Waiting for her divorce, she had started to reshape her life. She had won a master’s fellowship in English with a tiny stipend, livable only if she scrimped. She was changing herself from the rigid, provincial girl she was to fit into the 1967 style, cutting her hair short and shaggy, buying a few mini dresses at discount to show herself off as modern. Not so old and so used-up as she felt then at 27.
She was alone for the first time. She had no friends yet. And she was hungry for affection. She let herself pose as if she were attractive. She threw her shoulders back, crossed her legs, and smiled. There were men around, professors and fellow students. One of the fellows, a thick Irish football coach and English teacher, teased her incessantly. Rough looking, he had the uncanny ability to see into the heart of a story and tell about it without the artifice of the new literary criticism jargon. He was a natural storyteller speaking in authentic words.
Late one afternoon, he stopped her as she was leaning provocatively against the door after their last seminar. “From the way you pose, it is clear that you don’t know a thing about sex. I bet you never even had an orgasm with a man. I can teach you. Your place or mine?”
She looked at him and then away. Blinking, she knew that he was right. She wondered if she had that much courage. And then in a single word, she changed her world: “Mine.”
She gave him her address with precise directions. They took off in separate cars. Scared, she drove directly to her tiny rented house. He arrived 20 minutes late, his face red and sweaty.
“Relationship lesson number one is caring about your friend. If only once you had looked back in your rear view mirror, you would have seen that I had a flat. So, next time, look.” She apologized and asked whether they should take off their clothes and go to bed.
“No, lesson number two is sitting with me here on your couch so we can let ourselves know each other.” She felt shame that she did not know even this. Then, after they were undressed, they climbed into her bed. He lay fully on top of her, his thighs against hers. She began to moan and twist.
“Lesson number three is to stop all this fake stuff. Stop it. Just lie still. Don’t do anything. When I touch you, just try to feel me and feel your own response. Wait for it. Don’t force it. Don’t try to please me. Look into my eyes. Stay with me. When you are ready, your body will know what to do. Trust it.”
It took time to stop herself from projecting what to do. It surprised her to be able to surrender to herself. But in a little while, she did and cried out. She learned what was fake and what was not. Then, he showed her the tell-tale rosy rash across a woman’s chest after orgasm. She realized that her old assumed behavior was so skimpy, so far away from the intensity of her senses in their new realm of real sex. She wept with gratitude. Whenever she passed by women leaning, posing, arching to be noticed, she remembered herself as she used to be and let her heart go out to them.