We chatted for a little while about the music—we both stopped to listen to the silvery flute ascent and descent, a magical, simple motif, and argued whether that, or the violin solo that represented Scheherazade’s voice, or the push and pull of the waves, was the most spine-chilling part of the work.
“Have you read The Arabian Nights?” he asked. “No? Oh, it’s a marvelous thing, Jo. Stories within stories within stories, like a maze. Sexy, too, although translators censored it, until the most recent editions.”
As he spoke, I tried to place his accent. Boston or possibly someone who’d once lived in England; he had that clipped precision and diction of a Boston blue blood … some of the time.
A pause, and the sound of movement. “Sorry. I’m putting another log on the fire. It’s chilly tonight.”
“I bet the aspens are pretty from up there.”
He chuckled. He wasn’t to be caught that easily. “Yes, I believe you said during the last break that they would be peaking. Nice try. How are you? I hope that bastard Hugh hasn’t been giving you any grief.”
I told him the story of Hugh’s visit and the leprechaun invasion, or at least a censored version—I used the term in flagrante… and heard him laugh with pure delight.
“How long do you think he’d been watching?”
“I don’t know. It could have been from the beginning.”
“Would you have liked him to watch?”
“I don’t know.” I lay back in my chair and watched the sound waves break and dance. We were moving into new territory here. We’d flirted, we’d talked about past relationships, but this—this was getting … well, kinky.
I cleared my throat and attempted to sound dispassionate. “Do you mean would I have liked to have known he was watching, or would I have liked to have found out afterward that he had watched? Oh. Damn. Mr. D., I have to go. Give me twenty.”
Mr. D. I called him that after I’d tried to find out more about him and he’d hinted he was quite a bit older than me (“Decades, my dear. Don’t ask.” I wasn’t sure whether I believed him) and old school. He called me Miss Hutchinson for at least the first dozen calls. It did sound sort of perverted to me—like I was letting him tie me up and spank me or something, or I was wearing a maid’s uniform, or both, but I liked that formality, the Mr. Rochester/Miss Eyre suggestiveness. I knew he was in the station broadcast area, somewhere, and a substantial donor to the station, but through a foundation. I loved his voice, the way he talked about books he’d read and places he’d traveled to and the joy when we found an author we both liked. We shared a passion for mountains, for high, remote places.
For the past six months, as Hugh and I began that painful slide away from each other, Mr. D. had been a constant. A friend. Someone I could tell anything.
There was the possibility we might both disappoint each other if we met. That this relationship could only exist at a distance while we both polished who we wanted to be. And yet he made me yearn for what I didn’t have—adventure, new experiences, the desire to become a sort of modern, land-bound female Sinbad, exploring and learning that one story could lead to another and another.
On the air again, with the pulsing red light outside the studio casting a warm blush into the studio through the glass window, I repeated the information about the last recording, and what we were to hear next, time and temperature … Hope your evening is going well. A little later, we’ll hear music written to put its patron to sleep, Bach’s Goldberg Variations in their entirety, but leading us up to that, a short piece by Stravinsky …
The next time the red light turned on, it was one in the morning. I talked briefly about the national morning news show, which we would interrupt a few times an hour with local news and weather. I hoped that those awake now—lonely lovers, people with insomnia or babies, or students with examinations to study for—would be asleep in four hours when the news began.
The Bach began—music to put you to sleep, but music that had always made me want to get up and dance.
The phone rang right on time.
“Forty minutes of genius and you,” Mr. D. said. “Where were we? Ah, yes. Him watching.”
“I don’t know that he would have found it that sexy.”
“Oh, he would have.”
“Do you like to watch people fuck?” Well, that put us clearly into the sexual, and I was the one who’d asked.
Mr. D., with his usual mastery of deflecting questions, chuckled. “Merry Christmas.” A pause. “I presume you’ve changed your underwear. Tell me about it.”
“You want me to tell you what I’m wearing?” I was surprised. That seemed a little unsophisticated, not what I would have expected from Mr. D. I wondered if he’d jerked off already and was looking for a quick arousal. I was almost shocked, although our increasing intimacy, our shared secrets, our stories, our mutual voyage, had led us here. I knew also, without either of us having to say anything, that we could back off from this awkward moment, and return to our usual friendly banter. Back to the familiar port as if we had never even started our journey.
“I believe it’s a standard approach,” he said.
A standard approach. “That’s one way to describe it.”
He said, his voice hesitant, “I’ve never done this before. I’m embarrassed, to be honest.”
So was I. I was also turned on, wild and slightly frightened, my hands cold, a little sweat on my forehead. I pressed the speakerphone button and laid the phone in its cradle. “Okay. It’s okay. I’m wearing a black T-shirt. Was. I’ve taken it off. My skin looks very pale because it’s almost dark in here. My jeans, now. Can you hear the zipper? I never wear shoes in the studio, and now I’m pushing my jeans down, and they’re off.”
“I can hear the sound of the denim rustling. But denim doesn’t rustle, does it? I can’t think of the right word.”
“I’m wearing red lace underwear.”
“The truth, Jo. Don’t humor me.” He sounded stern and sad. “I know men are all alike but … please, be honest.”
Tears pricked my eyes. “I am telling you the truth.” I swallowed. I sounded like a scolded child. “I—I always wear nice underwear for you. I want you to want me.”
“Always?”
“Since, oh, the first couple of times we talked. When I realized that you wouldn’t tell me who you are. It was all I could give you.”
“I’m sorry. Thank you. That’s an extraordinarily generous gesture.” His voice was even deeper, slower. “Tell me about this red lace underwear.”
“The bra is a half cup. My nipples are hard. I’m touching them.” I winced. I didn’t want to sound like a hooker but I didn’t know what I should say.
“Go on.”
“The panties … they’re called boy panties—you know what they are? They have little legs, and they come up to just below my navel. Even so, you can see a bit of hair curling out at the top of my thighs. And you can see my pubic hair through them, because they’re lace.”
“Your pubic hair must be dark. I’ve seen your picture on the station website.”
I giggled. “That picture doesn’t show my pubic hair.”
He laughed, too, and for a moment we were comfortable together. “I’ve imagined it. You look bright and intelligent and lively in that picture. And sensual. A smallish, slender woman, that’s how I see you—quite athletic, from riding your bike. What color are your eyes?”
“I’m