Caution: Lewdness afoot.

Project PANDORA
Continued from: Wayback Machine.

One week after I first met The Interpreter, six days after I'd really met her & ended the evening by making out with her in the parking lot in a downpour, I followed the internet-derived driving directions to her basement apartment (not quite remembering how to get there from the previous Sunday), parked Lumi the Snow Queen, & knocked on her screen door. The main door behind the screen was already open & I heard her shout, "Come in" from somewhere around the bend of the descending stairs. I set my hat upon a convenient piece of counter top, we exchanged, & I kissed her hello. Her eyes acquired a dreamy look I'd soon come to recognize as their habitual reaction to being kissed. She removed a goodly number of assorted containers from her refrigerator & set about making our dinner, a pair of miniscule, personal-sized pizzas. We bantered throughout the preparation & cooking. As we kissed, separated by the high, narrow counter upon which I'd set my hat, she suddenly but slowly pulled back & said she needed to tell me something; from her tone, I know nothing good was to follow. At some point in the recent past, she'd had a liaison with The Braggart. I gather there was no intercourse, but in truth, as I told her, I didn't want to know what she'd done before we'd even met; 'twas none of my affair & none of my concern. She asked if I now thought she was repellent. I said that I'd show her what I thought of her, & kissed her. (The kiss was a white lie, because who in her right mind would have a tryst with The Braggart?! A seed of trouble was planted, though not what you're thinking.) We then sat down to our meager, Weight Watchers points-friendly meal. She laughed, I laughed, & we found each other very amusing. We repaired to the couch, talked, laughed, & made out. As the hour grew late, I prepared to take my leave. She said she wasn't going to screw me (she used the more polite euphemism "sleep with"), but asked me to spend the night in her bed. I demurred, kissed her good night, & went out into the cool night air.

We exchanged text messages throughout the weekend & made plans to get together on Monday. I was to leave for Oregon on the following Wednesday, & this would be our last chance to see each other for a week. Events unfolded much as they had on the preceding Thursday, except that our dinner was fish tacos. I'd never before had a fish taco, always regarding that combination of words with, frankly, dread. A fish taco? That seemed like asking for trouble. I've never like tilapia, & the fish tacos did nothing to change my mind. I was eating tacos, but there was a flavorless void where the ground beef or chicken was supposed to be. Nevertheless, I was thankful for the meal, as I am for any meal I needn't prepare myself. We sat on her couch & snuggled for a spell, until she suggest we play Uno—strip Uno. She'd mentioned this earlier in a text message & I was prepared for the eventuality. The worst past of the novel Moonraker is an exhaustive, trick-by-trick account of a game of contract bridge between James Bond & the villain, Sir Hugo Drax; I'll spare you that. She won & some of my clothes came off. I won & some of her clothes came off. She won the tiebreaker, we made out a bit, & then she took me by the hand & led me into her bedroom. As we laid there in each others arms, she asked me how many girls I'd screwed. I answered her, "Zero." In our various conversations she'd expressed some amazement at my almost complete lack of relationship experience, questioning & probing how many girlfleshes I'd had & how long those relationships had endured, but at no point did I lie to her about sex. She never asked if I abstain from premarital sex; I never volunteered that I do. We talked & kissed & cuddled for a spell, & she asked me to stay the night, stating her desire to wake up next to me. I did indeed have a very trying day awaiting me upon the next morn; so, again I demurred. We got dressed & said our good-byes, & I went out into the night, back to mine own bedchamber.

I can't recall precisely how it got started, but by this time The Interpreter & I had fallen into the habit of exchanging "good morning" text messages at approximately 8:20 A.M. More often then not, these texts found me still in bed but awake, going through the laborious process of getting up. This ritual was both a pleasing & an annoying way to start the day, but if Project PANDORA is ever to get anywhere my cherished (& by the same token, stifling) routine will have to suffer some disruption; there are worse things than the apple cart behind upset. I was fun & flirty in our texts, always mindful that my innuendo didn't go so far that my ego was writing cheques my body couldn't cash. But I was soon to depart for the West Coast, for the Pacific Time Zone, & 8:20 A.M. texts from The Interpreter would reach me at a decidedly unpleasing & definitely annoying 5:20 A.M.; so, for the duration of my trip I would be the one to initiate all text messaging. I'd be busy & otherwise engaged much of the time, but I told her I'd text when I could, to tell her about my day & inquire about hers. We exchanged texts, but far less frequently than we had been to that point. Several factors contributed to this: one, when I travel I am truly away from my life. All of my usual routines go out the window or are substituted with new & different rituals. Two, out of sight, out of mind; inevitably, when there was no chance to see her, no chance to pop up to her office on campus & steal a moment with her, she just couldn't occupy the same place in my thoughts. Three, & perhaps most significantly, The Interpreter was simply outshone by the brilliance that is Comrade Coquettish, with whom I spent every available moment whilst in her adopted hometown of Salem, Oregon. I've reveled in the splendiferous company of Comrade Coquettish on four occasions; based on the ratio of time spent together to fondness, she is possibly my favorite person in all the world. Fond as I'd grown of The Interpreter, what chance has a single candle against all the radiance of the sun?

I returned to sacred Michigan on Tax Day, a Monday, having been "on the road" since the previous Wednesday. There was no time to catch my breath, time & tide waiting for no man. I saw The Interpreter only briefly on that Tuesday, & spent my evening being initiated into the Knights of Columbus (Wayback Machine). When I embraced The Interpreter on Wednesday it was evident that we'd missed each other in the week-plus we'd been part. We passed a lovely evening together, cuddling as we watched, via D.V.D. multiple episodes of The Big Bang Theory, which The Interpreter was very insistent that I must see. Perhaps because I am a nerd, she thought the show would have some special resonance with me? Perhaps she's just inordinately fond of a mediocre situation comedy? (I am an unrepentant snob, if this had somehow escaped your attention.) The hour grew late & we retired to her bedroom, & to her bed. For the first time in my life, I spend the night in the bed of a paramour. We kissed & cuddled & snuggled under the blankets whilst a fan turned to make such heavy bed coverings bearable. The pillows upon which my head was to rest were insufficient, but it must also be noticed that I like my pillows uncommonly hard & piled uncommonly high; I bear no ill will to any bed unequipped to deal with this idiosyncrasy. The low point of the night was when The Interpreter decided to test or ignore the rules & attempted to fellate me; physical intercession was necessary to thwart her ambition, & only in the nick of time was my virtue, such as it is, preserved. We continued to fool around, & soon put behind us that unpleasant business. All in all, 'twas a joy to be in her bed, & to have her in my arms.

We kept each other awake far too long into the wee hours of the morning, & I spend a restless night, awakened by my awkward position in the unfamiliar bed, & by the incessant circling of The Interpreter's incredibly irritating cats. (She has two, the maximum permitted 'fore one becomes a "crazy cat lady.") The early alarm necessary for her to be at work by 8:00 A.M. came at its appointed time, as necessary & unwelcome as the crowing cockerel. I slumbered as she showered, then we dressed, bade each other a fond farewell, & went our separate ways. The drive of shame? I returned home Thursday morning in the same clothes as when I'd left the previous Wednesday morning, a novelty in my experience. I ate my usual breakfast, then repaired to my bed for a rare & invaluable nap. I met The Interpreter after work on Friday, for drinks at her favorite public house, Churchill's. I appreciate the Winston Churchill quotes spread throughout the interior of Churchill's, but little else about the establishment recommends it; mine own preference is for The Torch, & not just for the "Torchburgers." Still, better Churchill's than that den of iniquity, The Loft. The evening was derailed when The Interpreter imbibed too much (Wayback Machine), but aside from that wrinkle the time we'd spent together since my return from Oregon filled me with joy. We'd not had "the talk" about the status of our relationship, but I liked spending time with her, she liked spending time with me, & I liked that she liked spending time with me. We had a good thing going. The anticipation of the previous "Project PANDORA" post had come up trumps, I'd experienced new & exciting milestones in my greatly retarded development, & a new highpoint had been reached in the history of Project PANDORA. Valuable data were being accumulated &, what's more, being with The Interpreter made me happy; not that I'm normally unhappy, but happy in a new & interesting way.

To quote Robert Browning, "God's in His heaven—/All's right with the world!"

To be continued…

The Rebel Black Dot Song of the Day
Robbie Williams, "One For My Baby" from Swing When You're Winning (T.L.A.M.)

Commentary: "Just make it one for my baby, and one more for the road."