“Hi,” I say. “It’s good to see you again. Although, that probably means you still haven’t found what you need.”
“Hi Mike,” she answers. “No, not really. You’re right about there being a lot of books. It’s just… I don’t know. I’m looking for an answer that doesn’t need batteries.” She laughs and the pinstripes on her blouse distract me as they curve around her sizable breasts. Her high collar blouse with one open button reveals more of her smooth chocolate skin than was visible last night. I force myself to look her in the eyes, their exotic, almond shape making that very easy.
“It shouldn’t be that way,” I say softly, moving closer to her.” Maybe you’re not considering the right question.”
“What question is that?” she asks sarcastically. “You mean like, why am I even discussing this with a skinny, young white boy in a bookstore who’s trying to pseudo psychoanalyze me?”
“No, That’s a different question,” I laugh, “but maybe you do need someone to talk to about this and you could do a lot worse than me.”
“I could?” she asks smiling at me. Her smile seems to light up her whole face and her eyes sparkle as she raises her already high eyebrows in a questioning manner.
“Yeah,” I say, smiling. “You could call Dr. Phil.”
Laughing, she says, “well, maybe we should just get Oprah to do a book club selection on it.”
“That would be great!” I say, laughing with her. “Seriously, I’d love to just sit down over a cup of coffee and get to know you. I don’t even know your name.” She’s staring at me quizzically. “What do you say?” I ask. “I get off in a few minutes and you’ll get a free latte out of it.”
“I don’t know,” she says, looking at her watch. “I really should be getting home.”
“Half an hour,” I counter. “What can it hurt?”
“Okay,” she finally agrees. “Half an hour but I pay for my own latte.” We agree to meet at a nearby Starbucks instead of going to the cafe in the bookstore. We order separately and choose a small table in the corner that affords only modest privacy.
“My name is Cynthia Emry. She says offering her hand. My friends call me Cyn.”
“Nice to meet you,” I respond, shaking her hand. “I’m Mike Judd.” I linger holding her hand, enjoying the touch of her smooth skin. “Since your friends call you Cyn, I suppose you’ll want me to call you Miss Emry?” I say chuckling, as she pulls her hand back.
“Mrs. Emry. But no, call me Cyn,” she says, taking a drink. “How long have you worked at the bookstore?” She’s sitting back appraising me while she sips her latte while her firm, round tits push against the cotton material of her blouse. She crosses her legs and her skirt rides half way up her thigh, exposing more of her smooth, brown skin. I force myself to look in her eyes rather than stare at her beautiful legs.
“About two years. It’s a perfect job while I’m in school and I get a great discount on my textbooks. What do you do, Cyn.” I love the sound of her name. Cynfull, I think.
“I’m a management recruiter. I work for a consulting firm headquartered in New York. I work out of my house so I can live anywhere and this is where my husband’s job brought us.”
“And what does your husband do?” Her face captivates me. With only light makeup complementing her already gorgeous skin tone, she looks more like a glamour model than a management recruiter.
“He’s a minister. We go where the church sends us,” she says, looking intently for a reaction from me. I don’t disappoint her.
“That explains a lot,” I say, immediately regretting it when I see her eyes flare up.
“It explains nothing!” she yells, and then quickly lowers her voice. “You don’t know anything about me or my husband,” she fumes, through clenched teeth. “You college kids think you know everything! You don’t know shit!” She stands up, getting ready to leave.
“Wait! I’m really sorry,” I stammer, contritely. “That was a stupid thing to say. It wasn’t really a statement about your husband, Cyn. It’s more reflective of my own bias against organized religion and all the hypocrisy that goes with it,” I say, trying to explain. “I said it without thinking, okay? I’m sorry.”
“Please,” I plead, gesturing towards her chair. “Please, sit back down.” She does and slowly her face relaxes but my eyes are drawn to her chest, still heaving from her anger. Her tits swelling and pushing against the pinstripes create small gaps between the buttons with each breath she takes.
“I’m sorry I got so upset,” she says, finally. “You just seem to think you know all about my problems and you don’t. My husband is a good man. He’s a wonderful father and a powerful minister.” I notice she doesn’t say a great lover. I wonder if he even notices her luscious tits.
“I’m sure he is,” I answer. We’re silent for a minute.
“So, how old are you anyway, Mr. Know-It-All college boy?” Cyn asks, smiling curiously.
“Twenty,” I answer unapologetically. “How old are you?”
“Thirty-two. Happily married with two kids and a successful career, thank you,” she declares proudly. “So where do you get off trying to solve my sexual problems? You’re too young to have enough experience to give you any credibility.” She’s back on the attack and I react again before I think.
“Funny. I was thinking you’re old enough to have already experienced some things you’re obviously only reading about.”
“You don’t know what I’m experiencing and what I’m not!” She’s fuming again and talking through her teeth.
“Hey, don’t get mad at me. You’re the one looking through orgasm books. I’m just trying to help,” I retort.
“Yeah by hitting on me!” she rants. “Is that what you do at that bookstore, watch for women to come in looking for sexual self-help books and then offer your services?” She’s really on a tirade now. “You think I don’t get better offers than you all the time. I’m a black woman working in a professional capacity in a mostly white company. I get hit on more than the blonde bimbos answering the phones. Everyone including the president of the company is trying to live out his black woman fantasy. I’ve seen it all before. No thank you!”
“When did I hit on you?” I challenge. “When?” I repeat. “I thought we had a cool banter going and that you’d be a fun person to get to know so that’s what I’m trying to do. I didn’t force you to come back in the store tonight when you knew I’d be working and I didn’t tie you up and drag you to Starbucks. So if you don’t want to be here, leave! No one is stopping you.”
She walks out but instead of gazing at her luscious ass, I’m gazing into my coffee, mistakenly believing that I’ll never see her again.
I relive that conversation all the way home, kicking myself for the way I handled it. I ignored every principle I know from my psych classes about using active listening to defuse anger. If I had only listened, asked questions and encouraged her to talk maybe… oh fuck it! I’ve only seen her twice, so what if she’s the most enticing woman I’ve ever met.
That night I lie in bed replaying the two encounters I’ve had with Cyn and marvel at how quickly and explosively she flips from teasing to anger. I don’t know if this woman is bi-polar or just wound too tight from her sexual frustration and feeling guilty about it. I’d love to relieve her tension and see what happens. I think about how stunning she looks and my cock hardens as I visualize her dark brown skin, her flat stomach and the sensuous curves of her tits and ass.