Finding Erin

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Ass

Part: The First

We met at one of her customary haunts, a busy little Brazilian place called Bossa Nova. From our table, conveniently located near the front entrance, the crowded market was in full view. Its customers busily scurried about in what seemed an existence parallel to, but absent chance of intersection with, our nearly motionless selves.

Upon arriving, I had thought that the clamor from the street which spilled into the restaurant each time the door swung open might prove too much of a distraction. But after a moment’s time, it all seemed to fade as my scrutiny of her striking appearance became a preoccupation and her soft but confident voice lured my attention away from the diversions of a world passing by.

Not surprisingly, she had almost instantly become anxious with the process and her delicate features were powerless to hide it. Having only formally met her moments before, I had already detected her tendency to fidget slightly when pressured.

It stood to reason. Relating the intimate details of her first sexual experience to a virtual unknown made her uneasy. It showed as the laser focus of her eyes wandered away from me, seeking solace elsewhere amidst the comfort of the strangers sitting all about.

Grasping her disquiet, I flipped back through several pages of illegible handwriting, pretending to be searching for some overlooked bit of scrawl. She waited uncomplainingly opposite me, displaying the courtesy I had come to admire about her; a civility which she had demonstrated during weeks of online interrogation about her sex life, driven by the Frankenstein monster which emerged every time my brain switched into writing mode.

The whole thing was embarrassing to her, which I understood. I wasn’t even sure exactly why she had allowed me to come to London to do the interview; why she had even shown up today and why she put up with my intrusiveness. But she had her reasons and I approached the venture based on a solitary notion; that she, like so many women was a penetration junkie, lured by the search but fearful of discovery.

She had considerable powers and used my eyes as a transom through which she probed my brain’s database for hidden clues as to my motive. She had to know if I was for real and used that incisive gaze as one might wield a saber against an intruder who ventured too closely to her secrets.

She was a perfect prospect really, a delicate combination of feminine intuition and physical beauty so uniquely Irish. With a retiring temperament and a virginal yet sizzling sexual bearing, she had limited experience in bed and with one foot still planted on the Emerald Isle, she seemed oddly out of place in the bustle of twenty-first century London. It was something I wondered about and guessed she’d likely be more comfortable residing between the lines of a Jane Austen novel, where her dignity and grace might be better appreciated. Instead, her qualities stood in contrast with a modern city environment where, in the midst of millions, she searched for stability while simultaneously daring herself to break free from the very boundaries within which she had been raised.

Initially she had seemed more relaxed than I had expected, but I could tell the constraints of time and the burrowing nature of my questioning were beginning to overwhelm her otherwise composed stateliness. With my questions coming in motorized succession, almost too late I sensed she was about to call a halt by simply departing.

At last admitting to my own overly aggressive clumsiness, I paused as if to review my notes. It was a hoax of course, one I had learned from an old friend in New York when I first started writing.

“Give your subject some breathing room, Heather,” Peter had advised. “Don’t be your usual all-consuming self with other women and you may just convince a hesitant prospect to tell you her story.” Older and obviously wiser than I, my patient lover somehow knew such things. He was so smart…

It was good advice, of course, but the vitality which characterized my analytical skills forced me to relearn it the hard way from time to time and in this instance, I couldn’t afford to let her slip through my fingers.

She had a friendly face and I liked her. Having accepted that mystifying smile as a positive sign, I tried my best to remember that my friend Laya had made a good point; that New Yorkers could be snippy and overbearing, which begged the question: would Erin eventually grow to tolerate such encroachment? Success would ultimately rest on that question.

The scholarly woman’s significance as a subject would have been apparent to even the most inexpert writer. She personified an erotic story whose diamond lay hidden in the rough of a mind which for three years had attempted to blot out her experience with the Peruvian.

Without entirely realizing it, Erin Rankin oozed sexuality and possessed a coveted attribute I sought in my research on feminine intimacy; an unpretentious illegal bahis nature which implied vulnerability…a true indication of sensuality. But she was also a challenge, since characters with her persona almost by definition were difficult to build stories around.

Tending to obsessive privacy, they harbored multiple intelligences which stood sentinel between researcher and subject like Gibraltar guarding the straits, in so doing preserving their secrets out of the reach of my prying mind’s eye. I reasoned that only the most expertly delivered approach might succeed in bringing her story to light.

It all stood to reason, of course, because I was hunting the very sexuality she had practiced a lifetime concealing and I was certain she was withholding erotic secrets whose entirety she denied the existence of, even to herself.

“I’ve never revealed this to anyone,” she admitted to me in a note one day.

From that moment, in bits and pieces it trickled out but I knew the details from so disciplined a mind would be thorny, and displaying them in print to an intimidating world would expose her to dangers from which less discerning women had recoiled, thereby stalling my investigation.

Those who granted themselves permission to navigate the sensitive process were agreeing to be outed as sexual beings; fallen women who had given themselves away, something a part of them regretted in perpetuity. Another part was glad, of course, and in Erin’s case emotions warred with themselves deep in a mind surrounded by defensive shields of her own creation, shields that included an obsession with books, scholarship and a flight from all things male.

And just to add to my complications, she was Irish and in Ireland the progress of female sexuality crawled forward at a pace frustratingly slow to an American used to assuming the world looked at things the way she did.

In a peculiar twist, Erin maintained a duality; an urge to experience risk – if only sparingly – which acted in opposition to a traditional upbringing that had instilled in her the virtues of a firm moral grounding.

One could easily fall in love with her physical appeal alone. She was perfectly beautiful, with porcelain skin and auburn hair which fell loosely about narrow shoulders. She was slender, carrying not an ounce of extra weight, at least not that I could see.

Her eyes were green and their obvious aptitude for fathoming others seemed at cross purposes with the mildness of her physical presentation. A study in contrasts, I thought, as I methodically reconnoitered what I hoped were faltering defenses. Contrasts were challenging and I had sensed from the beginning that Erin’s disparities might prove fertile ground for literary cultivation.

Allowing my own eyes to wander back and forth between notepad and subject, I continued my perusal of her body, observing breasts which due to the slimness of her upper torso made them appear heavy. With a tendency to allow her shoulders to lean slightly inwards in what I determined to be a futile attempt to deemphasize a well-endowed form, one might easily misperceive their actual size. “She doesn’t like them,” I thought, glimpsing their fullness as she shifted in her chair. “This girl is hiding, which means she has something to hide, which means she has something worth finding.” My determination bolstered, I cautiously moved forward.

True to form, she spoke softly, when she did speak, as if to diminish what I already knew to be a natural resolve. There was an inner strength about her, which by itself might have been confusing, had she not previously tutored me regarding the question of Gaelic women; women taught from childhood to suppress manifestations of their capabilities in the presence of others.

And she was smart. I had felt her authority from the moment we began our correspondence and today’s face to face hadn’t altered that first impression.

Not wanting to risk scaring her back into the shadows from which she was now, at age twenty-three, just emerging, I had to be careful. Working in my favor were two things; she was curious about me, wanting to know why I was interested in her sexual saga, but more importantly she recognized that by allowing herself to be probed, she might just unearth her own willfully hidden identity.

Interestingly, she had grown up Catholic, a faith now overtly rejected, yet I detected a need in her to confess something. But she had rules and her confessor had to be to a virtual stranger — the modern woman’s reasonable facsimile of the priest of her early years, hidden at the back of a computer screen and to whom she could safely unburden herself.

To that end I understood she had invented me, indeed had almost willed my existence in order to have someone to whom her secrets might be revealed, just as two years earlier she had invented the Peruvian for him to take by storm the gift she could offer only once; her virginity.

It was November illegal bahis siteleri and we had met online two months earlier during my wearisome pursuit of an editor versed in languages. A chance thing, I had spied her mildly daunting web page in the editor’s section, something that strangely drew me. Like many writers, I needed someone smart looking over my shoulder as I sported a tendency to stumble over my own verbiage, leaving glaring errors in my wake as keyboard-driven fingers outran disordered thoughts. I needed an overseer holding a bridle and wielding a riding crop in the form of an intimidating red pen. Erin was each of these things and more and had agreed to review my work. One day it just happened. Our intimate thoughts began seeping through during a routine document exchange. I can’t remember who initiated it, but within the short distance of a few emails we tumbled together and though virtual strangers, opened ourselves in so naively feminine fashion.

The comfort which came with living on opposite sides of a vast ocean meant we could let slip unthinkable things, sexual things, without fear of being judged. The effect was as liberating as it was erotic.

I was sure neither of us had ever before put her darkest secrets on display for another person. Maturity simply has a way of imposing its own fear of emotional exposure. But the willingness with which each of us opened herself to things furtive, long locked away in the recesses of her soul, was startling. I prayed and she hoped we weren’t unleashing the Furies. “I still can’t believe I’m telling you these things,” she offered one day. Of course I felt exactly the same.

We eventually admitted to the sense of stimulation we each experienced in the other’s delicate hands as doors long kept bolted shut swing open, causing an unexpected chain reaction. Releasing what lay behind was only the start, of course, and as each secret surfaced, the next proved all the easier, as did the next and the next.

With talk of bringing a man to ejaculation through fellatio and whether size really mattered in her determined goal of experiencing anal sex, all released amidst a myriad of cultural variation between how Irish and American women viewed physical release, we recklessly laid bare our intimate selves for examination and commentary by the other.

That was months ago and now at long last I was sitting with her and felt, just as Erin did, that our unexpected comfort bathed us like the morning sun streaming in through a window, not only warming our acquaintance but deepening it frighteningly by virtue of the emotional dependency it generated; a dependency based on what each knew of the darkest thoughts and longings of the other.

Solitary women by both temperament and design, we both hungered after and feared the very bond now overtaking us. With the impulsiveness of adolescents and an idealistically hazarded trust too common among females, we disregarded dangers and each freely admitted to past injuries sustained from a woman’s natural compulsion to open herself to others.

I recognized it was more perilous for Erin because as a writer, my mind’s inner workings were already exposed to a readership while she, like so many girls, remained confined behind the sanctuary of a disciplined intellect.

It had all started one day with the simultaneous detection of a natural chemistry between us. Throwing caution to the wind, I put a question to her to which I half expected never to receive a response. “Erin,” I asked, “have you had sex with a man?”

Underlying it all was something which gnawed at me due to its duplicity and involved my latest project; research into a lightly studied region too often sidestepped by feminists; the loss of virtue and how each woman perceived it. That professional motivation leaned heavily against a thrilling friendship whose integrity I wished to protect and I knew treading carefully was central.

But she did write back and shocked me by the frankness of her response. It was as if she had been waiting for this exact opportunity so she could slip back to a place where it had all happened, to share it with someone who understood; to re-examine the unsatisfying events of three years earlier without fear I would snitch to her parents.

The opportunity worked for both of us and frankly I was already addicted to reading her musings, eagerly awaiting the appearance of her name in my inbox each day.

A heady “girl thing” from the start, neither of us could have imagined that our often blatantly sexual correspondence would burst into a torrent of exchanges as each undressed herself, opening her secret yearnings to scrutiny by the other.

“I’ll send you a fantasy of mine if you’ll do the same,” I offered one day.

Hovering momentarily in cyberspace, she nearly faltered. “I don’t think I can…well, all right, yes; I’ll do it – for you. Do you promise to send me one of yours?”

“Yes, of course,” I wrote back. canlı bahis siteleri “I’ll send mine first if you like, but you mustn’t open the attachment until you click “send,” affording me fondling rights in New York as you dissect mine in London.”

The ice had been broken and she came to the surface like a resplendent mermaid from an intimate abyss, drenched in what happened to her, dripping wet with erotic wonderings and a desire to compare girl notes to see whether what had occurred in Peru with Hernan Ugarte was in some way a distortion or just an ordinary matter of first intercourse turned disappointing.

In the process, we shared recollections of intimacies that men would never dream of revealing to other men. All business is what men are, at least by comparison; most often burying their secrets deeply outside the demarcations of superficial friendships, perhaps on the odd occasion moving past the apparent, but nothing like this.

In a most exciting turn, with each email one of us would subtly up the stakes, dropping a fact here and there which lurked in the shadows of our minds, sometimes resulting in complex responses from the other woman, sent asking ever more provocative questions which only generated another round of e-mails.

Time seemed to speed up as responses which at the start might have taken a week to spawn were returned complete in a matter of hours. Finally, by mid-October, we had indeed exchanged lurid sexual fantasies and were guardedly mapping out far-reaching editorial comments on one another’s prurience.

Mine had involved a pair of guys, bisexuals interested in a threesome where I made the rules and called on the boys to fuck each other in my presence before being allowed to touch me. Erin countered with her own startling revelation which saw her, at least partially against her will, admitted to a clinic for women who couldn’t orgasm and where her “treatment” involved being tied up and coerced into sex with resident therapists. I think each shocked the other, at least a little.

Like school girls hotly exchanging X-rated dreams, she took me ever deeper into her private visions, finally coming to rest one day a week ago when she offhandedly admitted her fascination with double penetration and bondage.

Had I not sensed something significant was afoot beforehand, I might have been shaken out of my wits. But by then, I knew she wanted to tell me something noteworthy and it wasn’t going to involve your run of the mill career woman screwing her boss on lunch hour.

I heard it said once that without language there could be no thought, and internet relationships tend to peculiarity because two people develop visuals based on words, first pictured in the mind of their writer, transformed into language, sent to another, read and finally transformed yet again back into pictures in the mind of the receiver.

Funnily, the process is highly prone to error. The person one eventually meets is rarely what she looks like in the mind of the beholder. Given the absurdity of wondering how a person appears with only her written words at one’s disposal had left me envisioning a simple country girl about whom my mind worked overtime in a laughable attempt to conjure an image that I could picture when addressing her during imagined conversation.

One had to have some sort of likeness, right? The disorienting phenomenon wasn’t new to me as it had happened once before during my search for the mysterious subject of my last book. In the end I had traveled to Seattle to entice a prostitute into playing on the grand stage of that literary foray, a book which now took me to London, ostensibly for the purpose of its promotion.

Spending hours signing dust covers in stuffy bookstores, all I really thought about was meeting Erin. A woman’s curiosity had seized control of me and with every female I passed on the sidewalk, thoughts that it might be her swept through my mind.

“I want to write you, Erin,” I bluntly stated during one of our various exchanges.

“You — want to write to me? You are writing to me, Heather,” she responded, slightly puzzled by the seeming non-sequitur, which wasn’t the case at all since I had been mulling over the thought of folding a story around her character for weeks, but had stumbled out of nervousness in the presentation.

“No Erin, I mean I want to write a story about you,” I said, clarifying the point.

Her alluring innocence shone in the simplicity of her response: “Why would anyone be interested in me?”

She was genuinely perplexed at the suggestion she might be remarkable. But she was, and the very innocence which provoked her question was the most telling point of her appeal.

Replying to her moments later, I framed my argument. “Erin, maybe I’m only seeing my reflection in a corner of the great literary mirror,” I rejoined, “but if you interest me to the point of fascination, then others will want to know about you as well. I’ll have to meet you for a series of interviews and I’ve learned you’re the world’s most obsessively private woman. Can you set that aside for a time? What do you say?”

“An interview? What would you want to talk about?” she inquired, hedging a bit more now.

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