was heading south. I didn't recall that particular technique from the manual, but it was an effective improvisation, because I was warming up. I informed her, "I'm not sure this is a good idea."
She observed, rightfully, "Your little friend seems to feel differently."
"Little?"
"Well . . . bless my stars . . . From an acorn to a mighty oak . . . you're-- Oh my . . . Water him and look what happens."
I laughed. I'm a sucker for precoital silliness.
She grabbed my arm, spun me around, and began soaping my back. It felt good. She began kneading and massaging my muscles; that felt even better. After a few moments of this, she mentioned, "You have a lot of scars."
"Well . . . I had an unpopular childhood."
"These look more recent."
"Exactly."
She laughed.
I reminded her, "Hey, aren't you a little engaged?"
She invoked those magical words--"Why don't you let me worry about that?"--and she spun me back around, handed me the bar of soap, and said, "Now do me."
Well, what could I say? No was an option--except reciprocity is the mark of a gentleman, so I spun her around and soaped and scrubbed her back. She arched up like a cat. Her skin was wonderfully smooth. And buttery.
For the next few moments neither of us spoke. The only sounds were water pelting off our bodies, and somebody seemed to be breathing heavily.
She turned around and stepped into me. "Now do my front."
I looked at the soap and then into her dark eyes. There's a big difference between the back and the front, and once we started this, well . . .
Actually, we already were well past the start line, and part of me was urging, very insistently, "Come on, Drummond. Bedwetting wimps quit. Look at that finish line--do this, Drummond. You can--you know you can . . ."
Another part of me was halfheartedly pumping the brakes.
Maybe casually tapping the pedal.
Bian sensed my reluctance and she stepped forward, rubbing her body against mine. "It's okay. Really."
I smiled, and she smiled back. She rubbed a little more.
So . . . here we were, headed toward no return.
And then . . . Well, then I did what no man should ever do. I asked myself the entirely irrelevant question: Why?
I knew a shrink would say this was a visceral, even predictable response to a mission that had been tense and dangerous. The human psyche gets wound up, and death and violence breed thoughts of procreation, which has something to do with sex. It's Freudian, or maybe French--inner peace through orgasm.
Also, aside from a few obviously minor idiosyncrasies--my occasional chauvinism, my pigheadedness, my faltering career--I am fairly irresistible. Women, after all, are willing to overlook a lot. Even my brother, who's a selfish, overbearing prick, always has a babe on his arm. I mean, I love the guy. I'm just not sure why.
Of course, he is stinking rich, with a huge house on a glorious bluff overlooking the Pacific Ocean. With women, that helps.
Bian rubbed a little more and said, "Excuse me, but I think I've made my intentions clear. It's your move."
Or was this plain and uncomplicated horniness? Maybe. But such impulsiveness seemed incongruous for a lady whose life and career were the embodiment of self-discipline. No . . . that just didn't wash, if you'll pardon the bad pun.
So, two possibilities. She was using her body to manipulate me, or she was making a huge emotional mistake, which was about to become my mistake.
Sex, in my experience, comes either at the start of a relationship, when intercourse is no more or less meaningful than a handshake--except nobody wakes up in the morning regretting a handshake. Or it is part of a ripening relationship, an acknowledgment of deepening affection, love, and commitment. Bian and I were more than acquaintances, and less than in love. In love and in battle, timing is everything; when the timing is off, what follows usually sucks.
I took a few deep breaths, stepped back, picked up the towel, and carefully draped it around her body. She looked surprised. "This is a joke, right?"
We stared into each other's eyes for a moment. I said, "Would you buy it if I told you I'd keep going if I didn't care about you?"
"That's . . . the stupidest thing I've ever heard."
"Right."
She looked away for a moment. "This is really humiliating. I'm throwing myself at you. I think you owe me a better explanation."
"Okay. I do owe you a better explanation," I agreed, trying