't about to betray my confidence. Pattie was so nice and really seemed to care and she would figure it out anyway. "I'm going to. . .um . . .let him," I said in a whispered stammer.

She knew exactly what I meant. "You have to plan that!?" she asked with such surprise I had to laugh. Pattie wouldn't have planned it. She was a spontaneous person who got through life on enjoyment, not planning.

"Like the Normandy invasion," Cyn teased. "She is a nurse and knows the failure rate for every form of birth control."

Pattie laughed at that, then something registered with her. "And a virgin to boot?" Like my roommate Sandy, Pattie didn't come across as the world's deepest thinker, but she certainly was insightful in some ways.

I nodded.

"Oh, boy." She sat back in her chair. "You really are smitten, aren't you?"

I nodded again. "I really want to be with him and I doubt that he . . . Well, he probably is used to . . . I mean, he's been around and girl who wouldn't . . ."

Pattie giggled. "You mean you think he'll expect you to put out."

"Yeah."

"So that's why you are going to?" Cyn asked in surprise. "You shouldn't . . . not just because he expects it!"

I looked at her, questioning my motives yet again and had to admit the truth. "No. Maybe it is part of it. But mostly, I just . . . want to!"

That brought an outburst of stiffled giggles from both of them. "Oh, we can understand that!"

"It's not because of who he is," I protested. I honestly didn't think that was it. I hardly thought of that when I was with him.

Cyn apologized. "No Tess. That's not what we think. We both just know how it is."

"You go along all your life listening to your Mum and thinking it is wrong and only bad girls do it and then some guy walks in the door and you are undone. Just completely undone!" Pattie declared. "Just like that!"

We all laughed, and Cyn agreed with her but then she looked at me, concerned again. Hesitantly she said, "You know Paul might not . . . well, maybe you are expecting more . . ."

I knew what she was trying to say. "I'm not expecting anything, Cyn. I just want to have a chance to be with him. Then I am going back to the states. Back to school, back to my real life. This is all just a crazy dream anyway and I don't expect anything but a couple weeks of fun."

Cyn and Pattie looked at each other again. "I guess if you go into it with that attitude, you can't get hurt," Cyn said.

Pattie shrugged, then grinned and said, "Maybe we ought to be having lunch with Paul. He is in for a little shock. He's going to get a little of what he has been dishing out!"

The next day went by quickly. I spent most of the day working on the last article. At four o'clock, Les dropped me off at Paul's, glowing sunshine in my new dress, tape recorder and notebook in hand. Mrs. Grady, Paul's housekeeper, answered the door, and Martha thundered into the room ahead of Paul. Martha's greeting was enthusiastic, Paul's more restrained. He put his hands on my shoulders, gave me a quick kiss on the cheek, then straightened his arms to hold me away from him. The body language was clear; nothing more between us until the articles were done. But the look in his eyes was enough.

I talked to Mrs. Grady briefly, then she dismissed herself to go "fetch a spot of tea." Paul and I sat down in the living room.

"I've been working on the article," I said, feeling awkward. He smiled a slow, warm smile.

"Finish it tonight," he ordered.

I started to laugh. "I'll try. Believe me, I'll try!"

He reached over and flipped on the tape recorder. "Let's go, luv." I opened my notebook and started with the same set of questions I had asked the others. What were the good times on tour? The worst? Why was touring important to them? How had touring changed over the last few years? Did any of their newer songs work on stage? Did they think about that as they wrote new material? What was influencing the change in their music?

Paul had no problem answering. This was his chance to do the ground work for the changes that were coming. It was pretty much the same answers I had heard from the others, but it was obvious Paul was more enthusiastic and optimistic about the whole situation. Ringo's attitude was that it was great while it lasted and he was glad he had been given the chance at it. He didn't know if he was glad or sad about the fact that it could be over soon. His statement for the record was "I am looking forward to spending more time with Maureen and the baby. He is growin' so fast. We're all pretty tired from the all the touring. We need a little time to catch our breath, decide what to do next." George said he was glad it was winding down. It was just impossible to live like that and as much as he had enjoyed the first year or so, it just got too bizarre, too out of control. It wasn't anything to do with music. It was hype. As he had already made clear, if they could keep on going without the crap, he would stay. It was going to take some editing, but if I focused on the fact that George was in it for the music and tolerated the rest the best he could, it would come out sounding right.

John had started out saying they had sold out their music the day they put on suits, but then came back to the fact that now, at the top, they had the freedom to make the music they wanted again. It wasn't the music they had played in Hamburg. Those days were gone, but it was wide open to them now. His answers were going to take some careful editing, especially since he repeatedly came back to the fact that there wouldn't be any more tours. He was sick of that crap, sick of the hype and tired of working his ass off so the promoters and the government could take 99% of the money. At least I got a usable quote from him about the future of their music being wide open, and that was exactly the kind of stuff Tony wanted.

Paul was pure gold, the PR man's dream. "Touring is great, even if it gets a little inconvenient and out of control at times, but now the music is suffering and we aren't giving the fans our best out there. We can only do that in the studio." He never came out and said there would be no more touring, but what he did say was a strong hint of that. Again, just what Tony wanted. He talked for a long time and there wasn't a word I couldn't have used.

We took a break for tea, but went on talking. The tape recorder was off, and he knew it, but even so as he talked about the last few years, it was upbeat. He loved what they were doing and believed in their ability to keep it going if they were willing to work as hard as they had to get started. He was.

Mrs. Grady came in to pick up the tea things and said she was leaving. "There is plenty in the icebox to see you through until I can get to the market next week," she instructed him. "Do try some of that broccoli while it is fresh," she went on. "Doesn't eat half right," she said in an aside to me. "And you mind that dog, now young man. I've cleaned the rug again this week." With that comment on Martha's housebreaking, she was gone. Paul laughed, reassured Martha, who had looked up at the mention of her name, that she was more important than the rug, and I popped a new tape in the recorder.

What were the good things about the fans?

Paul grimaced, recognizing the part of the interview that was going to take tact. His responses about the fans were very similar to what I had heard from the others but, again, more positive. He talked about their loyalty, their staying with them as the music changed, as new groups came out. Their enthusiasm for the music made it all worthwhile.

And the worst?

Lack of privacy. Not being able to go shopping, go to a movie, go out to dinner without a crowd gathering. Most of the fans were OK even in those situations. It was only the ones who barged right in and interrupted in the middle of a movie or a meal that were a nuisance.

How had the fans changed over the years?

The fact that there were new, younger fans now, not just the ones they had started out with was incredible to him. They had never hoped to last more than a couple of years, and now, five years into it, it was still growing. Fans now seemed to care more about the music. When he talked to them, they talked about how they liked a certain new song, how great "Revolver" was. The final question was one the others all had trouble answering: "Where do you see yourself in five years, professionally and personally?"

Ringo had just laughed. "If you had asked me that five years ago, I would have been dead wrong in my answer. I won't even try to answer that." John just looked at me. "What else is there? We can't go any further. I don't know where I want to go professionally. And personally. . . that is no one else's business even if I knew." Not an answer I could even begin to edit to some form that would please Tony. I planned to use it anyway because it was an open, honest answer -- the only kind you ever got from John -- even if it hurt to hear it. George said he would be doing something related to music. If not recording, maybe producing. And personally? He smiled when I asked him that and pulled Pattie to him for a kiss. "Just say I plan to be happy."

Thank you George. No editing needed.

And now I asked Paul the same question. He didn't have trouble answering. He was a musician and that was all there was to it. Five years from now, he would be writing and performing. He had just been asked to write a score for a movie and he wanted to do some producing, something with new people trying to break into the music business. Maybe get involved in sponsoring young artists, film makers. He talked for several minutes about the things he wanted to do.

"And personally?" I prompted. For the first time he didn't have an answer. He looked at me for a minute, shrugged, then reached out and switched the tape recorder off. Martha recognized the end of the interview and got up from the cool spot under the dining room table to come over and try to jump into Paul's lap. He pushed her down and she had to content herself with being scratched behind the ears. I closed my notebook and put the tape on rewind.

"Married," he said belatedly. "Raising a family." I smiled, not really surprised. The times we had spent together talking had told me something about the most eligible bachelor in the world, the guy the fan mags showed with a new girl every month. He was the son of Jim and Mary, brother to Michael, part of the McCartney clan. A family man by heritage.

"The tape is off. Your secret is safe," I teased.

He smiled. "No, put it in. Kind of a Mr. Lonely Hearts thing. Maybe I will get marriage proposals."

"Don't you?" I asked in surprise.

"Some. But I get a lot more propositions than proposals." He stood up and headed for the stairs. "Come 'ead. I've something I want you to hear." We went upstairs to the music room at the front of the house. He sat me down on the piano bench next to him and played a song.

"Think it will turn into something?" he asked. I nodded, and he went through it again, bits and pieces of lyrics, talking about adding trumpets, other sounds. It was "Penny Lane" in its earliest stages. I was fascinated. I couldn't imagine writing a song. He played other bits for me, talked about how some songs just wrote themselves, almost over night. Others were bits and bars that had come to him and just needed to wait until the matching pieces decided to come along. He kept playing, seeming to forget I was there at times, going over a piece, trying something different with it, singing a few lines at times. I was beyond fascinated, in awe was more like it. I had reached the point where I generally forgot about them being the Beatles, but this got to me. Then he was grinning at me as he watched my reaction as he pounded out a few bars of "Great Balls of Fire." Finally, he played "Yesterday" all the way through and when he finished, there was the sound of applause from the street out front. The window was open and the gatebirds were listening. One of the girls called out "I love you, Paul!"

He got up and went to stand by the window, far enough back that he couldn't be seen, but so he could see them. I walked over to stand next to him. There was a group of four girls outside the gates, talking and pointing up at the window. A little mini-tour bus pulled up and unloaded another half dozen girls. They shrieked and giggled and took pictures. One just cried and hung on the gate.

"A half pound," I said.

"What?"

"That's what they paid for the tour." I told him about the tourist center and the special Beatles tours.

Paul just shook his head. "Daft," he said. He was quiet for a long time, watching them, then he asked, "Why do they do it, Tess? Why do teenage girls think they are in love with someone they will never even meet?"

"Because it is safer that way," I said. "They can practice being in love without a chance of getting into a situation they can't handle. Have imaginary conversations with a guy. Think about how he would react. Practice grown up feelings."

He looked down at me and smiled. "So who did you practice on?"

I blushed at the memory. "Little Joe."

"Who?"

"Little Joe Cartwright from Bonanza. I was crazy about him. I had pictures of him all over my bedroom walls."

"Did you hang about his gate?"

"Couldn't. He didn't exist. It wasn't Michael Landon the actor I had a crush on, it was Joe Cartwright. Virginia City, 1860."

"So you imagined yourself as what? His Miss Kitty?"

I had to smile at the image of Matt Dillon's worldly Miss Kitty turning her charms on my sweet Little Joe. "No. It's funny, but I don't think I ever really imagined myself with him. I used to write scripts for the show, love scenes and boy gets girl, boy loses girl stuff, but the main thing was how they felt about each other, how they talked to each other." I laughed. "I guess I couldn't imagine anything more. I led a sheltered childhood!"

"Well, I don't think all my gatebirds were quite so sheltered," he laughed. "They leave incredibly explicit notes, sometimes pinned to lacy knickers. They try to climb over the gate, ring the intercom and giggle, and spy on me day and night. They snoop through my rubbish bin and they know more about me than most of the girls I ever invited in." He was quiet for a moment. "Just when I think I'm going call the police and have them chased away, some sweet little girl to shy to talk to me comes up to the gate and waits for me with a month's worth of allowance in flowers and a note that just says "Thank you, Paul." He sighed. "If they were all like that . . . But most of them seem to think that buying a record or buying a ticket means they bought us. All they are paying for is the music. That's all we are selling! But some of them seem to think they are entitled to our whole lives for the price of an album. I don't mind most of it but sometimes I get to wondering if anything would ever be enough. They just keep wanting--"

His words cut off abruptly and he stared at me with dismay and I knew he had just had a sudden vision of his comments appearing in print. As if to put physical distance between himself and that risk, he stepped away from me, turned and leaned back against the wall along side the window. He crossed his arms over his chest and stared at the floor.

"Paul?" He looked up at me, shaking his head. Almost angry, certainly exasperated.

"The tape recorder is off."

He tipped his head back against the wall and closed his eyes. I wanted to say "Please don't shut me out," but the words wouldn't come. Instead, I went to him and slipped my arms around his waist. It didn't feel like a bold, forward thing to do, it just seemed like the most natural thing in the world. As soon as I touched him I knew it was more than all right. His body was tense but instead of pulling away, I could feel him lean toward me. I had to smile, remembering how I had once thought Paul only remembered girls by touch. I couldn't always read his face, but if I was touching him, I knew what he was feeling.

His arms went around me, he sighed and his body relaxed, giving in to the simple comfort of being held. I turned my face into the curve of his neck, and relaxed with him. I was thinking how good he felt, not in sexual way but in a warm, comfortable chair-by-the-fire-way. A place I wanted to stay, a feeling I wanted to go on feeling. His heart beating steady against my chest and his arms around me. As good a memory to take home as those other moments of holding him and kissing him. Apparently I wasn't alone in thinking of those times. He hugged me harder and lowered his head to press his cheek to mine.

"If I had any sense, I'd take you home right now," he said softly in my ear, but I knew from the way he said it he didn't want to do that. He kissed me instead. Soft little whispers of kisses on my neck, my cheek, but he stopped short of my lips. I guess he knew as well as I did that it wouldn't stop there and he didn't want to take this any farther. Not with Tess Martin, girl reporter.

I returned the kisses, edging up to the corner of his mouth, wanting to coax him into a real kiss me but respecting the boundary he had set. When I couldn't stand the temptation any longer I turned my face away and we stood in a still embrace. The only sound was that of passing cars and the occasional burst of laughter or excited chatter from the girls outside. That was all a million miles away.

"Come 'ead. I'll drive you back to John's," he finally said, but didn't let go of me. His not letting go was all the encouragement I needed to say the words.

"I don't want to go," I said softly. "We only have a few weeks together, and I don't want to go."

"Tess, you know how I feel. I just can't get past it," he sighed and loosened his hold on me. "I'm sorry. I want you to stay too, but if you stay, it won't be . . . it won't be how I want it to be with you. I want to be able to talk to you, not just take you."

Hearing him say it so plainly made my heart pound wildly. He wanted me and, even better, he wanted it to be more than just sex. His next words rocked me even more.

"Oh Hell. It isn't what I wanted, but I want you anyway! So . . . will you stay?"

I couldn't! Not yet. Not for what he was offering. Not for another week and a half until I was safely on the pill. Waiting seemed impossible but even as I felt resolve -- and common sense -- abandoning me, another thought was forming. Waiting would give me more in the long run. In a week and a half I could easily have all the articles turned in with only some editing by Tony's staff to be done. He would see that he could trust me. Then it could be the way we both wanted! It meant losing half of the precious little time we had before I had to leave but I had no choice anyway. I had to wait until I was safely on the pill. In the meantime, I had to leave. Standing here in his arms, feeling his heart beat was taking what little resistance I had left. I pulled away from him.

"Paul, I have to leave. I can't stay, not for that. Not yet. But when the last article is done, then we can really be together. The way we both want. No magazine articles to worry about."

He let me go, his hands sliding slowly down my bare arms as I stepped back. He slowly let my hands slide out of his, but then suddenly he was holding my fingers tightly.

"Wait, Tess. I . . . I don't want you to think . . . I shouldn't have said . . ." He stopped, uncertain, embarrassed.

"What?" I asked, bewildered.

"I don't want you to think that finishing the articles is going to change things. I want you. But I can't promise . . . "

"You don't have to promise anything," I said. Did he think I was expecting it to turn into something . . . real? Wanting to replace Jane Asher in his life? I had no illusions about that. I could hardly believe what was happening much less imagine more. "I just . . . I thought if we waited until you knew I was done playing reporter we could . . . I don't know! Be friends. Have something a little better than just . . . sex."

He was still holding my fingers and he lifted his arm, pulling me back toward him and gathered me back into his arms, slipping his hand under my hair at the back of my neck to bring my forehead back into the hollow of his neck. I loved that, the feel of his gentle control over my body. I certainly didn't resist.

"Ah, Tess," he said. "I want you and I know you want me. Isn't sex enough? Simple, uncomplicated sex?"

I was so confused by all of this. He wanted me, and he had said he wanted it to be more than an impersonal roll in the hay. Something in my head was saying that it would be better than way. Sex and nothing more: "Don't put anything else on the line. You have to leave and you can leave your virginity behind, but not your heart. And you'll lose that too if it is more than sex," that part of my mind was counseling. But another part of my brain was working on the fact that this just wasn't making sense. He had read the first article and found nothing wrong with it. He knew he could veto anything in what I wrote for the others. I realized then that the articles for Tony really didn't matter. They were a smokescreen for something else. Pattie and Cyn's comments about how Paul had changed since the incident with Ellen came back to me. I pushed away from him so I could see his face.

"It's not just the articles for Tony, is it?" I said, not really asking.

"What?"

"It's not just a matter of wondering what I might write. You've read the articles and you know you can stop anything you don't want said. It is trusting me, trusting anybody again. "Just sex" is OK, but getting to really know someone, getting close, is too dangerous."

I couldn't read his face. He let go of my arms, walked away from me and stood by the piano. His hand reached for the keys, absently plinking out a few notes.

"You can't shut everyone out forever," I said. "That's safe, but that means there won't be any 'Married raising a family' five years from now."

He looked up at me, absorbing that. He didn't look angry, just thoughtful. He wasn't ready to answer and went back to softly tapping out notes. As distracted as he looked I expected aimless sounds but even without his thinking about it, a tentative melody was forming as he repeated it once, twice, a third time. Still he said nothing. It was as if it were easier to put his feelings into music than into words. There was nothing angry in the melody he was building so I went on. There was something else I wanted him to think about, too.

"Someday you are going to have to let someone in or you'll always be alone. But for now, for us, "just sex" is OK. I am only going to be here a few more weeks," I said, "so it's better that way for me too. That's all I can handle. Just a chance to . . . to be with you, then back to my real life."

With those words I realized I was giving up the idea of spending a few sweet, special days with him in exchange for simply going to bed with him. Letting go of a hope and settling for a sure thing. A dream surrendered for a cash buy-out. It was practical, fair. I got to be with him and he got me in bed without risking getting close. Yes, that was practical, fair, sensible, and the best I had any right to expect.

What I said, what I was offering, took him by surprise. I could see him react as it hit him. He turned around slowly, studying my face, not sure whether to believe me. "That isn't the way I wish it could be either," I said, "but that's the way it is."

Thoughts and feelings I couldn't read crossed his face. Finally he nodded. "All right, Tess. If that is all you want . . ." He reached out one hand to me and I put my hand in his and squeezed his fingers. A bargain sealed.

"Let's go," he said quietly and lead me out of the room, down the hall toward the stairs. I was bewildered. I thought we were OK, but he was taking me home. At the top of the stairs he stopped and opened the door to his bedroom. I froze in the hallway. He put his arms around me and kissed me. I unfroze. I melted. I kissed him back, heart hammering so hard it hurt. It had been two days since I had kissed him and I had thought of little else since. I was lost in the feel of his arms around me and his mouth on mine. Somehow I let myself be led into the bedroom, but the sight of the bed cleared my mind. This wasn't agreeing to get into the back seat for a grope session. This was a bedroom and that was a bed and he expected to do IT. And I couldn't. After my announcement that all I wanted was sex, I was going to have to tell him I couldn't do it!

"Paul," I said. It was supposed to come out sounding like, "Um, Excuse me sir, but I do need to have a word with you." Instead it came out sounding like "Ohhh Paul!"

"Tess," he said softly, his hand reaching to touch my face. His fingers gently stroked my cheek as he looked into my eyes.

Oh yes! This was a bedroom and those were bedroom eyes and this was definitely going to be it! He put his mouth over mine and kissed me deeply. As his tongue gently touched mine, the symbolism of french kissing hit me. I marveled at the fact that it had never occurred to me. Now I understood, and he was unzipping my dress to show me exactly what it symbolized.

"Paul, I can't do this!" I gasped.

He stopped, mid-zip, an absolutely bewildered look on his face.

"Not now, not yet."

The confusion cleared. He smiled ruefully, then kissed me softly, tenderly. "How much longer?" he asked kissing my ear.

"About ten days, I think," I answered, awed by his sweetness.

He held me for a moment and then hesitantly pulled back to look at me. "Um . . . I don't know much about that sort of thing, but . . . ah . . . isn't ten days a little . . . much?"

It was my turn to be bewildered, but his embarrassment gave it away.

"Oh, No. It's not that! It's just that I can't take any chances. I have to get on birth control pills first and I can't do that until my next . . . for a while."

He smiled and kissed me before walking over to the bed. I held back. He opened the drawer of the bedside table and picked up a little packet from a large variety of little packets and brought it to me. I took the packet from him. Never having actually seen a condom, it took a minute for it to register that this was what I was holding. I was suddenly very much aware of the fact that all my information about sex came from a book. And so much for my idea that he wouldn't use a condom. He was obviously a big supporter of the industry. That didn't solve my problem though.

"These things have a fifteen percent failure rate," I said.

He looked at me, uncomprehending for a minute, then he said, "Impossible!"

"It's true."

"You mean if I used them with one hundred girls I would end up with fifteen kids?" He laughed a little at the thought. "Wrong, Tess." He knew from experience.

"No, that's not how the statistics are calculated. Of one hundred couples depending on them as their only means of birth control, fifteen will have an unwanted pregnancy in a year." I was acutely aware that I sounded like I was reading from a textbook, but I was a hell of a lot more familiar with discussing birth control in a classroom than in a bedroom. St.Vincent's, being Catholic, did not go into detail on birth control in its nursing classes. The subject could not be avoided entirely in a nursing course, but they gave it as little emphasis as possible. The student grapevine told us we needed to attend a lecture given by Planned Parenthood if we wanted to know about birth control, and most of us eagerly did just that.

Paul was considering statistical probability. "So what are the odds for a couple of weeks?"

"Unacceptable. I just can't take the risk. They would kick me out of school if I got pregnant," I answered, dropping the packet back into the drawer. He looked at me, the picture of male sexual frustration.

"So what do you use?"

I hesitated. "Nothing," I whispered, trying to think of how to tell him that the need had never arisen before. I didn't have to. He looked at me and knew.

"You've never done it!" he said. I shook my head. He was smiling, even laughing a little as he reached out and gathered me back into his arms, but when he kissed me it was so sweetly, as if I were something fragile, precious. "Ah, Tess, I should have guessed that," he said. "But the way you kiss me, you just get me so crazy . . ."

He kissed me until I was kissing him back, all thoughts of failure rates gone. I couldn't let go of him, couldn't stop kissing him, couldn't stop wanting him .

His voice was soft, reassuring as he unzipped my dress the rest of the way. "Tess, I think we can come up with other things to do for ten days."

He slipped it down over my shoulders and it dropped to my feet. I shivered. I had never done IT, and as sketchy as my working knowledge of IT was, my knowledge of OTHER THINGS was even more limited.

Just as I read him by touch, he felt me shiver and knew I wasn't cold. "It's OK, Tess." He held me tightly. "I just want to touch you. If you want to stop, just tell me. I'll be careful -- I can wait. You don't have to do anything you don't want."

Then I knew it was going to be all right. Whatever he did, whatever I knew or didn't know, it would be alright. It never occurred to me not to believe him. That wasn't inexperience or plain stupidity, it was the simple, honest way he said it. No persuasiveness, just quiet reassurance. I put my arms around his neck and gave him my answer. It felt so good to just let go, to trust that I wasn't the only one taking responsibility for being careful. I kissed him and moved my hands over his face, his hair, his back, his chest, slid my hands into the back pockets of his jeans. When I pulled myself up against him, wanting to feel again the way his body fitted to mine, he moved me over to the bed.

In the movies the couple seems to sink down onto the bed in one fluid movement that doesn't even begin to interrupt their kiss, but I was finding out this wasn't like the movies. First I had to step out of the dress pooled around my feet or trip over it. Then I took the two steps to the bed and realized I wasn't going to be magically levitated and wafted gently down on the bed while orchestral music built to a crescendo around me. I had to turn around and sit down. A conscious act. An act of consent. Not a swept away moment at all.

He bent to kiss me and began to tip me back onto the bed. The logistics were getting more difficult and I had to think fast or end up on my back with my feet dangling over the side. That was not how it was done in the movies! I put my arms around his neck, established lip and upper body contact, then executed a ninety degree spin while at the same time bringing my feet up onto the bed and sinking back onto the pillows. Somehow my spur-of-the-moment choreography worked and I was gracefully reclining, with him sitting on the edge of the bed leaning over me. Kissus uninterruptus!

Had it been a movie, the cameras would have been rolling as he stretched out next to me, gathered me in his arms and the music soared. Oh, but these kisses were real and so was his touch. The camera crew disappeared and the only sound was my pounding heart. I reached for his shirt and tugged it out of his jeans. He sat up and peeled it off and then came back to me, leaning over me and slowly stretching out on top of me, covering my body with his. I went crazy with the feel of his bare skin against my hands, my arms, my bare shoulders. Any lingering self-consciousness melted away, and I felt my body lifting to meet him, wanting to be closer and still closer. I kissed him over and over, bruising my lips and feeling the burn of his beard on my cheeks and not caring, only feeling like I couldn't get enough. In no time I was making that sound again, moaning softly, breathing in little gasps.

His kisses changed. Softer, less demanding, as if he were intentionally slowing things down. Frantic lust gave way to easy, sweet desire. My body relaxed and I caught my breath. Able to think at least hazy thoughts again, I found myself smiling up at him. Pure happiness. Well, "pure" was certainly not the right word for the situation but happiness certainly was. He grinned back at me and I started to laugh with the joy of being here, like this, with him. He rolled over, pulling me on top of him, laughing with me.

He hugged me tight to him and when we stopped laughing, I lifted my head to look at him. He looked back at me and his hands began to move over my back, my bottom, caressing me, pulling me tight to him, watching me react. I closed my eyes and just let the touch of his hands send shivers all through me. It felt like every nerve ending in my body was screaming to be touched. I couldn't stand it -- break time was over and I wanted more kisses, more of everything.

I started to kiss him, my lips so sensitive that I could even feel the scar on his lip. I wound the fingers of one hand through his hair, loving the silkiness of it. My other hand was tracing his rib cage, working its way down, frustrated by encountering his jeans and the thick layers of his pockets but finding something so enticing about the muscles of his thigh. I squeezed and stroked just as he was doing to me and wondered how to go about the next step. My mind toyed with the idea of sliding off of him so I could continue my explorations of an even more interesting area of his body, but my body had other ideas. It seemed to know what it wanted and how to get it and wasn't waiting for my mind to catch up. I found myself once again locked against him, moving slowly against the hard bulge in his jeans. It felt so good to me, and from the look on Paul's face, it was the right thing to do. After a few minutes of that though, I wanted more.

So did Paul. He started to tug my slip up to my waist and I sat up, straddling him, so he could pull it up and off over my head. Even though I knew what was going to happen next and even though I wanted him to do it, some reflex made me cross my arms over my chest to hold my bra in place as he unhooked it. Like the business of getting onto the bed with him, reality kept intruding, putting the brakes on what should have been a runaway train.

He looked up at me, a little surprised. "No?" he asked. I had let him touch my breasts, kiss them that day in his office and he wasn't expecting me to stop him here. I wasn't planning to, but this was a lot further than I had ever gone. This was not just fumbling around under a blouse, it was flat out undressing and I needed a little time to adjust. Or savor the moment. Whatever.

"Yes," I answered and slowly lowered my arms. He reached up to touch my face, touched my lips with his finger tips and slowly traced warm lines of desire down my neck, across my shoulders, lifting the straps of my bra and with a warm caress slid them down my arms. He held onto my hands for a moment as he looked at me.

"Oh, yeah," he said softly.

I tossed the bra aside and he reached for my breasts. As his hands touched me, I felt a wave flow through me, a wave that carried me across the gap between desire and need. I closed my eyes and put my hands on his chest, rocking against him, finding the rhythm, the movement that felt so incredible. He was so hard and felt so good and I was aching, melting. I wasn't thinking, only feeling, moving faster, intensely aware of the heat that was building. His hands left my breasts and they ached to be touched again but his hands went back to my hips, pulling me down against him, rocking me harder and faster, turning heat to fire. I wanted to be touching him, feel his arms around me again and so I melted down onto him. His chest was so warm against my breasts and his mouth was searching for mine. We met in a hungry, breathless demand that was way beyond a kiss. We were back at frantic lust and I was grinding against him, his hands on my bottom encouraging me and both of us breathing hard. Suddenly he groaned and, taking me with him, rolled over on his side. He was still holding me close but it had stopped the momentum cold. He held me there, not moving, face buried in my neck. I could feel his heart pounding and I couldn't understand why he had stopped me. I was way too inexperienced to jump to the conclusion that he was done, so I jumped to another conclusion: I had done something wrong! Oh my God -- maybe I hurt him! I had been moving so hard against him! Pounding him! Can you break a penis? We never covered that in school! Fear and embarrassment flooded through me and I didn't know what to say.

After a minute he raised his head and began kissing me softly. I pushed him back to look at his face. "What's wrong?" I asked fearfully. He saw the look on my face and burst into a laugh he tried hard to stop.

He put one arm under my neck and snuggled me against him. "A man is just ready faster than a woman," he explained. "Especially if he wants her as much as I want you. So you are just getting warmed up and I need to take a back off a bit or it will be all over."

"Oh!"

He laughed again and began kissing me, running his hands over me, and following with kisses. Time slipped by. The late afternoon sunlight turned the room warm and golden and the intensity built again. When his hand moved below my waist, I caught my breath. After just a few seconds of his gentle touch, I pulled his hand away. He looked at me as if regretting that he had said I could stop him at any time, but I had no intention of stopping. Not yet. I smiled at him and lifted my hips to pull my nylons off entirely. I tried to slip them off gracefully, but as wonderful an invention as pantyhose are, they do not lend themselves to a graceful striptease. I laughed a little as I tugged them off my feet and he laughed too, but he stopped laughing as I lay back down next to him. He reached over and slipped his fingertips under the waistband of my panties. "These will come off easier, luv," he said, with a husky, urgent sound in his voice. I loved that sound even though it should have sent my virgin monitor into the red alert stage. As his fingers circled slowly, gently, and oh so irresistibly down across my stomach, I shivered, in anticipation and trepidation. As turned on as I was, I was still very much aware that a new barrier was about to fall, and I wasn't sure I could handle this.

I wasn't afraid of being touched. I wanted that desperately. I was afraid that desire was about to override what little was left of my thought processes. I would completely give in to the pleasure and if I did I didn't think I could or would stop him. Not the way his touch was already taking over. I had never felt anything so incredible, so exciting, so addictive, so demanding!

He moved slowly, his hand touching, stroking my stomach, easing downward. I was going crazy wanting him to touch me there and yet knowing if he did I would let him do anything else he wanted. He said he wouldn't, but if I lost control, wouldn't he?

He made a sound, a sigh as his fingers touched the triangle of pubic hair. "Oh, yes!" he murmured.

That little exclamation somehow spoke not only of pleasure but of success. Anticipated victory. That and the sudden change in sensation from his touch on my skin to his touch on the springy curls was enough to break the spell and snap the old virgin monitor back into working condition. My body tensed up. I didn't exactly clamp my thighs together and push him away, but he felt it.

He looked at me, and saw the apprehensive look on my face. "Do you want me to stop?" he asked through soft kisses.

"No. Yes. No! But I think we should."

He smiled down at me. "We don't need to. This is safe."

"I don't think so. I . . . I won't be able to stop if you keep on."

That got a little laugh from him. "You don't have to stop, luv. I do, but you don't."

From everything I knew about sex and men, that was not supposed to be possible. Men were animals when aroused beyond a certain point. Beyond reason, out of control, not responsible, and unable to stop. With that in mind, I asked in surprise, "Will you be able to?"

He must have known exactly what was going on in my mind because he had to work to keep from laughing. A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth as he shook his head. "There is a point where I can't stop, but I know where that is. I know what I'm doing. I do have a little experience in the field."

We both had a laugh at that, and then he held me tight and said very seriously, "Tess, I promised you I'd be careful. It's not going to happen tonight. Not until it's safe. Not until you want to. I wouldn't do that to you no matter how much I might want it. And believe me, I want it. But there is no reason to stop here. We can make love without taking chances."

If there was anything else he could have said to make everything all right, I couldn't imagine what it would have been. I whispered, "OK," and he kissed me, caressed me and gently brought me to the point where I thought I would go crazy if he didn't do what he had started to do before, touch me where I had never been touched before. When he did, the intimacy of his touch struck me hard. There was a little self conscious discomfort, a little uncertainty, a little embarrassment at how wet I was, a little guilt that I pushed away, refusing to allow it. All that was outweighed anyway by a rush of intense pleasure. The physical pleasure was a giant leap from what I had already thought was impossibly high sensation. How could anything feel this good and still keep finding ways to feel better? But it was more than physical. It was a feeling of warmth and tenderness and . . . awe. To be touched like this was so special and I was glad I had never let anyone else. Couldn't imagine ever letting anyone else. This was just for us. I had never felt so close to another person.

Any thoughts about stopping were gone from my mind. His fingers stroked me, sending electric shocks to the bottom of my feet. My panties joined the nylons on the floor and that was the end of any inhibitions I had left. I reached down to touch him.

Although it had never set off the reaction in me that being with Paul had, feeling the hard bulge of a guy's erection pressed against me was familiar to me, thanks to slow dances in the school gym and the big back seats of 60's cars. Touching him through the heavy denim jeans told me little I didn't already know. As I unzipped his jeans, I thought of John and Neil laughing at my fumbling with John's zipper and mentally thanked John for all the practice. Touching Paul through the soft cotton of his underwear was just not what I wanted either. I wanted to touch him the way he was touching me. I didn't even hesitate. I slipped my hand inside, feeling for the first time the warmth and the combination of hardness and resilience and silky softness. So different from the limp, laughable appendage that I dealt with as a nurse! Fascinated by the way he felt, the way he fit so perfectly in my hand, I slid my fingers around and down him.

Paul groaned, reached for my hand and pulled it away. Now it was my turn to look surprised! Smiling, he got up off the bed, pulling me up with him. With one arm holding me close, he pulled the covers back. He let go of me and hooked his thumbs under the waist of his jeans and started to strip them off.

As soon as he let go of me I felt incredibly naked. So much for losing my inhibitions! I quickly got into bed and pulled the sheet up over me. I looked up as Paul tossed his jeans on a chair and moved to get into bed with me. He sat on the edge of the bed, and reached out to lift the sheet to get in. Safely covered by the sheet, I felt daring again. Looking at his bare legs and the unmistakable, erect rod distorting his shorts, I held out a hand to stop him. "I may not know a lot about this," I said with a grin. "But I do know one thing. You are over-dressed for the occasion!"

He grinned back as he stripped and I tried hard not to stare as he got into bed with me. I must not have succeeded because he started to laugh. "I know you've seen naked men before!" he teased.

"Not like this," I said, too entranced to be embarrassed. "Nothing like this!"

He slipped under the sheets and I moved close, eager to feel him against me. It was everything I expected and more. Head to toe naked together, skin sensors all working overtime. Drowning in the sensation of touch. I could have stayed there a long, long time just delighting in the feel of his entire body, but the feeling of a specific part of his anatomy pressed against me was so new, so fascinating, I had to touch it. He lay quietly, moving his hands over me, stroking, teasing, squeezing gently but doing nothing to distract or discourage me from my discovery of him. As I touched him, explored the feel, the shape, the textures of that fascinating part of his body, I realized it was growing even harder and bigger. My attitude toward what I had always considered a rather amusing joke of nature changed drastically. I had always thought Mother Nature must have been in a silly mood the day she got around to creating the male. It didn't seem silly at all now.

Well, maybe a little.

I wanted to pull the sheet back so I could see as well as touch, but Paul wasn't waiting for me to work up the nerve to do it. My time out for exploration had not been time out for him. He groaned and took charge again, kissing me harder, stroking me with less gentleness and more demand. His touch was lighting fires again, and touching him fanned the flames. I forgot about specific body parts and moved back into that world where no part of his body or mine wasn't an erogenous zone. It wasn't the localized fire of a few minutes before. I was lost in the total feel of him, the warmth and hardness of his body against mine, his legs tangled in mine, his hand under the small of my back. I wanted to feel every inch of his body touching me. I touched him, stroked him while he did the same to me, and not satisfied with the touch of his hand, I moved his hand from between us, pressed up close and guided him between my thighs. If he had tried to do that, I think I would have stopped him but he was allowing me full control of the situation and I felt safe in trying this. I wasn't afraid of what he might do and I wanted to know how it felt. I wasn't out of control -- I moved against him carefully, fearing it might slide right into me with unavoidable geometric precison, but I was learning as I went along and realized quickly that the necessary angle for the lock and key configuration could be avoided.

Well, from a geometric, engineering design standpoint it could be, but I hadn't reckoned on how it would feel. Fascinated by the sensations, stimulated by the pleasure it obviously gave him as well as me, I moved with him, driven by a force deep inside. I was lost then. The feel of that warm hardness sliding, rubbing, pushing against me there was too much and I forgot all about the mechanics of this and went with the feeling. Paul was going with it too. We had been lying side by side, facing each other, but now he tipped me onto my back and moved on top of me. I had a hazy thought that Mother Nature's last laugh was on me. This was what it was all about. For the first time I was totally aware of how this worked. Not just a lesson in anatomical design, but knowing how good it would feel to have him in me. How it would somehow ease the aching need I felt, somehow put out the fire. He shifted position, sliding down just a bit and I was suddenly aware of how close we were to doing it. That change of position moved him from rubbing against me to aimed at the very center of me. All it would take was a movement on his part, a thrust, and he would penetrate me. It was movement I couldn't prevent now that he was right there and I was so wet, so physically ready and it was a movement I had certainly been asking for with my actions. If Paul thought I had changed my mind, I couldn't blame him. Panic hit like a blast of cold air. "No, Paul, don't!" I said.

He rolled back to my side and pulled me over to face him. I was shaking, feeling both scared by how close we had come and embarrassed at having let this go so far before saying no.

"It's OK, luv" he said softly, and the control in his voice was surprising and reassuring. "I won't," he said. "We don't have to. I'll get you there without it."

I had no idea what he was talking about.

I had studied the anatomy, memorized the pituitary hormones, and understood the process necessary for fertilization. I thought that was what sex was all about; testosterone and estrogen choreographing an intricately timed process. All I knew of the more practical side was that it included pleasurable touching for both, followed by male ejaculation. That was why men wanted it more than women. There was something special at the end for them. The word "orgasm" was not in the textbook at Saint Vincent School of Nursing. Reading Lady Chatterly's Lover had not prepared me for this. I hadn't known what it meant when she talked about her "crisis," her coming with him. Those were just words on a page. Words I had skimmed over looking for words I did know, looking for the description of the physical act. That I could understand. But the feelings, the sensation? No frame of reference. It was like reading about drowning and trying to imagine the sensation of water in my lungs. I couldn't. When I dreamt about boys and woke up feeling that odd rush, well, that was just a dream thing like that sensation of falling, wasn't it? There was no Cinemax or MTV to fill in the gaps in my education. The restaurant scene in "When Harry met Sally" that educated a whole generation was far in the future. I had gotten far enough with other guys to recognize that sex would be fun, and the last half hour had shown me that the words "pleasurable touching" just weren't enough to convey what was in it for the woman. Although the feeling was something that kept building and instinct told me it was leading somewhere, I simply didn't know that there was a grand finale to this fireworks display.

Paul showed me. He had stopped the moment I had asked him to, so now when he started touching me again, all I was afraid of was losing control myself. "It's all right, luv," he whispered, "Let go," I did. I trusted him and let go, gave into the feeling, let him hold me and touch me, not just in places I had never been touched before, but in a way I had never been touched. Not as boy enjoying himself, seeing how far he could get, but as man giving pleasure to a woman. I was lost, moaning with pleasure, sighing his name, and never wanting it to end. I ooohed and aaahed every sparkler and starburst and streaking rocket. Instead of easing off as he had before, Paul went on, his touch faster and harder, his kisses insistent and unrelenting. When the grand finale began I gasped in surprise as his hands set off an explosion deep inside that sent shock waves all through me.

Afterward I lay in his arms drifting on a cloud of wonder and contentment. Soft kisses teased my ear, brushed my neck. I opened my eyes. Dark eyes watched me. "Thank you," I whispered surprising myself as I said it. What was I thanking him for? For the pleasure I hadn't even known existed, for being so sweet, for not taking advantage of me when it would have been impossible for me to stop him? For all of that.

He laughed in surprise and delight. "You're welcome!" he said and leaned over me to kiss me again. Wonder and contentment were lost in a surge of emotion. I reached up and pulled him down, hugging him fiercely, overwhelmed by a rush of emotion as intense as the physical sensation of the minutes before. Overwhelmed and frightened. "This is just a reaction to . . . to whatever he just did to me," I thought. "That's all. Please let that be all."

He was kissing me again. I kissed him back, bewildered by how I felt, whispering his name over and over. I gave no thought to the effect that would have on him, until he suddenly grabbed my hand, and guided it where he wanted it. I suppose it is strange, but my knowledge of sex left me more prepared for his orgasm than my own. Since I hadn't really understood that women had such a thing, that is no surprise, I guess, but now I was on more familiar territory. Between textbooks and dirty jokes I understood male sexual response. I knew where he was headed and had a basic understanding of how to get him there: "Doin' that crazy hand jive."

I took my cues from his groans and stroked him harder and faster and felt his entire body react. His breathing went from fast to gasping and I knew when he abruptly moved on top of me again that this was it. I didn't panic though because I could feel the hard rod of his penis on my belly. (Yes, that is the word that I was thinking. Penis. Technical, anatomical. I just wasn't comfortable with the other names for it. "Dick" was a word in a joke and this was no joke. "Cock" was a dirty name for it and there was nothing dirty about this moment.) Anyway, I didn't panic because I knew he wasn't going to try to put it in me. He began to gasp and moved faster and harder against me.

Another revelation: "Oooh, yeah, yeah!" isn't just the chorus in a song. No wonder our parents objected to the music -- they knew where the words, the feeling came from.

So many things were racing through my mind at that moment. Astonishment at the almost violent storm of passion it took for a man to make it. Wondering how it would feel to have him in me, thrusting, pounding in me like that. How could that not hurt? A feeling of awe and power to know that I could bring on such an intense experience. Was it pleasure or pure relief that caused him to cry out at the last moment? An incredible sound!

All those thoughts disappeared as I felt the warm wetness spreading across my stomach. Five to ten cc's of fluid the textbook had said. This felt like much more. Once again romance collided with reality. This was . . . messy!

He collapsed on me, breathing raggedly in my ear. I lay there, suffocated by the dead weight of his body, wondering what I was supposed to do now. Just when I thought I was going to have to push him off or suffer brain damage from lack of oxygen, he stirred. He shifted position, kissing my neck and working his way to my mouth. I could breathe again and I could have enjoyed the sweet gentleness of his kisses more if I hadn't been worrying about how to handle the fact that as soon as he rolled off I was going to have to do something about all that wetness.

I had no idea what good manners called for in this situation. Emily Post had never addressed this. Or maybe she had. "The well brought up young woman carries a clean linen handkerchief at all times."

When he rolled off, I just lay there. The sheets had long since been pushed to the foot of the bed and I couldn't even cover myself.

"Ach," Paul said, looking down at himself. An echo of movie dialogue ran through my head: "I'm all sticky!" I heard it so clearly I wasn't sure for a moment if he said or I had just thought it. He sat up, reaching for the sheet, swiped at his stomach and then turned to me. He must have seen something of my embarrassment in my expression because he looked a little subdued and thoughtful as he tugged more of the sheet up and handed it to me.

"You've have never done any of this before, have you?" he asked softly as he watched me awkwardly trying to blot up the thick wetness with a non-absorbant sheet.

"No."

"I'm, sorry. I shouldn't have . . ."

"It's ok! I just didn't know . . ."

"What?"

"How wet this whole process is!"

That got his smile back. "Being wet and slippery is half the fun," he said and began to fingerpaint on my stomach! I watched, embarrassment slipping away.

"Well, I'll never look at whipped egg whites the same way again!" I giggled.

He burst out laughing and took the sheet from me, gently wiping my stomach. When he lay down again, he put his arm around me and pulled me close, my head on his shoulder. I snuggled against him, thinking I had never felt so physically relaxed and mentally high in my entire life. I nuzzled up to kiss his neck.

"Now who is your favorite Beatle?" he asked.

"John Lennon," I answered promptly.

He gave me a look of exaggerated dismay.

"You'll just have to settle for being the one I want most," I consoled him, kissing him again.

"That's better anyway," he said and we settled down for a few minutes of gentle kissing and soft touching.

"Is it always . . . like that?" I asked.

"It is never the same twice, really," he answered after giving it a bit of thought. "And it is even better when you don't have to be careful. Still wet, mind you, but better!"

"Better? I can't imagine it," I said, and he laughed. His laughter embarrassed me a little because I realized that he no doubt meant it was better for the guy if he really got to "do it".

"I mean, I know it would have been better for you if . . ." and I ran out words.

"No, Tess. Not just for me. For both of us. You'll see. And don't think this wasn't enough for me. Don't ever think that. Just touching you, watching you, that is enough for now." His voice was husky and he was kissing me again.

"Remember that first morning at the hotel when you came out of the shower wearing John's shirt?"

I nodded.

"I took one look at you, standing there in the sunlight . . . my knees went weak." He laughed a little. "I haven't felt like that since I was fifteen. I've wanted you ever since. I can wait a little longer."

I didn't know what to say. I had thought he just didn't recognize me! "I wanted you before I ever even saw you." I told him. "That first day there in the hotel, in the big dining room. You walked up behind me and put your hand on my shoulder and leaned against me. I had never, ever felt what I felt when you touched me. I never imagined what it could lead to."

He smiled and ran his hands over me. "It lead to this." He slid his hand between my legs. "And this. And more . . . one of these days." He took his hand away and I sighed with disappointment. He grinned at that. "I take it you enjoyed this evening?" he teased.

"It was . . . incredible," I whispered.

"And sticky. Come on. I'll run a bath."

He got up and headed into the bathroom and I rolled out of bed, but even after the intimacies just experienced, I had to grab the sheet and wrap it around me before following him. Bathing with Paul was another discovery; a bath was not an exercise in cleanliness but a sensual pleasure. A long soak in the tub, his hands gently, almost absent mindedly touching me as I lay back in his arms, slippery with soap. His soap. A blend of herbs and lavender, distinctive, but still masculine. It was a scent that clung to him but was perceptible only at very close range, as when my face was buried against his neck. I'd never forget that scent now, and tonight would have a sample of it to carry away on my skin.

He asked if I had a boyfriend back home.

"You're asking that now?" I laughed. "Seems like the kind of question you'd ask before you take a girl to bed!"

"I thought you took me to bed!" he said pretending to be shocked at the idea of his initiating such a thing.

"Well, yeah. I guess I might have given the impression I wanted you." I teased.

"I feel so cheap!" he teased. "You won't respect me now!"

That hit a sensitive note. I suppose I should have been concerned about him losing respect for me but I really didn't even consider that. What hit me was that this was so backwards from the usual situation. Although I hadn't thought of it in those terms, I was just playing around, having fun. My wild summer vacation. My summer to remember. I was using him! Subdued, I said seriously, "It is weird to think of a girl doing that to a guy. Its always the guy who just wants to have sex, but that is what I'm doing isn't it? Making you my summer fling. I'm sorry."

There was a long silence and I wondered what he could be thinking, then he started to laugh. I sat up and turned around to look at him. I couldn't help but laugh with him.

"I guess the idea of any red-blooded male being upset at being used for sex is ridiculous!"

"It's more than that, luv," he laughed. "This whole thing is so backward. I have managed to get a reputation for using girls. Now I am being used. You said I am the one afraid to get close, but you are the one talking about a summer fling! If that isn't loony enough, I have finally gotten used to the idea that birds think I am something incredible -- Beatle Paul, the best catch in the world -- and you reel me in and then tell me you are throwing me back!"

"I'm not throwing you back, I'm setting you free!" I said, laughing with him. "Just like letting a bird out a cage. I'm being noble, releasing you from a life of serving my sexual needs!"

He laughed again as he pulled me back into his arms. "But I like that idea! I think I can handle a few weeks of meeting those needs." He kissed my neck, sliding his hands up to my breasts and generally behaving in a way that guaranteed I would have needs.

"You'd better," I murmured, turning to kiss his neck, looking for that soft, tender spot under his chin that needed kissing. "It's all your fault. I never had these needs until I met you!"

He paused. "So back to the boyfriend issue. There really isn't one?"

"No."

"But you have had?"

"Oh, yes. Of course." I thought for a moment about embellishing my past to make him jealous or at least to make it interesting, but that was silly. He knew better than anyone how inexperienced I was. So, I told him about the few boyfriends I'd had. My first date, first kiss, first make-out session in the back seat of a car at the drive-in. The boy I dated the summer after graduation, the petting sessions that left me feeling guilty about my impure thoughts and deeds but not so guilty as to dampen my enthusiasm for the next opportunity. I told him about the sparse parade of dates in the last couple of years as I worked my butt off to stay in school and how they either yeilded polite unsatisfying kisses at the door or wrestling matches. Guys didn't seem to have a middle ground.

He listened, laughing at times, and then asked, suddenly serious, "So why now? In a few days you are going to give me what you never gave any of them. Why now? Why me?"

Well, it was a logical question. One I had already asked myself. "If you are asking if it is because you are one of the Beatles, well . . . if all I wanted was to . . . to screw a Beatle, I probably could have done that back at the hotel," I told him. "John couldn't have defended himself!"

"Wouldn't have," he corrected with a laugh. "So why me?"

"Because you are gorgeous. Sexy. Irresistible." He blushed, actually turned pink. It was my turn to laugh at him. "And because you are nice, and interesting and fun to be with. That sounds so . . . I dunno . . . inadequate. I know lots of nice, fun guys and I never wanted to . . . Well, I guess I don't really know why I want to do it with you anymore than I know why green is my favorite color or why I only like chocolate ice cream and no other flavor. You are just the one I want even if the time and the place is all wrong."

"Wrong?" He sounded startled and I thought -- or wanted to believe -- a little dismayed.

"OK, maybe not wrong. I don't know how to explain it . . . It is sort of . . . just not real. This whole trip is a fantasy, a fairy tale. YOU aren't real. Maybe that's why I want to do it. Because this is all a dream. Nothing I do here counts as part of my real life. In a few weeks I'll wake up and go back home, finish school, live a normal life. This will just be a beautiful once upon a time story."

He was quiet for a minute, then picked up the soap and began lathering my back. He did it so casually that I was sharply reminded that this was nothing new to him. I had a vivid image of him in this same tub washing Jane's back. Or Ellen's. Or the owner of the pink bathrobe.

"So that is all you want from me?" he asked, jolting me back.

It sounded like a loaded question. He still wasn't sure of me. "That's all I want," I reassured him. It seemed to do the trick. Instead of answering me, he began slowly lathering my chest, caressing my slippery body and giving me another memory to take home.

After a while we both decided we were hungry. He suggested a small restaurant he knew where the manager would let us use a little private dining room. He got out of the tub, toweling off unselfconsciously. I hesitated. He noticed and with no comment, he opened up a towel and held it out for me, wrapping it around me as I stood up. He smiled at me and went out into the bedroom as I dried off. With the towel around me, I went out to get my clothes and took them back into the bathroom. I got dressed and moved over to the mirror to brush out my hair. As I picked up the brush, I noticed a tube of lipstick on the counter. I smiled, wondering which girl had left it behind, then noticed a powder compact and a trace of loose powder spilled beside it. Paul had said something the night of the party about Mrs. Grady's cleaning schedule. Someone had spilled an ashtray in the music room and Paul remarked that unless he cleaned it up, it would stay until the next Friday when the housekeeper did the upstairs. Whoever the makeup belonged to had been here last night . . . or this morning.

That brought me down to earth quickly. As wonderful as tonight was for me, it was the routine for Paul. I had set the ground rules. Sex with no strings attached. No matter how he made me feel, I had better not forget that was all it was for him. As if to prove that I could handle this, I used whoever's powder before I went out to rejoin Paul.

Gatebirds were waiting as we pulled out of his driveway, another reminder of who I was with. I sat with the tape recorder and notebook on my lap, as if the girls would look in the car and recognize that I had a business reason for being with him.

The manager at the restaurant seemed to know Paul -- and his dates. He smiled a smile that said "Well, well, well. A new face," but said nothing as he escorted us to the private dining room. The waitress looked me over carefully as if she were solely responsible for seeing to it that Paul McCartney only dated the best. I was grateful for the fact that the room was dimly lit. The only makeup I had on was whoever's powder. My hair was a little wild, and my yellow dress was a little rumpled. I hadn't exactly taken the time to hang it up and linen was rather unforgiving of such treatment.

After she left I looked up to see that Paul was grinning at me. "I don't think I passed her inspection," I said.

"Passed mine," he said. "She is probably out there telling everyone we just got out of bed."

"Oh, God. Do I look that bad?"

"You look that good," he said.

Over dinner we talked the way we had before all the stuff about the articles had come between us, and there were only a couple of times when it seemed he hesitated, held back. I didn't push it. Whatever he was comfortable with was fine with me. After dinner he asked me to go back to his place for the night. I hesitated. "I have to be careful, Paul. If anyone sees me going to your place at this hour. . . If reporters start talking about us . . ."

"You don't want anyone to know about us?" he asked.

"I guess not," I said, a little surprised as I realized just how much I didn't want anyone to know. "I just don't want to deal with reporters. I want to be with you as much as I can but I don't want people to think that I . . . that we. . ."

"We haven't, technically," Paul pointed out with a grin.

I had to laugh. "True, but everyone will think so. I just don't want the whole world watching. And I sure don't want my mom to find out!"

"Then I guess I won't ask you to get your stuff from John's and stay with me."

I caught my breath. Thoughts of spilled powder and a pink bathrobe were pushed aside by the thought of spending nights in his bed. As tempting as that was, this was happening too fast. I simply couldn't make the leap from virgin to shacking up that quickly.

"I can't. I really can't," I told him. Let him think I was afraid of publicity. "I would like to, but --"

"No. You are right. It would be impossible to keep quiet."

"It's not just that," I admitted. I didn't want him to think that I didn't want him enough to risk some talk. "I want to be with you, but I am just not ready for that."

He reached across the table to take my hand. "It's OK, Tess." He was grinning at me. "Even though it is unheard of for a bird to resist ‘The Cute One,' -- Parliament passed a decree you know -- I can handle rejection."

We drove slowly back to John's in a typical London drizzle. John and Cyn had gone over to Ringo's for the evening and Mrs. Powell was there. We watched TV with her for a bit, but she soon excused herself and went off to bed. Curled up on the sofa together soon deteriorated to stretched out side by side, hands roaming in unhurried caressess. Unhurried but definitely with a goal in mind on Paul's part. Once again he started to unzip that yellow dress and once again I stopped him.

"John and Cyn could be back anytime."

"Upstairs then," he said. It wasn't a question or a demand, just an assumption.

He was right in assuming I wanted to but . . . "Mrs. Powell's room is right next to mine. She leaves her door open so she can hear Julian and she reads for a long time before she goes to sleep." I don't know why I cared what Cyn's mother thought about me but getting caught was getting caught no matter whose mother it was, I guess.

Paul didn't seem more than a little surprised at my sudden attack of propriety. He argued laughingly that I was being a tease.

"I don't mean to tease," I apologized. "I want this too, but we just can't . . ."

"I know. Are you free tomorrow?"

Free? Nothing short of needing life saving surgery would have stood a chance. "Yes!"

"Good. I'm free. We can spend the whole day together. Maybe do a little sightseeing?"

I could feel my eyes widen with surprise. Paul laughed. "OK. We can do the "Just Sex" thing and throw in a bit of sightseeing. But don't you be using your feminine wiles on me to make it more. Sex and sightseeing. That's all it will be. Well, maybe dinner."

All this was punctuated with kisses, each growing longer. "Maybe a movie. But that will be the extent of it. Maybe some shopping some day. But nothing more, you understand." More kisses. "Maybe a few hours each day just holding you and talking to you. But that is it, I tell you!"

"That is more than enough," I whispered through the kisses.

Once in bed that night I tried hard not to think. I had thought that the hour in his bed was an incredible, earth shattering turning point. It was, but in retrospect, I think that evening of dinner and TV probably is what sealed my fate. We talked, and laughed, and were together and it felt so right, so comfortable, so promising, so meant to be. "Don't do this," the voice in my head warned. "Just go to sleep, don't think about today, don't think about Paul, don't think about what he did to you, don't think about how it felt, and don't, no matter what, don't think about how you feel about him." As I drifted into sleep I knew that in the morning I would have to face the facts. I had decided to have sex with this man, to let him be the first, knowing full well I would never see him again after this summer. If that was foolish, then falling in love with him was beyond any reason and that is exactly what was happening.

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since 01/02/03