Body Wisdom
&
Uncompromising Portraits
by Lizbeth Dusseau
ISBN: 978-1-938897-53-5
A Pink Flamingo Ebook Publication
Copyright © 2014, All rights reserved
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Body Wisdom
Chapter One
I think I noticed the bare feet first. He didn’t bother wearing shoes inside or out. The odd shop he owned was just up the street from the library where I shuffled books around and dreamed of writing one myself someday.
I just stared at his feet when I first saw them.
“Can I help you?” I heard him say.
Startled, I looked up and saw his face. Everything about him was unremarkable, from the bare feet, plain blue jeans and faded blue sweatshirt, to his pleasant bearded face and the long brown hair he tied in a simple ponytail. Everything was unremarkable but his eyes, and those were stunning, filled with a odd light that was earthy and ethereal at the same time. I’d never seen any eyes quite like his.
“Help me?” I was just a little flustered. “I guess I’m just browsing.”
“If there’s anything I can help you find . . .” he said.
“Thank you.” I nodded and smiled pleasantly.
I figured him for nearly thirty, though there was a certain agelessness about him. I think it was the beard that suggested he was far beyond youth. I noticed then how his body moved gracefully, as if he was one with the ground, attached by some cosmic force. It was an odd thought for me; I’m not given to seeing cosmic forces in people. I wondered if perhaps it was just the music playing in the background of the shop, something so resonant and calming that I felt swept into a strange altered state.
He went back to sweeping leaves out the back door, as I continued to inspect the shop.
I knew very little about the barefoot proprietor, except that he’d taken over the old stone cottage where there was an enormous garden behind. I suppose he sold things he loved, because the shop had that kind of look to it. Everything seemed tied to some general theme, though that theme eluded me. There was handmade pottery, plants, incense, books on Tai Chi, wild flower seeds, dried flowers, baskets, and CD’s of music with strange sounding names and curious pictures on their covers. In every corner I found something to be amazed at. All together in one place, I wondered what inspired this man. What was inside him to create this distinctive blend?
The shop made great sense in a quaint resort town like Shelter Bay, where artists and their patrons flock to do business. The town had attracted me, though I was hardly an artist. At least I’ve never thought of myself that way, in spite of the arty things I often did.
I poked about the shop for at least a half hour, and then noticing the clock, I was about to leave, my lunch time over.
“You’re the librarian, aren’t you?” he said, as I was moving to the front door. I was surprised by his voice, and the way it caressed me with its gentle resonant tone. I turned to see his warm smile.
He moved toward me, and reached out to pull a lock of my hair off my face as if it was bothering me. Such a familiar gesture for a stranger. And yet, it was done so honestly, I was awed by the tenderness that passed between us with the simple act. “I just wanted to see your eyes better,” he explained.
“That makes sense,” I said without thinking.
“Why’s that?” he asked curiously.
“Because yours are . . . “ I paused, thinking how foolish this must sound. “Your eyes are startling.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment,” he returned.
“Please do.” I waited for him to say something in the awkward moment that followed, but he just stared at me. Only once in a while am I taken so off guard by a man, and this one had me totally dazed. “Yes, I work at the library,” I told him.
He nodded, and I remember thinking as I slipped out the door, how much I’d like to sit and gaze at his face for hours.
There was a fluttering in my tummy and a burning sensation between my legs, whenever my mind wandered back to him. I sat on my stool at the library pressing myself into the cushion, squirming all afternoon. The picture of his face kept reappearing in my mind, that smile, those eyes, his hand with its simple caress. I could almost feel it again against my face.
By four thirty, I thought my body was going to burst apart. I locked the door of the library nearly ten minutes before the hour, not really caring that I was closing early. I had to get home. I might have walked by the cottage, but I avoided that. A strange obsession gripped me, so that I’m sure if I’d seen him, I would have blushed madly, and trembled, and said something completely stupid.
Why was I, now in my late thirties, having such thoughts for a man at least seven years my junior? I had resolved sometime ago, that I needed an older man, someone, graying, mature and stable, even though that sounded rather boring. Here was an artist/potter/landscaper, a latter day barefoot hippie, and my skin was crawling, my body ready to jump from its boundaries.
At home I looked in the mirror at my eyes and the tiny crows feet around them; and at all the other imperfections I was so quick to find. They aren’t too bad I thought. I dye my short hair a soft reddish blonde, and it looks stylish. I refuse to dress in “librarian” clothes. The long broomstick skirt did cover my legs; but the shimmery silk tank I wore with it was cut low enough that a sexy cleavage showed, for those that bothered to look.
I would often play a game with myself at the library, counting the men that noticed my chest when I was sitting on my stool at the front desk, and who would look down the front of my top when I leaned over. I had most of the men in Shelter Bay pegged as shameless voyeurs, though some were more direct than others with their gazing.
Now, even with my bra on, I could see my nipples poking softly through the silk fabric. I once claimed them my curse, though nipples are suppose to be in style now.
As I viewed my reflection, I pressed my hand to my groin and moved on it. I’d planned to talk myself out of this obsession with one look at myself in the mirror, seeing all the signs of age I always noticed so readily, glaring out at me. Yet, it didn’t turn out that way. The woman I saw reflected back was youthful, sensuous and aroused. The more I watched her move, the more she excited me.
I closed my eyes to imagine the young man approaching me from behind, with that smile and those eyes, with his hand reaching out to take charge of me and play with my heated body.
I slowly shed my clothes down to my cream colored panties and bra. The little lacy things made me look even better than I often imagine my body to be. What would my young man think if he was really here? My imagination was soaring. I could feel his hands on my breasts, fondling them with those decisive fingers. They would move to my abdomen, and then run between my legs. His hands would join mine playing there, where he’d rub me in the soft wet pink places, just as I rubbed myself. Those deft hands of his had a way of finding the most sensitive sexual spots, for I couldn’t imagine him as anything but a very skilled lover.
Even when I peeked out, opening my eyes to see my gently swaying form in the mirror, I thought I could see him behind me - the smile, the eyes, the compact muscled body I
imagined underneath his clothes. He moved against my back so I could feel his rising cock press against my rear end. The sensuous pulsing had the strangest effect. Darts of energy shot through me, where I could feel it deep between my legs, and in my cunt that pulsed madly with the provocative need quickly mounting.
When my head fell back, and fantasy fell away, I rocked against my hand, as a sharp grabbing jolt shook me. And then relaxing, it let go in a shower of sensations that poured from me, all around my body. I opened my eyes to see myself flushed, feeling almost as if I was floating, and then I collapsed back on my bed, letting the satin bedspread cool the heat.
I thought of him constantly. Daily he seemed to take up an ever present vigil in my mind. And I didn’t even know his name, until my girlfriend, Beth, stopping by the library answered my question.
“Oh, I know him, he’s Kurt Cezant. You don’t have your eye on him, do you?” she blurted out much too loudly for the library, except that I was used to her.
“No. I was just in his shop. It’s kind of interesting. Have you been there?”
“Yeah, he’s okay, a little earthy for me.”
“Yes, you like your men well washed,” I reminded her.
“And don’t you?”
“Depends. I’m not being choosy right now,” I said.
“Not choosy, you? I didn’t think there was a man alive that could fit your picky qualifications.”
“I don’t really think it’s that. I’m just doing a lot of considering,” I told her, laughing.
“Well if Kurt Cezant is your choice, your tastes are certainly changing.”
“I didn’t say I was interested in him,” I replied defensively.
“You didn’t have to,” Beth replied with an all knowing tone to her voice.
When Beth left, I resumed my careful attention to Kurt’s picture in my head, thinking mostly of his eyes penetrating me as they had in the shop, his smile making my defenses melt, and his hands in small gesture raising my body heat with their touch. It was a common lust, because it couldn’t possibly be love. But I could accept that. I wasn’t sure I was even looking for love, coming off another relationship so recently. Todd had been gone three weeks, and I was happy about that. Still, I was getting horny.
I could kick myself for being so juvenile with a pattering heart, and so brazen with the throbbing between my legs. Even so, I refused to walk by his shop again, too afraid that this school girl crush would get the better of me, and I wouldn’t know how to handle myself.
***
It was nearly ten days later, as I was returning books to shelves in the back of the library, that I was shocked by the sound of a male voice drawing me from my work.
“Jessie.”
I turned around to find Kurt staring at me, and the books I was carrying suddenly landed on the floor.
“I’m sorry,” he said calmly, “I must have startled you.” He squatted down to pick up the books before I could.
“I’ve been a little jumpy today,” I attempted to explain myself. “Is there something I can help you with?” He was smiling, looking as if he was making certain that I was all right.
“Yes, I’d like to find these if you have them?” He handed me a slip of paper.
They were titles on horticulture.
Composing myself, I led him toward the stacks feeling his presence within my space with every footfall behind me. This was really Kurt, not my imagination playing with my mind. Though now he was wearing tennis shoes, while I still imagined him barefoot. I stared at his feet long enough for the fact to register, and I’m sure he noticed, although he said nothing.
Going back to my search, I found the books he wanted on the top shelf. Reaching up, his eyes followed my arms as I pulled them down. “You’re in luck,” I said, handing them to him.
“As lucky as I’ll be if I ask you to dinner?” he asked me, looking straight into my eyes.
I was so startled my mouth dropped open.
“I, ah . . . excuse me, this was unexpected.”
His smile was broad and his expressive eyes danced as he made a thorough examination of my blushing face.
“Sure, I guess,” I managed to stammer.
“Don’t guess, be definite,” he told me, like it was a gentle but firm command.
“Yes, I’d like that, very much,” I corrected myself.
“Good,” he answered. “Now, can I check these out?” He referred to the books in his hands.
We were standing so close to each other that it should have been uncomfortable, except that Kurt was so completely relaxed. There was no friendly conversation, just friendly smiles exchanged, and the arrangements for our date. It was an intimate exchange, even though we didn’t touch.
“Tomorrow?” he asked.
“Sure.”
“I’ll pick you up here, or at home?”
“How about at home, about six,” I suggested, restoring a degree of maturity to my manner, though my heart was still fluttering, and my crotch was throbbing. I figured I’d be home masturbating minutes after crossing my doorstep. What else would I do for twenty four hours, but sweat this out, wondering what a fool I’d make of myself on a date with such a younger man?
Kurt was on my doorstep promptly at six the next night, with a small bouquet of blue, white and yellow flowers in his hand.
“You were looking at them,” he explained as he handed them to me. His masculine touch seemed a little odd with the delicate flowers in his earthy hands. I took them from him, and invited him inside.
“These are beautiful,” I said, smelling the lovely frangrance.
“You might want to put them in water,” he suggested. “Wildflowers never last very long.”
“Yes, you’re right,” I said. I was in awe of him, but I didn’t know why. “Would you like some wine?”
“Do you have any beer?” he asked.
“Sure.” I was quickly on my way to the kitchen for the flowers, the beer, and my own sanity. I had to find it before it ran away on me. When I finally returned, I sat down across from him and a prickly silence followed.
“You’re uncomfortable with me, why?” he finally asked, as I attentively watched him drink his beer.
His directness surprised me, but it was certainly a reasonable question. Obviously my discomfort showed. “I don’t know why, but you’re right, you do make me nervous. Perhaps it’s the difference in our ages.”
“That bothers you?” he wondered.
“I don’t know. I’m used to dating men older than me . . . .” I couldn’t quite explain what I was feeling. “It doesn’t bother you?”
“I wouldn’t have asked you out if it had.” He finished the beer quickly, stood up, and reached down to grab my hand. “We’re going up the coast the Crab House,” he announced. I breathed a sigh of relief as he led me out the door, glad to finally be getting this awkward date underway.
During dinner, we talked about the library, the politics in Shelter Bay, his shop and why he had the eclectic blend of everything he loved inside. We talked about lots of other things that I don’t remember. I do remember how his eyes and smile bathed me in a sensuous cocoon. I think they left me hypnotized and unable to think, especially when there was a pause in the conversation. In the silence I felt self-conscious, the way he looked at me so earnestly. He took my hand once, and fondled it lightly, so it felt as if he was making love to me through the sensitive nerve endings there.
By the time we finished our meal, the sexual heat swimming through me was so intense, I wondered how I could keep myself from going to bed with him that night.
At my door, Kurt kissed me once, lingering a long time with his lips on my lips. I felt his hand on my thigh, and I wanted to squirm against it, but I found myself moving away. “I’m not ready for this, Kurt.”
“No?” He dropped his hand and backed away, leaving me disappointed that he didn’t keep going.
“I don’t think so,” I answered, rather haltingly. I knew I was giving him mixed mess
ages, but then my body and mind were giving me mixed messages too.
“I’d never push, you just looked interested,” he commented.
“I am, but this is a first date.”
He nodded as if he understood.
“How do I know if I can trust you?” I said, trying to justify my reasoning.
“You probably can’t,” he agreed with a whimsical grin.
I laughed. “You’re not helping me at all here.” If he’d just back away altogether, I wouldn’t have to make a choice, but he wasn’t doing that. His body standing so close to mine only made the choosing harder.
“What can I do to help?” he said lightly. “Promise you the sun, moon and stars?”
“I wouldn’t believe you if you did,” I said, amused by his wit.
“That’s good,” he said. “You know, you could go to bed with me on a lark, nothing serious, just for fun?” he suggested. He saw my puzzled expression, and gave me an understanding smile, taking my reluctance as a final “no”. “So, I’ll be going,” he said, with a smug knowing grin. “I can wait.” He leaned in to kiss me again, and I grabbed his hand.
“Why don’t you come in for a while?” I suggested.
I was making decisions rapidly, weighing evidence, considering possibilities, wondering what it would be like to screw him totally “on a lark.” No expectations, no strings, no worries, just good sex and nothing more. Maybe then, all this yearning for him would go away, and I’d stop obsessing. I could stop thinking of him day and night with his hands inside my pants.
Maybe I could be that impulsively reckless. Why did I have to be committed to him? I wasn’t sure I’d ever want a commitment with Kurt Cezant, but I did want to go to bed with him. I did want to feel his body as close as it had been, and closer still. And I certainly didn’t want to wait to try a real relationship only to find out that we really weren’t suited for each other. Then, my conscience wouldn’t let me have with sex with him at all. It may have been a strange system of rules I had for myself, but I was used to how they worked.
Kurt was reading my thoughts as I opened the door. “I won’t force myself on you, Jessie,” he reminded, as we stepped inside. I knew making that move was sealing my fate, and that pleased me.
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