The Art and Science of Love
2
Flirting
RITA SHOWED UP at my door on Friday evening as I was watching television. I was surprised as I figured that on the first night of the weekend she would be out on a date. I suppose it was too soon after the break-up for that. But she had a lot of friends she could be with.
Personally, I disliked the bar scene and if I hadn’t actually arranged a date to go out with on Friday night, I stayed home.
“Hi, Doc,” she greeted me. “Are you busy tonight? Can we talk some more?”
“I said any time, Rita,” I answered, letting her into the house. “Why aren’t you out tonight?”
“Because I suck,” she said flatly. “I’m apparently just no good at it.”
“Believe me as a man, there is no such thing as a bad blowjob,” I laughed. She laughed a little nervously and I switched off the TV. I had opened a bottle of wine and didn’t bother to ask if she wanted any. I just poured us both a glass and we sat companionably on the sofa for a few minutes before she started in.
“I don’t know what I’m doing,” she said finally. “I tried flirting with a couple of guys at work this week and discovered I couldn’t tell if they were interested in me or just responding to the archetypal stimuli, as you put it. They both hit on me and I discovered I wasn’t interested in them that much.”
“That’s a good sign,” I said. “You respond to archetypal stimuli as well. They just happen to be different than the ones a man responds to. If you can distinguish the difference between a moistening between your legs and a genuine interest in a guy, that’s a step in the right direction.” She squirmed on the couch a bit and adjusted her position.
“I’ve been thinking about what you said the other day,” Rita said.
“Good,” I answered. “I’m glad you are learning to…”
“Not about that part,” she broke in. “Well, partially about that. But more what you said about if I wanted to turn you on, I could.” I caught my breath. Subtlety is not a trait of the young. Either she was going to attempt to seduce me or she was going to ream me for being an old pervert. While I admit to the latter, I was counting on the former.
“I realized that I don’t know how,” she continued. “I guess I got used to the automatic response men have. ‘Has tits. Must fuck.’ The idea of deciding who I want to turn on and then doing it leaves me blank. Would you teach me… show me how to do it? I mean, how to turn you on?” There it was in the open.
“Do you want to turn me on?” I asked gently. This was going to take a lot of will-power to resist the rush.
“I want to learn how to turn you on,” she answered. “And I’d much rather learn from you than randomly experiment with guys I don’t even like. I like you. I’d like to turn you on.” I poured us each another glass of wine and we sipped. I nodded.
“I told you I’d respond,” I said. “I’m not going to back out now that you’ve expressed an interest. But if you want to learn how, you won’t be able to just go up to a guy you’re interested in and ask him to teach you. Let’s start from the beginning. We’ll set up a little play-acting to get started.” I stood and moved to sit on a stool at the breakfast bar, still clearly in her line of sight. “Let’s say you’ve seen me and you’re interested. It looks like I might be interested, too. What do you do?”
“Well, I guess I start flirting,” she answered.
“Don’t tell me. Show me.”
She looked over the back of the sofa at me. I glanced her direction and our eyes made contact. She shifted herself to make her breasts more prominent and made a little kissy noise in my direction. I laughed.
“What?” she demanded.
“I’m not a dog,” I said. “I don’t come when you make a kissy noise. I’m not saying that most guys won’t, but it won’t be what you want. It just tells me you’re hot to trot and I happen to be alone and available. No connection. Flirting needs to build up tension.”
“See. I told you I suck,” she moaned.
“No, you just haven’t had practice engaging. There’s nothing wrong with the things you were doing. They just happen to be a little premature. First, try just holding eye contact for a while. See what comes of that. Think about the kinds of things you’ve seen in movies, or scenes you’ve fantasized about.” I resumed my pose at the bar and glanced toward her. It was perfectly timed as she glanced in unison. She dropped her eyes slightly and then raised them to look directly into mine. A slow smile spread across her lips as we looked at each other. She seemed to glance away and then back at me. Then she winked. I winked back.
I was suspicious that I was being played. Those moves were smooth and well-practiced. I could feel a stirring already. She started to giggle.
“That feels so silly,” she said.
“Why? You did extremely well.”
“It was embarrassing,” she confessed. “I couldn’t keep a straight face. It was so…” She faltered as realization fell across her face. “…intimate,” she breathed. I was relieved. It was coming spontaneously and I no longer felt like I was receiving a practiced performance.
“Finding a point of intimacy—even across a crowded room—is a key stage in seduction. It makes you co-conspirators. You are in it together now.”
“I liked it,” Rita sighed. “I felt something.”
“So, follow it up,” I answered. “What comes next? You’ve established a connection. I’ve acknowledged it. Where do we go from here?”
“I come and join you?” she asked.
“No,” I answered. “You lure me to you. That makes it clear that I haven’t misunderstood. Again, no summoning like a dog or patting the seat next to you like you want me to jump up. Think of a way to invite me without using words.” She thought about it for a few moments and then resumed her position. I leaned against the bar and glanced back at her. Her eyes were there to meet mine and this time they held. The smile crept across her lips again and I seriously thought about kissing them.
She took a sip of her wine and looked into the glass as if considering. Then she tilted her head slightly, looked me in the eye, and raised her empty glass. One eyebrow came up in question and I smiled at her. I picked up the wine bottle and approached her.
“May I?” I asked, directing the bottle toward her glass. She held it out and smiled warmly at me.
“Thank you,” she said. “Won’t you join me?” Beautiful. I sat next to her, filled my own glass, and raised it to her.
“Cheers,” we both said and then laughed.
We set our glasses down and I turned toward her to be met face on with her lips. She pressed them against my own, demanding entrance with her tongue. It was nice, but this wasn’t going to teach her anything. Reluctantly, I broke away and pushed her back in her seat.
“What?” she asked. “Didn’t you like it?”
“Oh yes,” I said. “I liked it. And as well as we know each other, we could progress to sitting here making out like crazy. We know each other and we know why we’re here. But if you did that to a guy you just met or knew only casually, he’d either be headed for the door or headed for your panties in a heartbeat. You want the tension to grow. You don’t just want me to have a hard-on; you want me to ache for you.”
“I’m sorry but after that little invitation game getting you over here, I was just feeling so horny I lost control.”
“Nothing wrong with feeling horny. In fact, it’s a good indication that what you are doing is working. If you are getting turned on, chances are I am, too.” She took another sip of her wine and looked at me with puppy-dog eyes that begged to be taken and taught.
“So, what should I do?” she asked.
“Well, we’d be talking once we got to the table,” I said, “just like we have been. Maybe we’d have to get acquainted a little.”
“Like asking you what you do for a living?” she asked.
“No,” I said. “Guys get nervous when a girl asks that kind of question. In real estate, we call it a qualifier. Can you afford the property you are lusting after? Otherwise I’m wasting my time. And believe me, unless he’s an arrogant fool, no man will think he can afford you. That’s why people developed the lame introductions they use like ‘What sign are you?’ It’s a subject to talk about without being too personal. Unfortunately, it doesn’t reveal anything about the person. You get no further than where you started. What you need are questions that get a good conversation rolling without sounding lame. I’ll start this time.”
We settled in facing each other on the sofa and she waited expectantly.
“That’s a beautiful locket you’re wearing,” I said, looking at her neck. She reflexively lifted her chin a fraction so I could see it better. “May I?” I asked, extending my hand. She nodded her assent and I lifted the locket letting my finger rest against the base of her throat lightly as I examined the locket. “It must be from someone very special,” I finished, laying the locket gently back against her throat and sliding my finger out from under it. She shuddered a little as I withdrew. This time, however, she took the hint and engaged.
“My daddy gave it to me on my 16th birthday,” she said. “It had a picture of him and one of me in it when he gave it to me.” She lifted the locket and popped it open. “He doesn’t know I replaced my picture with my mom’s. It’s not like I wanted them to get back together or anything. I’d outgrown that. It’s more like it’s the two of them that made me, so I carry around a bit of each of them.”
“They sound like wonderful people,” I said truthfully. I’d met both of them over the years. “Looking at them, it’s no wonder you are so beautiful.” She reddened just a little and from this distance I could see that the flush extended down her throat and onto her chest.
“Do you have family you are close to?” she asked.
“Two older brothers who used to beat the tar out of me when I was a kid. My folks have been gone years,” I said, surprising myself by talking about my family to her. “My brothers have their own families. I like being with the kids because I can spoil them and then give them back to their parents. It’s a just reward for the way they treated me as a child.” We laughed.
“I’ve always thought having kids would be fun,” she said, “but raising them would be hell. I think I’ll leave the breeding to my sister.”
“There is something cool about being the favorite aunt or uncle,” I said. “I’ve made it my mission to see that their kids get some culture in their lives. Do you like art?”
“Yeah. What’s the old saying? I don’t know art, but I know what I like. Do you know a lot about art?”
“A fair amount,” I admitted. Most of my neighbors knew nothing about my alter ego the artist. Most just knew me as a real estate agent. “I studied art in college—still dabble in it a little.”
“Really?” she asked. “I didn’t know that. Do you paint?”
“Yes. Paint and draw. Sculpt a little. I like to get my hands in the clay and feel the shape and texture of the object.” She reached for my hands and turned them over to examine carefully. Then she looked back in my eyes.
“Do artists see things differently than other people?”
“That’s hard to say,” I answered. “We’ve all seen cartoons of artists like Picasso seeing a much different version of the world than we see. I’m not sure it’s that radical. They just interpret what they see differently. Remember the grapefruit?” She laughed and nodded. “Well, I see the same thing you do, but I think about it differently. And differently than Alex, too. I think in terms of light and color, texture and chiaroscuro. It’s like seeing something from every angle at once.”
“How do you see me?” she asked. I almost said, ‘As two grapefruits.’ I caught myself short. There was an innocence and shyness about the question that let me know she genuinely wanted to see herself through my eyes. Well, she had certainly found the right means of turning me on. I’ve fallen in love with every model I’ve ever drawn.
“Why don’t I sketch you,” I said.
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