ME~

I spied on him intently and unapologetically at the big rugby tournament he was sponsoring on a warm brilliantly sunny Australian afternoon.  The world famous Aussie actor.  He sat under a huge overhanging gum tree, surrounded by his mates.  He was holding court and looked magnificent, dressed in light denim shorts, blue plaid flannie, blunnies and a faded beaten up drover's hat, serene and totally in his element.  I felt familiar heart flutters as I gazed at him from my unseen perch at the top of the bleachers which had been erected for viewing the upcoming games. 

I wore a black baseball cap, and was careful to stuff my long dark gold hair up underneath it.  I had a small pair of opera-sized binoculars, which I utilized to pretend to watch the game action, but instead was feasting my eyes on his incredible visage to my heart's content.  This was too cool.  Apparently he was not aware of my scrutiny or me.  I watched his ever busy, aqua-green eyes scan the crowd every now and again, as if searching for something.  I was sure it was just his habit of watching, hawk-like, for unwanted paparazzi or rabid fans, rather than the knowledge he was being observed, and was seeking out the offending observer. 

It seemed he was alone - no family around him - just mates and team members about.  He was obviously enjoying himself.  I could sense his joy and unfettered freedom; it was obvious - all there in his eyes.  He glowed - his smile brilliant and warm.  His glance continued to sweep the area methodically as he exchanged humorous banter with the men around him.  As he laughed, he looked up from under the brim of his white drover hat at that precise moment, directly into my eyes. 

At any rate, that's how it felt.  He couldn't possibly have seen me at the distance I was, but he was looking at my figure in the stands as if fully aware I was there.  I hurriedly whipped the glasses away from my face and looked aside, turning my face into the upturned collar of my shirt, praying he had not seen me.

HIM ~

He had spotted her.  A slow cocky grin spread over his face and the hair on his arms stood up as his excellent vision picked out her familiar image so far away.  The moment he pinned her, exultation filled his breast.  Suddenly what was already a great day for him turned into an extraordinary one.  Just knowing she was secretly watching him gave him the extra momentum to do everything with greater confidence and panache.  He smiled in amusement at her attempts to disguise herself from him.  So like her, he thought - always shying away, but always peeking at him. 

The impression she made on him the first time he saw her would stay with him.  It had been at a family holiday barbeque.  She had come to accompany his long-time neighbor, Petra.  It seemed she was Petra's best friend from university, and she stayed by Petra's comforting side as if afraid to be left standing alone in such a big, rowdy, roughhousing crowd of strange Aussies. 

She was tall, almost as tall as he was, slim and lithe, a dancer's body.  She had endless legs and wore tight faded denim shorts and a black halter-top that accentuated her beautiful satiny tanned shoulders and long graceful back. She had simple tan leather sandals on her feet, but it was her shining mane of magic hair, falling almost to her waist, a wondrous mixture of dark gold and pale blonde streaks that caught and held his gaze.  Everyone's eyes were immediately drawn to her because of this exquisite feature.  She wore it loose that day, but most often she wore it lightly braided in a single plait down the center of her back.

He learned she loved to ride and he often saw her from his back porch when he was standing out there with his morning cup of tea.  She'd go cantering alone along the tops of the hills between their properties, looking like some mythical wind goddess, hair streaming behind her like a banner.  She had a quality he admired, the unique ability to always seem to be having the time of her life, no matter what she was doing. 

He had spoken to her briefly before, at family birthdays, neighborhood barbeques or various other local festivities.  She would smile shyly at him from under her lashes, a sweet dimple appearing in her cheek, which charmed the breath out of him.  To his dismay, it always seemed he was otherwise emotionally involved and he often kicked his own ass because he ached to talk to her more privately, more personally, to find out what she was really all about, what made her tick, and could she tick for him.  She was magnetic, he found her fascinating and unsettlingly attractive.  He was captivated, however he kept it to himself.

ME~

For me it was a way different story.  The first time I met him was engrained into my memory like etching on glass.  When Petra had introduced us at that barbeque, he had barely nodded, shaken my hand, held it too long, stared directly into my eyes for what seemed an eternity, and murmured my name with a smile around his lips. I felt his brain turning it over creatively. 

"G'day ... Nice to meet you, Feathers".  He grinned. 

I smiled back with cool composure.  

Ok - up front, I have to be honest here.  I admit I was already a fan. Before I ever met him he made me crazy on screen, and was the main thrust, (excuse the pun), of many of my more lurid fantasies. His films, his voice, his music, his unique personality and rugged good looks turned my insides to porridge - he was the total package ... very funny, a genius at mimicry, and he made me laugh. He also looked at me sometimes like I was on a pedestal.  It was a lofty, exhilarating feeling and more than a tad disconcerting because he openly, torridly flirted with me - and, he called me 'Feathers.'  No one called me Feathers - not anymore.   Just him.

"Please don't do that."  I pleaded with him once. "It makes me sound like a stripper."  

"I like it." He said with finality.  "It suits you. Your hair is soft and feathery, your voice is soft and whispery, you move like a feather in the wind, you're a featherweight -- so -- Feathers you are."  Could anyone ever argue with him?  I never learned.

My name sounds pretentious, but I was named after the doctor who delivered me, Dr. James Sheridan, so how high-toned is that?   Sheridan Carol Featherstone, that would be me, (Sher or Sheri to my friends).  I took a hell of a lot of ribbing growing up from kids in school, so go easy on the jokes, please.  I was born in the States, specifically New England, and lived there in Boston proper until after high school, when I decided I wanted to combine my plans for further education with my burning desire to travel - the farther away, the better.  Hence, the big jump across the pond to Australia. 

At university, Petra invited me to her home on many occasions during school breaks - sometimes I would stay for weeks at a time.  My own small family, Mom, Dad and younger brother, Steve, were still in the States.  We were never what you would call close knit.  Steve was doing his photography thing in California, my parents, still in New England, were seemed always to be on the verge of splitting up for one vague reason or another, and I wasn't very close to any of them.  We were not hostile, just lovingly uninvolved with one another's lives.  It often felt lonelier than if I had no family at all. 

It made my radical decision to come here to the land down under that much easier.  I had come to Australia to school on an art scholarship and ended up preferring to stay with the family I had come to call my own, in the sunburned country I had come to love.  The Wilson's had generously offered residence in their big country home for the time necessary for me to continue school, find employment, and look for my own apartment.

The Wilsons lived in a modestly large house in a wooded area on the farm property adjacent to that, which belonged to him.  Petra was so used to seeing him around, she was completely unfazed by him or his great fame and notoriety.  She practically grew up for a time with him and his brother, and attended the same local celebrations, games, civic events and barbeques, where he was often in attendance.  She was duly unimpressed by him, his movie star looks, charisma or reputation.  To her he was simply a mate, and an often-annoying one at that.   

Whenever he was in town I did my usual undercover thing and observed him closely.  I realized there was a definite pattern to the way he ran his life when he was at home between films or gigs.  I recognized his patterns as an end result of residing in the area permanently now - for nearly two years.  It wasn't like I purposely spied on him.  Well ... not so anyone would notice anyway. 

When he worked, it was a committed, all-out, total effort.  He worked himself like a dog and demanded the same of everyone around him.  When he played, he pulled out all the stops.  It seemed I spent my life watching him, watching for him, following his career, or perving on him at every opportunity, always pretending not to be aware he existed.  I looked at it as a hobby.  

Petra and I attended the local pub on many otherwise uneventful Saturday nights and I grew very fond of the proprietor, a delightful middle aged man named Connor, who became a protective and kindred father figure to me. He ran the place pretty much by himself; he was a tough old bird, but admitted he could use a reliable extra hand now and then as a relief person, especially behind the bar, and offered me a bit of work in my free time for extra money while I was away from school. 

He patiently taught me how to mix drinks, pull a pint, basically tend bar, and even allowed me to study behind the bar when business was slow.  He showed me how to clean up after hours, stock supplies, fend off the ever present advances of local Romeos, and generally do what was needed to keep the place running smoothly.  He had extra help in the form of robust young guys to do the heavy stuff like stocking the kegs and liquor.

He developed the unnerving habit of looking me up, purposely coming to the pub where he knew I'd be working, knowing his presence would cause a stir, and taunt me with his magic like a wicked wizard.  He'd come in, dressed in leathers if he was on his bike, supremely confident and self-possessed, alone or with a group of mates, and the place would suddenly become all about him. 

The very air became charged when he arrived on the scene.  Though the locals respected and liked him and mostly left him to his privacy, they still reacted in varying degrees to his presence.  He would exchange crazy friendly banter with them, usually buy drinks for the house, then he'd settle back in his corner to do his own thing and they left him pretty much alone. 

The oddest thing to me during this time was that I kept my obsession so private, I had never shared it with anyone, not even Petra, but I was knew she had an inkling.  I caught her looking at my expression more than once with a smart alecky, know-it-all smirk on her face. I always wanted to be inscrutable, but I guess I'm not.  If it's in my heart, it's on my face.  Definitely a downside for someone who likes to remain invisible for the most part.   

Petra was convinced of my condition, and she advised me in hushed tones, that if I were at all interested in him it would be a wasted, wild goose chase.  Although she loved him like a mate, she warned and fretted and asked me, did I not remember that he was mad, bad and dangerous to know?  I remembered words from a song or poem about a man who was the wrong kind of paradise.  He was just that for most women.  He was, after all, who he was. Personally, I wouldn't have him any other way.  Of course, I didn't say that.

When things were going well in his extraordinarily successful career, he traveled extensively and was seldom home. When he was around, he was very often involved in some significant relationship and tended to bring the woman of the moment home with him.  He would stay holed up on his farm in happy distracted contentment, and was seldom seen out and about.  He had many changes of partners over the months.  The talk around town and around the world about him was ever salacious and never-ending.

As time went on, ours was a strange history in that there was no real history.  We had lived on adjoining properties for a long time now, and we attended all the requisite family parties, holiday celebrations, barbeques, rugby games, horse sales, and local sports together, but never as a couple.  It would just happen that we would be at the same place at the same time, mutually acknowledge each other with quick warm smiles, and then spend the rest of whatever time we were in the same space, stealing secret glances at one another but not actually connecting. After each of these impromptu sightings, I would live off the memory like savoring a glass of vintage wine. 

When he had been away filming, and I knew he was due back home, I kept a vigil for him like a silent sentry.  Usually there was a tell tale sound to announce his arrival.  I felt it before I heard it, before I saw it - the deep thrubbing beat of helicopter blades.  I would look into the sky in the direction of the much-welcomed sound, and my heart would leap in my chest when I caught a glimpse of the huge blue chopper descending slowly in the distance.  I knew then - he was home.  The visual of the descending copter always sent a sudden rush of hot sweet moisture directly to my aching folds and the nerves in my clit would twinge beyond reason in anticipation of seeing him.  I know ... I was ...always will be ...a dreamer and a fool.

When he was at home, especially if currently unattached, he seemed to be at loose ends, as if he had to relearn the very act of relaxing after the rigors of making and promoting a film.  I mostly saw him when he was between films, between relationships, and just being Jack the Lad around town.  He loved to race his motorcycles, cars, or his horse around the area with his mates, blowing off steam, characteristically and customarily raising hell.  Everyone knew when he was in town because he galvanized them into action with the sudden awareness and of his presence.  Some locals didn't appreciate the disturbance. The world just seemed to vibrate around him

Somewhere around this time, I noticed with bated breath and utter disbelief that he had begun to seek me out.  He always seemed to miraculously appear where I was, and 'find' me,

"Oh, here you are, Feathers! What a coincidence, eh?"  

Wherever I was, whatever I was doing, he would convince me to drop it, join him, and do silly crazy things, like go with him on some adventurous jaunt he just thought up, either on his bike or for a horseback ride.  

To give you an idea of some of these off-the-cuff occurrences, allow me to illustrate....

One really early morning, he called me at Petra's and invited me out for a pre-dawn horseback ride on his farm.  I answered sleepily and he didn't give me a chance to say anything but, 

"...I, oh, um .... Ok..."  

Having no time to be fastidious, I threw on jeans, a cotton shirt I tied at the waist, riding boots, pulled my hair into a pony tail, covered it with a baseball hat and grabbed a pair of sunglasses and riding gloves.  

He picked me up in a well-broken-in SUV, and talked little as his big hands gripped the wheel.  He drove straight to his stables.  Mesmerized, I watched his every move.  I loved the way his hair moved loosely on top of his head as he saddled his favorite horse and then a beautiful appaloosa for me.  He gave me an easy lopsided grin, donned a bush hat, handed me my reins, and we mounted and just rode out into the woods for nearly a whole day. 

I had the forethought to bring some bags of trail mix and bottled water in a backpack.  He was more than somewhat preoccupied and I felt he had something on his mind besides a ride, but I didn't press him.  He seemed to want company, but company he didn't need to be  'on' for.  Much later into the breathtaking ride we were taking through a field filled with wild flowers and high grasses, he said, in his inimitably dramatic fashion, that he "was going through the ultimate existential quandary" and needed some spiritual advice.  I couldn't imagine what would constitute the 'ultimate existential quandary', so I just let him talk. 

He knew I was into martial arts.  I had told him about being a Tai Chi enthusiast during one of his pub visits.  He had been intrigued when I explained some of the benefits the discipline produces, and he seemed to want to talk more about it now as we rode, as an aside to his original statement.  

I told him how practice of the art reduces stress (an area he was most keen about), and how it produces better focus, concentration, increased flexibility, improved strength, better balance, improved memory and improved coordination; and those are only some of the benefits that can be derived from the discipline and practice of Tai Chi.  I explained how I had begun with Wah Lam Tai Chi; found I wasn't disciplined enough to do my form energetically or religiously enough every day and had to let it go for a more relaxed variation. 

He said he was interested in tai chi because I had told him it increased one's ability to be present in the now.  He explained his life was so hectic he was having trouble because his mind was everywhere but in the moment, in the here and now, that he needed to better center himself and maybe I could give him some advice. 

"You must have some knowledge of these things, " I said curiously, "Since you have a world of renowned trainers as far away as your cell phone." 

This didn't dissuade him. He met my gaze then, his jaw set and his chin up. He sat back in the saddle, took off his bush hat, and looked up at the sky.  He shoved a hand through his wind-tangled honey-colored hair, pushing it back from his forehead, closed his eyes and for awhile listened to the symphony of the morning birds, then smiled,

"I'd rather hear it from you." 

I tried to explain that the present moment is all we really have, but we may be actively in the past, re-living some moment, or jumping ahead to the future, worrying about the next problem on our horizon, so we lose the preciousness that moment offers.  I told him, slowly but surely, with continued repetition, tai chi practice can bring one into the wonder of your movement, your energy, your connection with all that is.

We dismounted to let the horses drink from a small spring, and I continued to talk, branching off onto a tangent I didn't necessarily intend to explore but suddenly found I was into it.  He urged me on with a smile around the corner of his mouth. 

"Tai chi teaches one to communicate with complete presence, with no pull into the past or future. The ability to be fully present is one of the most powerful creators of spectacular relationships.  It adds huge energy into your intimate relationships and therefore, significantly boosts the quality of sexual connections."

He was more than interested.  His eyes ate up my face and he studied my mouth as I spoke.

"Tell me more," He murmured, his dimples deepening.  

"Um-m ... I don't know what got me started on this.... I can't believe you don't already know all this, oh studly one." I smiled. 

"I don't ... please ... go on." He coaxed.

I swallowed, my mouth suddenly dry, and took a long pull from my water bottle as I ran my fingers through my horse's mane. Open mouth insert foot, ok, now I was full into it.

"Well, prior to sex, you will be able to look deeply into your partner's eyes, into her soul.  During and after sex, you will be totally present for each other.  Most people are almost never present.  Tai chi slows you down to the point that you at least recognize the flurry of mental activity that is you.  Once that happens, then you begin to take slow steps into the now, and every aspect of your life will blossom.

He was smiling broadly now.  "What if one is too busy to practice the discipline?"

My smile wobbled, but I straightened my back to a bolder posture than I felt, and added, 

"The essence of tai chi benefits - all the benefits - can sometimes be found in just one move.   I have also been taught that just five minutes a day of quality movement promotes relaxation, good circulation, concentration, coordination, balance, and in turn, better health."

He was speechless, fingering his watch and stroking his reins as he stared unwaveringly into my eyes.  The heavy sensuality of my own liquid responses to what I was saying leaked from me in pools and I was glad I was his eyes were on my eyes and not my crotch.  He still frightened me in a way that was so bone deep I didn't even know where it came from.  We re-mounted and rode on in contemplative silence for a long time.

I think that day is my favorite memory.

On another occasion, I barely noticed the big blue Harley when he pulled up to Petra's front door to whip me off somewhere he had just thought up as a great place to go.  All I could do was stare at the man astride the low-slung snarling beast.  He dressed sometimes in leathers, sometimes in just jeans and a jacket.  Today it was black leathers.  Jesus...

These impromptu encounters presented more than one problem.  Riding behind him on a motorcycle left me pulsing and soaked.  The bikes' throbbing motor, and his deep resonant voice went straight to my clit which always responded like a faithful dog wagging its tail, and I usually spent the afternoon flexing and un-flexing my inner muscles as spasms went shot rhythmically through me.  If he ever turned around to look at me at one of those lust-laden times I would have presented the fetching portrait of a blurry, unfocused, panting psycho.  Tai chi didn't teach me everything. 

We rode for miles in comfortable closeness and silence as I hugged into him and he took steeper, winding roads up into the hills.  He seemed to be trying to get away from it all for a while.  We stopped atop a high tree-covered hill, dismounted, and sorted out our clothes, which had become bunched during the ride.  He ran his hands through his hair, smiled at me and handed me his water bottle, which I took gratefully.  We scanned the horizon beyond the steep canyon walls and just breathed.  It was too beautiful.

His smile quickly faded, however, and his suddenly downcast expression piqued my curiosity.  I had the feeling he had never intended this to be just a joy ride, that he wanted to talk, so I prompted him.

"So....?  What's up, big guy?  What's been bothering you?  And don't say 'nothing' because I can see the nothing all over your face.  What's put ripples in your pond?"

His grin was shy as his shoulders shook with a chuckle.  He lit a cigarette, and ever- mercurial, turned instantly serious.  He leaned back against the bike and crossed his ankles

"I'm finding it harder to put my game face on."

"Then stop doing it.  Be who you are - not what you're 'expected' to be."  

He stared out over the steep cliff beyond the trees and the sun shined brilliantly in his clear sky-green eyes.  

"I did a lot to get where I am and I want to protect it.  When I do that they write shit about me."

"They're going to do that anyway.  You're prime, bankable, grade-A tabloid material.  You've got to create your own truth - believe it, live it, defend it.  Don't lie and don't apologize.  You may have to recreate your reputation, but you can do that.  You're doing that all the time anyway."

"I try to do that now.  I don't know how successful I am."

"No, babe.  Yes, you're trying.  Anyone close to you can see that, but you're too volatile, too defensive, you care too much what people think and say and write..."

"Yeah, well, some karma's coming back to bite me in the arse."

"So ... you suck it up and keep on going.  At least you're not denying it."

He considered me for a long moment, flicking ashes from his cigarette. 

"You make it sound so easy, so attainable.  You make everything sound easy."

"It is, and it's not.  Decide what you want and go for it- with honor and honesty - using your God-given talents and the capital you've so rightfully come to earn, and those who believe in you will back you up.  You're loyal - you'll get it back.  You're loving - you'll get it back."

"I've been a prick."

"Yeah - well..... You may get some of that back as well.  Take it and don't reciprocate..."  

I snickered, "and that concludes the instructional segment of our journey."

He threw his head back with a high pitched giggle, a bell-like sound. "Thanks Sifu, or should I say Guru." 

"Just Sher." I smiled back, inordinately happy to see him smiling again.  

His sensuality and proximity at these spontaneous times drove me mental.  It was one thing for him to have this absolute hold over me, but for me to continue to keep it hidden from him when he was so near was becoming a problem.  My reaction to him was so physical I was sure he could smell it on me. 

On a whim, he loved to introduce conversations that were heavy with sexual connotation and overtones, and sit back and watch my responses.  I kept my behavior cool and sorted because I didn't enjoy feeling out of control; but everything in my body beat to a mad rhythm - my breathing, my pulse, my heart, when he was close.      

He liked to saunter up to me as I worked behind the bar, leaning in to say something, and getting close enough for me to smell the beer, the leather, the smoke from his cigarette, the sandalwood and musky male scent of his cologne, and the smell that was his alone.  He looked into my eyes with a twinkle in his own he'd flirt with me.  He was very into eye contact.  Without fail, I forgot what I was doing and would give someone the wrong drink.  He always called my attention to these fuck-ups with great high humor.  He enjoyed seeing me when I was less than perfectly contained, unsorted and pink with embarrassment.  

I enjoyed seeing him take pleasure in chatting up whoever was hanging at the pub on the nights he was there.  He left everyone in a better mood than they had been in, if, of course, he was in a good mood himself.  He was an interesting man, interested in a variety of things, people, and diverse subjects.  He drew people to himself by the sheer force of his magnetic personality and like all of them, I couldn't resist him or the unsubtle, in-your-face attention he paid to me.  On these occasions, he focused all his incredible charisma and charm on me as we played our years-old game of  'I flirt with you, you ignore me.  You flirt with me, I ignore you.' 

He seemed to feed off the energy we created between us.  I, on the other hand, saw it as creating a supremely tempting cake, decorating it with all manner of wonderful icing, and never taking a taste.  It was always the same - when it suited his fancy - he would play his favorite game of cat and mouse - an ongoing, frustrating seduction that drove me increasingly mad.  He could seduce a dog off a meat wagon and he knew it   He knew it, relished it, and stoked it every chance he got.  It never strained the boundaries of our friendship, but twisted them severely, for me at any rate.  The residual sexual tension was my undoing on many nights, and I was exceedingly thankful for good wine, the inventor gods of rubber and plastic and my bedside goodie drawer.

It was by all accounts, and in reality, a purely platonic relationship.  We flirted heavily but never crossed the line into the sensually physical.  In truth, I thought he probably was exactly like this with many women he knew and I worked on accepting the fact that I was most likely just another of his 'mates.'  Some men collect buddies; he collected girl 'friends.' 

I treasured this, however, and didn't want to muck it up by revealing the extent of my attraction to him. He enjoyed my company and I was grateful just for that.  I had no desire to make any emotional waves in our mutual comfort zones.  The clearest indication I had that he was comfortable with me was the fact that he kept finding casual ways to see me.  If I made him uncomfortable, he might shy away, and I'd rather die than risk his withdrawal.

He slowly, cautiously, began to share his feelings on almost every subject with me.  He was a deep thinker, a compassionate, civic-minded man, and a solution finder. There was a fire in him that never burned out or even burned low.  His energy was gigantic and he talked sometimes for hours about what was uppermost in his ever-curious mind.  He told me he enjoyed my "quick mind" and "irreverent wit", my "resourceful, empathetic, informative feedback," and my "direct manner of speaking." Only his exact words were, "I love that you're no bull shit."  

We discovered many mutual interests.  He told me in carefully worded sentences that he trusted me, he valued my opinions, and the unconditional acceptance he always felt he had in my company.  He was correct, of course.  In my eyes he could do no wrong; I craved the time I spent with him.  He said he admired me for being forthright with him.

God ... if he only knew! 

This spontaneous revelation from him during one of our many long horseback rides, caused me to stare at him, gaping, as I loosened my stirrup, while he chuckled and pretended to swat flies away from my mouth.

He asked me questions he said he didn't ask anyone else, especially if it was crucial to him that he got a non-biased, unvarnished, truthful answer.  I was always biased, but I was careful to cloak it in altruistic terminology.

He consistently asked for the truth about troublesome situations in his life, but didn't always handle it well.  I spoke my mind when he asked me questions, and wasn't awed by his temper or his celebrity, or unnatural in my responses to him.  The only thing I didn't tell him was what I felt in my heart.  I was becoming pretty adept at hiding that.  For me, the more we interacted the deeper I fell 

HIM ~

For his part, he silently wished she was a bloke because he feared that his growing feelings for her - his developing need to be close to her, to talk with her, his need for her approval and opinions, were eventually going to fuck up a great friendship.  

To the casual observer, if he felt anything more than close friendship for her, he didn't reveal it to anyone - or to her - when he was sober.  They tended to spend a lot of time in the pub where she worked.  When he was drinking more than usual and was in his cups, he revealed deeper levels of his feelings in the way his brilliant eyes burned into hers when he came over to chat her up. 

ME~

When he was imbibing, which could be often if he was in his fallow mode, he would become more publicly demonstrative, and found innumerable little reasons to put his hands on me somewhere -- my waist, the small of my back - which never failed to give me quivers so strong they jerked my spine straight.  He'd play with my hair as we talked, twisting pieces of it around his fingers, or he'd stroke his finger down my cheek as he was making a point.  He was very tactile and could no more not touch than he could not breathe.  He flirted with me shamelessly, plied me with drinks, and generally reduced me to a mindless pool of quivering wetness with his earthy sweet compliments about my appearance, my eyes, my scent, or my great seat - on a horse. 

If it was a night when the pub was rocking with music and dancing, he would invariably sweep me onto the dance floor - never asked permission - float me around with incredible grace until I was dizzy and hanging like a rag in his arms, at which time he'd bury his nose in my neck and tell me I was beautiful. 

Such sweet nothings always caught me off guard, because there was never any follow-up to his romantic behavior.  There was a definite, palpable chemistry between us, but it was as if he liked keeping me on some kind of mental shelf until the timing was right for him to reveal his grand plan - if indeed there was one.

While we were dancing one night, he pulled me tightly up against his groin.  He was obviously hard as a rock and didn't try to hide it, and whispered hotly that I had cuddly breasts. God, he was so adorable.  He'd say things like, 

"A-h-h, shit ... Feathers ...sweet darlin'.. You're drivin' me wild ..."  

But then he'd let it drop - like an anvil - in mid-air.

There were other times, when he was jittery with suppressed energy, and he'd invite me out on a dare - a challenge to see who could drink whom under the table.  It was never a contest.  He always won, hands down - pissed or not, he was always in better shape than I was.  He'd get down and dirty with the music, sometimes singing, dance me around the floor, hold me tightly pressed against his muscular solid body, bury his nose in my hair, nuzzle my neck, and kiss me all around my face - little grazing kisses - but not on the mouth.  He was ruthless, relentless and fucking outrageous.  Did he have any idea of the incredibly secure feeling he gave me or the pure carnal heat he enkindled in me at the very sight of him like that?   I adored him.

Without fail, on these - which were for me - dangerous nights, someone could always be depended upon to play the song that finished me off completely....

Baby, sweet Baby, you're my drug
Come on and let me taste your stuff

Baby, sweet Baby, bring me your gift
What surprise you gonna hit me with

I am waiting here for more
I am waiting by your door
I am waiting on your back steps
I am waiting in my car
I am waiting at this bar
I am waiting for your essence

I couldn't look at him when that song played.  It was no longer a great game to me.  My biggest challenge was to keep pretending it was still this kicky, fun thing we were doing to amuse each other. 

"No worries, mate.  We're apples."   Well, shit, I wasn't apples, I was apple sauce. 

The friendship we shared was reaffirming, reassuring and rejuvenating to both of us, though neither had ever put it into those exact words.  We each treasured our time together; however, I was quickly becoming exasperated with going into my house at night, shaking inside, with throbbing inner walls, pulsing wet folds and dripping panties.  Something was going to have to change.  If he was ever home again, we were going to have to talk.

As time unfolded, some major changes happened for me, and I unexpectedly became a woman of moderate means.  As it happened, due to a large inherited sum of money from a seldom seen uncle back in the States, I suddenly found I had the necessary capital to purchase my own place.  With the help of Petra's dad, who informed me of a small piece of farm land close by that, not only had a small house on it, but it was soon to go on the market, I managed to acquire my own little piece of Eden. 

It was a beautiful, secluded little garden spot of a place.  I loved it and I was thankful for two very significant things in particular; I was close to the Wilson's and to Petra, and I could see my good friend as often as circumstances allowed, and, I would remain his neighbor.  Our properties actually almost overlapped in some areas where there were creeks and ponds. 

While he was away creating magic on various film sets, I found the time to create a pattern for, and actually actively engage in, the story of my own life.  His many absences forced me to get busy with myself.  I finished my education, at least as far as I wanted to go at that point, and I acquired my BFA.  I lovingly worked my small farm, indulging my love of horticulture, gardening, horses and art.  I basically had everything I had ever hoped for in life.  I also had a hollow, empty space in my heart. 

I discovered during this time that no amount of busy distractions, work or social interactions with friends could relieve my deepest loneliness, or give me that pure golden joy that a meeting of the minds of two kindred spirits could engender.  Only he could do that for me, and he was seldom there.  Hell, he was never there now - not for me anyway.  He had never even come to know how intensely I felt; now, he never would.

HIM ~  

It didn't take long - a year or so - and the headlines and news blurbs were everywhere.  For months I had read negative tabloid items about his troubled affairs at home, on movie sets, off movie sets, and in different countries.  According to obsequious reporters, he was having a tough time with himself, was at war with relentless paparazzi, outspoken and rude with the press, and pissed off about all the untruths and speculations printed about him and his life, and his battle with personal demons. 

I felt a growing dread that he was going to implode and have a melt down.  I was broken hearted for him in his situations, although I knew he probably brought most of them on himself.  Despite his often acerbic behavior, he was a very sensitive being.  The many media attacks over the years had had a cumulative effect and wounded him profoundly.  They made him leery, guarded and distrustful.  He lost the chirpy, happy unprotected face he used to present to the public and he became more obscure.  His cocky attitude, acid tongue and denial of any blame in any situation didn't serve to put him in a good light with most people, most of the time.  He intrepidly and religiously marched to the beat of his own drum and it often caused him to misstep. 

After a long period of time when he seemed to be valiantly attempting to repair his public image, his personal 'real' life ostensibly came together for him.  There were many local and world-wide stories outlining how he painstakingly sorted out his high profile, party hearty, negative bad boy reputation, and carried out his master plan which, from the very beginning apparently, had been to eventually marry his long time, on-again, off-again girlfriend. 

There had been many reported beginnings, endings and renewals of their relationship, which had been an ongoing entity for years.  But she had reportedly given him an ultimatum after his last public fiasco, and he had, it seemed, finally made his choice. 

During this time, he was back and forth from Sydney to the farm quite a bit.  It was rumored his wife didn't relish farm life, preferring Sydney's busier more cosmopolitan lifestyle.  He reportedly tried to accommodate her wishes as often as possible, which ultimately meant that I almost never saw him, seldom and from a distance, if at all.  If I even thought I saw him at a distance I was useless for the rest of the day and usually the week.

ME~

The news of his marriage left me mortally wounded, broken and emotionally bereft. I was as cold and dead inside as an empty cell. A light had gone out in my world, and I stuffed down every foolish romantic notion I had ever had about him.  After a period of intense mourning, with the help of Petra and others, I turned myself around and began to pursue my life and my work with a slavish, manic intensity.  I was here, after all.  What was I going to do?  Run away?  I had put down roots, literally and figuratively.   

I strove with back breaking labor to turn my small piece of rather ordinarily situated, but potentially dramatic land into a lush showcase of exotic flowering trees, tropical shrubs and trellises over-run with trailing and over-hanging ivies.  I put in terraced garden areas of mixed herbs, low-growing flowers, vegetables and berries. Huge purple and green grapes bubbled over trellised arches beside the stable and morning glory vines and bittersweet tubes frothed over my garage walls and onto the fenced paddocks.  My green thumb surprised even me, and I was shocked to discover I was becoming a local legend. 

In my kitchen, for various people I had grown close to and knew appreciated and loved plants as much as I did, I gently nurtured cuttings from many of my plants which grew fragile tendrils of roots as they caught the sun in glass vases in my windows. Petra's mom and her friends gave me much encouragement and requested many cuttings.  I was only too happy to oblige.  On weeknights I held art classes in my living room for local people who were interested in watercolor, landscape and still life painting.  I had a few students who demonstrated considerable talent.  I felt needed, appreciated and most of all - busy.   

I vigorously fought to overcome my tendency to isolate, and established myself as a familiar, trusted citizen in the little town.  I forced myself to attended all local affairs, civic and celebratory, donated to local charities and volunteered a lot of my time holding painting classes for grade school kids on Saturday afternoons at the library. 

In time, I purchased a couple of beautiful horses, and with the occasional help of Connor or whomever he sent over to assist me, I repaired the stables and installed a huge hot tub on my back patio.  I became proficient, even handy at the various and sundry tasks that needed accomplishing around the property. 

It was difficult on my own, but I had the energy, actually a voracious unstoppable energy, and fortunately, enough capital to keep it all afloat.  I actually managed quite well.  I began to feel I might eventually unfurl and maybe find happiness too.

Time passed seamlessly as I fought to stay immersed and involved in what had become my subjectively bland but delightfully peaceful life.  Petra and I went on many trips when she wasn't involved with some significant other to all the Australian scenic wonders I had longed to see since moving Down Under. 

We shopped tirelessly for the proper decorations and furnishings in soft luxurious, tropical colors for my house. We loved to picnic in the Botanical Gardens on occasion, visited all the tourist features of Sydney that I was so curious about, but never had the time to actually explore, and I strove to avoid all Petra's questions about why I didn't have a 'real' social life and wasn't dating anyone. 

I immersed myself in my painting, and actually sold a couple of landscapes that I had on display at the library.  I read voraciously and was almost becoming comfortable with my solitude.  As long as I kept my mind busy, I could thrive fairly well.  If I drank too much wine some nights, listened to soul wrenching music while practicing Nada Yoga, and slept on the shaggy rug in front of my fireplace, I didn't rake myself over the coals for it.  Who needed to know?  Who did it hurt?

I had to make one concession to complete autonomy, however, and I hired a couple of local workers to help me with the more heavy handed and masculine tasks around the farm that I was unable to do myself, like fixing the paddock fence and hauling hay for the animals.  They worked part time and didn't live on my property so my privacy was kept in tact.

It was some months later when word began to circulate that things didn't seem to be going too smoothly in his private life.  I started to hear rollicking tales of his exploits and travels, both locally and on an inter-continental level.  With or without his entourage of mates, he was frequenting clubs, raising hell and generally giving the surrounding populace many sightings of his handsome countenance, not to mention juicy tales to chew on and spread about.  The man was a poster boy for the tall poppy syndrome - a calamity waiting to happen.

During this time, I was careful not to run into him around town.  I prayed he would not return to the local pub where he knew I still worked sometimes, still assisting Connor.  I occasionally volunteered my services to help him stock the liquor and wine shelves and tend bar if he was stuck for help at short notice.  I also glanced at his books to help him with his accounts, helped him to clean up after particularly busy or rowdy nights, and was happy just being useful in general to my old friend.  It helped keep me busy and out of my own head.  The memories it evoked were too sharp to tamp down, however, and in truth, I was grateful when he didn't call to say he could use my help. 

I thought of Connor as a father figure, as he was getting up there in years.  He lived near the Wilson farm, and appreciated my assistance more than he was capable of expressing.  He looked at me lovingly with watery blue eyes and would pat my dark blonde head like a beloved daughter and make me feel about five years old.  It was Connor who told me that he had been into the pub a couple of times, looking for me.

I was busy mucking out the stalls in the stable one quiet afternoon, some little while after Connor had dropped that bomb into my pond, methodically raking, and mired in my usual dangerous mental waters.  It never ceased to amaze me how I could so relentlessly hang on to crystal clear memories of what never was. 

He had never really been in my life with any significance as anything but a good mate, a friend.  He'd never been there for very long, almost never - or seldom - at home, and when he was home, he had often had someone else with him.  Sure, we had a few hot moments, but he had those with many women, I was sure.

Now he had a wife.  Jesus.  Although I had recently heard they were currently living apart, 'separated-pending-divorce,' as the tabloids reported.  He was either in devastated isolation, in hiding, working on the farm, or otherwise not available - at least he wasn't to me, so why this lasting obsession?  

I muttered, chastising myself, searching about madly for the brain I knew I once had....  

"Asshole! ...(..rake, rake ..)... This has got to stop! ...(rake, rake)...  I've got to get a life...(rake, rake).  When am I going to stop pushing against the great wall of China like it's ever going to happen?  It's never been in the cards for us ... so suck it up and get on with things, you inane, pathetic, blind, stupid fool." (rake, rake, rake....)  I tend to be inordinately rough on myself at times.

The late afternoon darkened and clouds gathered, threatening rain. The air was mild, misty, and grey as a light fog spread across the paddock and the backfields.  I stood alone, breathing in the damp air, and leaned against the stable doorframe as I stared outside, unblinking as an owl.  I felt suddenly very isolated. 

I listened reflectively to the soft stirrings of the animals behind me, their gentle munching sounds soothing my unwanted solitude.  I took a brief respite from currying my new horse's gleaming russet hide, smoked a cigarette and felt my chest throb hollowly, like a bell that had cloth wrapped around its clapper.     

Despite being thrilled with my newest acquisition, I found myself continually distracted - my mind fighting to be elsewhere - as always - with him. I tortured myself with persistent thoughts of him - Where was he?  Was he hurting?  What was he thinking?   I yearned to know what he was doing - who he was doing.  A sharp pain in my heart reminded me once again of the depth of my longing for him and the great distances, real or imagined, that always seemed to separate us.  Sometime there was no great distance, just the distance we chose to put there.  The fact that he seemed so unavailable to me, so completely unaware of how I felt about him only made my suffering more futile.  He was so near yet so far. I mourned forlornly for what never was, thinking.

"Friends forever, lovers never."  

Fighting against tears that were threatening to become a well-spring, I tamped out the cigarette with the toe of my riding boot, pulled my long gold mane of hair back into a loose plait, and went back to my chores, resolutely trying to banish all thoughts of him from my conscious mind.  I couldn't afford to let my emotions run away with me again.  The pain of that indulgence had nearly killed me in the past.  I acknowledged again that I was hopelessly addicted, and willingly, if not resignedly, struggled to accept the consequences. 

I stroked my new horse's shimmering, glossy flank, which quivered under my touch.  I whispered lovingly to him, and blew softly into his nostrils, speaking his name gently, to soothe him ... Pacer. 

Time moved on imperceptibly as I wandered through my private reverie, continuing my various chores.  They helped to center me in the cozy warmth of the stable.  My eyes seemed to have a constant pond of unshed tears in them as I busied myself.

I heard a quiet footstep behind me and turned quickly, not expecting company.  Without warning, suddenly, he was there - a vision standing before me - broad shoulders, solid chest, wearing a light blue plaid flannel shirt, tight black jeans and scuffed black blunnies.  He wore my favorite fallow look.  His long, wind-ruffled, chestnut and honey hair fell over his collar and forehead.  A soft light brown beard framed the planes of his cheeks.  Long-lashed, sea green eyes shone lovingly down on me as he radiated the warmest smile I had ever seen. 

I froze in my tracks.  My first reaction was to jump back from his disturbing proximity, but then, unable to resist the impulse, I flung my arms around him with abandon, and crooned into his neck, inhaling and swallowing his masculine scent. 

"God, it's you!  Oh my god!  Hi!  It's you!  When did you get here?  Why didn't you tell me you were coming?  How long have you been here?" 

He snorted in surprised amusement at my tumble of questions and grinned happily, instantly enclosing me in a bear hug.  He buried his nose in my neck as he breathed in my fragrance.  I gloried in his strength as he lifted me completely off the floor.

"Hey, Darlin'," he rumbled in his deep, growly voice.

"M-m-m-m-m!"  He breathed appreciatively, as his arms tightened around me.  I lost myself in the bright aura that was he, burrowing my face in his neck. 

"God, you feel so good!" He murmured.  "You smell like heaven."  He breathed in the fresh herbal rain forest cologne I had freely spritzed on my neck and in my long hair that morning.  We clung together for a long moment, rocking back and forth affectionately, in another world, completely absorbed in one another. 

Finally, he spoke, his lips on my earlobe.  The deep timbre of his voice sent cold shivers up my back and hot moisture between my legs.  My knees dipped and threatened to collapse. 

"I've been back and forth for awhile. Went looking for you at the bar a couple of times.... ...lookin' forward to seein' you, y'know?  But you haven't been there..  Weren't there last night anyway." 

I broke away a little without answering him, took a steadying breath, and looked up into his shining eyes, my heart pounding against my ribcage. 

"You look so great." I said with unabashed admiration, not addressing his comment on my absence from the pub. 

He smiled with neither humility nor ego, just pure pleasure.  

"Thanks, luv.  So do you."  

After a long pause during which we just took mutually appreciative stock of one another, he said innocuously, "So ...luv, how are you?  How are things?  You good?  Any special 'someone' in your life?"   His tone was teasing.

"Yes!" I answered, too quickly.  "Well... no ... not really." 

"Yes or no?"

"There is someone ... but ... he doesn't know I exist."

"What?  Is he blind or stupid?"

I giggled.  "Thanks for that.  Neither ...actually, ... he's ..."

"Does he know how you feel?"

"No.  Never."

"So ... why don't you clue him in?"  He toyed with a tendril of my hair and I couldn't think.

"He's .. um-m ... very busy...."

"Nobody's that busy..."

"He ... belongs to someone else..."

"A-h-h-h ...now, there's the rub ... Is he committed?"

"Afraid so...."

"How can you be so sure?"

"All evidence indicates so."

"What do you think?"

"I think he's effectively shut himself off from anything other than what he now has."

"Why would he do that?"

"I think he's been hurt too many times, and he's decided to settle for what he has."

"That's bloody bleak."

I looked at his solemn green eyes with the smile crinkles now smooth.  

"Sometimes ... he looks so sad it hurts me to look at him."

"Like now?"

I stared.

"What?"

"Like now, Sheri?  Do I look sad now?"

"I wasn't referring to you."

"Yes, you were."

"How do you know that?"

"I'm very perceptive.  And I watch you, too."

"You shouldn't."

"Why not, luv?  You're exquisite.... And I'm not dead after all.  Or blind."

"Please --- don't do that."

"Don't do what?"

"Don't flirt with me.  If we can't be completely straight up with each other after all this time, we shouldn't talk at all.  I can no longer bear phony social niceties, especially with you.  Empty phrases - meaningless conversations going nowhere.  I have to do that with strangers.  I can't do it with you.  And since I can't have with you what I want, I must choose nothing."

"What are you saying, love?  What do you want?  We can't be friends?"  

His question was like cold water in my face.

"What do you think? "

He looked at me, then down at the floor, and shook his head slowly.

I had to ease his discomfort and make myself understood.

"I'm sorry.  God, I am.  But what I feel for you.... it consumes me.  I can't pretend any more to just be your friend, and I can't be your lover.  So it must be nothing."

"Jesus, that's so definitive.  Sheri, honey... you've got me hard as a rock." 

He gently took my hand and placed it on the bulge in his jeans.  I touched him through the soft cloth and my vision blurred as my fingers moved over his length and width.  His eyes rolled back and the words tumbled out of my mouth.

"And I'm soaking wet."

"Sheri -- I want to touch you.  I have always wanted you."

"No, baby.  That's not true - and if it was, it's a temporary emotion.  I want it too, but it would ultimately destroy me"

"How, darlin'?  Why?  I've wanted you for three years!"

"And I you, but now you belong to someone else.  I don't want in any way to be a reason for you to break up."

"You wouldn't be.  We're already separated."

"What?  When?"

"Last month.  Irreconcilable differences - you know the drill - I always knew it wouldn't last.  Hence, the pre-nup."

"But this is terrible!"

"No.  Really, it's all very civil and polite.  No harm, no foul."

So it was true.  It was over.

I passionately scanned the bearded planes of his beloved face, feasting my starving eyes on his astonishing looks, all the more appealing at the moment because he wasn't using them to exude any power over me. It was as if he knew he didn't have to.   He was just being open and himself.  I tenderly stroked the soft hair on his cheek, and felt my eyes mist over.

Suddenly, realizing how obvious I was being I dropped my lashes, afraid he might see more than I wanted him to see.  But he did see - it was as if a jolt of electricity went through him.  He lifted my chin slowly with his index finger and inquisitively leaned his head to the side.  He stared speculatively into my eyes for a long moment, forcing me to keep looking at him, then finally spoke, his voice tender, probing, his lips almost brushing mine as he asked an unexpected question.

"Sheri, sweetheart, why don't you ever kiss me?"  The brutally direct question hung in the air as I stared up at him, wordless. 

"Wh -- What?  What do you mean?"  

"What I mean is, everyone does.  It's like open season on me, especially here at home - when I come here - I get kissed, whether I want to be or not.  But the one I want to kiss me - doesn't.  Why is that?  If you care about me like you're telling me you do, why is it so hard to show me?" 

He leaned in closer, his breath warm on my face, smelling of cigarettes and sandalwood and him.  

"Well, for one thing... Hello?  You haven't been here for months!  You're never here!"  I blurted hotly.  He wasn't going to put this on me without a struggle.  Then. Quickly re-phrasing...

"Y-you ... you kiss me when you're drunk!"

"Jeez, thanks."

"No!  I mean ...that's ok ... we were... we are.... friends.  Friends don't do that, don't just... kiss like that."

It was lame, I knew it, but it was all I had at that moment.  

"Fuck they don't!  He roared in disagreement.  "They kiss on birthdays, holidays, special occasions, and when someone comes back after a long time away -- like me?  Like now?  But not you ...you never do.  Even now, after revealing these feelings to each other you hesitate.  It hurts, y'know?  I always thought we had something so close." 

"We are close.   I mean, we were ... come on ... I've kissed you!  Where are you going with this?  I mean, you have rather been off the market for awhile!"

His expression was ironic and a little sad.  "Too right ...right, yeah ...I'll give you that... But let me recall ... when you kissed me last ... I think it was on New Years' Eve two years ago.  You deigned to bestow upon me a modest little peck, and then we were interrupted." 

I remembered it well.  It had been at one of his blowout New Years Eve parties and we were both pretty swizzled, and I kissed him behind the bar because he looked so delicious playing bartender and plying me with champagne.     

He paused for full dramatic effect.  "And you never did get back to me to, y'know, finish it."  

He was smiling but his eyes were serious.  I was effectively trapped.  It was showdown time.  

I wondered if he knew that my whole body ached to inhale his mouth into my own, to drink in his breath and feed on his sweet bow lips, to plunder his tongue with my own and take great mouthfuls of his flesh in primal, animal abandon.  I hungered with all my being to breathe his sweet breath until my head swam, but I was always careful up to now, to avoid this kind of intimacy.  I know myself and I knew that if I ever gave in fully to my desire for him I risked losing my hard-earned self-control.  I knew I'd probably become frenzied and he'd think I was deranged.  It might even frighten him off, make him nervous, or worse yet, turn him off.  There was also the very real threat he wouldn't reciprocate.  Our friendship would be forever compromised, and I would not risk that. 

He was not unaware of all the turmoil raging inside me as his hand still cupped my face and he repeated his query, rubbing his nose lightly against mine. 

"Tell me, Feathers, why don't you want to kiss me?"  My eyes flitted up and down his face, meeting his eyes, and looking quickly away. 

"I never said I didn't want to kiss you.  I just don't think friends should get that personal, you know, that physical with each other.  It takes friendship into a whole other level.  It creates, you know, problems ..." 

His eyes were bemusedly skeptical as I stumbled through an explanation I hoped would stop his questions without hurting him or revealing too much of my heart.  However, my pathetic rationale didn't begin to satisfy him and he persisted, gently, but determined to get to the heart of the matter.

"Yeah, woman, that other level is what I'm looking for.  The fact that you've been avoiding me so determinedly lately makes me believe there's a real reason why you're hiding.  I know you've been staying away from the pub.  Connor told me you were afraid to run into me.  Tell me, what is it?" 

I stared - made a mental note to murder Connor.  He pressed, "Ah-h ... Feathers, darlin' ... tell me ... how can you resist me so completely?  Didn't you just tell me how you felt?  You just admitted - I just admitted - we want each other."

He ran his index finger down my cheek to the hollow of my throat and cupped the back of my head with his hand.  

Try to avoid that.  I was impaled - I couldn't divert him - I had to come clean.  My eyes filled to overflowing with hot tears and my words rushed out into his face with explosive passion. 

"I just can't do this anymore!  Don't you understand?" 

This took him aback a bit, his mouth opened wordlessly. 

"I can't keep seeing you every time you chance to breeze back home after a failed relationship -- or, or -- a failed -- marriage!  You always do this!  You come back to town.  You look for me. You seek me out, we hang out, we talk, we drink, dance, we flirt like mad fools ...at least we did before you married..."  I know I stammered painfully.  

He nodded slowly in agreement, his eyebrows raised questioningly.  

"Yeah, I know.  I loved it.  It was bonzer.  I looked forward to it every time I was home." He interrupted.  

I covered his mouth with my hand and he kissed my palm, his eyes burning into mine. His lips were soft and hot against my hand.  My head swam as I proceeded with my bogus explanation.  He pressed my hand against his lips, kissing it gently. God, my clit was so swollen and wet it ached.  

My voice caught in my throat.  

"Don't ... No, no ... you don't understand!  We used to always - get together ...in the past ... you'd spend time with me ... You gave me your full attention ... and ... it was wonderful! .It was like being in the sun!  And then, without notice, suddenly, you'd be gone again, God knows where, back to your career - or some other relationship.  You were away from here sometimes for months.... Leaving me utterly alone and without you, missing you to the point of desperation!  You never even knew!  It was all such a big game to you!  I was always left with these raging emotions and frustrations, and nowhere to go with them!" 

"I'm here now, darlin'." He whispered very softly against my fingers.

I talked too quickly, emotionally naked now and on a roll, close to his face, my eyes searching his desperately.  

"Did you know when you married you fucking broke my heart?  I wanted to crawl into a hole and hide from the world!  I just can't keep doing it!  Please don't ask me!  Have you no idea how I feel? 

"I'm beginning to ..."

"You're 'beginning to?'  Are you telling me you never knew...don't realize how much I -- I love you?  I've loved you since I first met you!" 

He had the audacity to look confused and I was so exasperated I decided to tell him all.  

"You worked very hard to make me love you.  Do you act like that with every woman?  No wonder you have such a rep!  I was stupid enough to let myself think you had feelings for me, but you never let me know for sure one way or the other, except to flirt with me. You always charmingly fucked around with me, you seemed to really care, but you never said or did anything to prove it definitively.  I came to the conclusion you only cared about me as a friend so, I decided the best thing I could do was to become your best friend - your very best friend.  That way I could be near you without being obvious.  It was a ploy to remain close to you, you big idiot!  But I'm the bigger idiot!  I fooled around and fell in love!"   

I had fistfuls of his shirt in my hands, alternately yanking him closer and pushing him away.  

"Sheri, I had no idea -- I didn't know you felt this strongly.  Well ... maybe I did ...yeah ... I did ... There were some nights - most nights - I went home with steel in my jeans pretending not to be so fuckin' turned on by you trying not to be turned on by me.  If I had really known how you felt about me, I would have been on you like skin, done something about it, but you never showed your hand.  We were always more than just friends, at least I.... I thought you might feel like that. I did ... but you were always so guarded, so elusive, and so careful not to go too deep - reveal too much.  You put up such a good smoke screen I guess I believed that we were just friends..."

He grabbed my arms to hold me still and continued, unable to stop.  "I seek you out now when I come home because I can't help myself.  I crave your company.  I'm drawn to you like a magnet.  To me, being with you is truly being home.  I just never put much thought into it before because it was so natural, so effortless for me to be with you.  I always felt it wasn't fair to tell you what I was beginning to really feel about you, and then go on about my life.  I couldn't ask you to join me in my crazy gypsy existence and give up your life here!  I know how important this place is to you and that your life is here.  The last thing I ever wanted to do was to hurt you, babe!  I thought of my sudden departures as a twisted way of being cruel to be kind.  I'm sorry, darlin'.  I'm so truly sorry." 

His hands ran up and down my arms, his eyes wet with tears. 

I didn't believe he wasn't aware of what he was doing to me back then.   He was too sharp, too perceptive.  He had to have known.  But maybe he hadn't been ready -- there was so much going on in his life at the time.  So much is always going on in his life.  But he was here now and trying so hard to understand me.  I tried once again to make him understand more clearly.

"I know ... I appreciate that you didn't want to hurt or mislead me, but you need to know now that I just can't go on flirting and fucking around with you - like one of your blokey mates - as if that's all it meant to me!  It hurts too much!  It killed me when you left me before to attend to your career, and then when you married I wanted to die!  I thought I'd never get over it!  You never even told me you were going to do it!  And now - here you are - back in front of me - and - Jesus ... what did you think was going to happen?"

"This..."

He grabbed for me then and smothered me against his chest, into the softness of his flannel shirt.  He took my head in both his hands and kissed me, dropping his mouth completely over mine, sucking in my essence, my fears, my protestations and my doubts.  His hunger was overwhelming and I fell into it without hesitation.  I groaned into his mouth and pressed myself into his hard crotch as tears slipped out from under my lashes. 

He broke the kiss, murmuring, "Sweetheart, I'm sorry.  And I'm not sorry. I'm glad I know.... I'm here now, darlin'."

His parted lips brushed wetly back and forth against mine.  

"Right in front of you.  I'm not going anywhere.  Don't avoid me. Don't hide anymore, Sher.  Don't treat me like chocolate, something you can only have a little taste of then put me aside before I can run away.  Sheri, sweetheart.  I'm not running away."

He gently stroked my face, brushing the stray tendrils of hair out of my eyes. "I'm here now, where I want to be - with you.  I want you - I know you want me.  Why don't you stop resisting me and just have at it?" 

He leaned into me again and lowered his head, resting his forehead against mine.  The intensity of his words burned me and I felt a new wet surge of desire drench my already flooded folds.  Hot tears ran down my cheeks.  I buried my face in his chest and dug my nails into his back.  My knees were weak with wanting him.  I leaned my hips into the steel of his crotch, grinding against him, arching my back and exulting in the groans that escaped his lips as lightning jolts of pure sexual tension traveled up my spine.

He had his hands on my hips and fiercely drew me into him, molding me tightly into his groin, emitting little sighs.  His lips parted and the pink tip of his tongue swept over my lower lip. 

Suddenly, without warning, and no sound, Josh, the young ranch hand assistant I had recently hired to help me fix some broken paddock fences sauntered into the barn and we separated quickly, panting and shaking as we attempted to look casual.  

He quickly lit a cigarette and nodded to the youth when I introduced him.  I was embarrassed, but more than that, furious to have been so suddenly torn away from his embrace and from his lips, from the world I craved.

I hurriedly wiped the tears from my cheeks.  The moment was over, we both knew.  His face registered extreme emotion as he gave me an intense "to-be-continued" look and turned.  Then the two men began to engage in a friendly banter about farm work and discussed horses and what was wrong with the fence.  They strolled out of the stable door toward the paddock.  Josh acted like he didn't even know whom he was talking to.

I went back to my horse and tried to compose myself, my breathing ragged and heavy, my legs rubbery.  I was so fucked.  My eyes were blurry and I trembled from head to foot. 

We did not see each other alone again for the rest of the afternoon except to exchange a few furtive, questioning, longing glances as he assisted the young man as he fixed the fence and the gate to the paddock.   The ranch hand kept him talking, all eager and star struck once he realized who it was he was talking to, and after a while he excused himself, saying it was time to be off.  He squeezed my arm as he passed me and I was left alone again.  However, a thrilling expectancy filled my chest.  Much had been discussed this day.  Much was still to be discussed.  My heart raced for the rest of the afternoon.

Later that evening I was called from the house in an emergency, and fled into the barn after being informed by Josh that my beloved horse seemed to be ill.  I spent the entire night sitting on the bed of straw of the stable floor, by Pacer's side, stroking his soft muzzle, crying, currying his mane, whispering to him, breathing into his nostrils and praying he would survive whatever was wrong with him.  Josh sent for the vet and we prepared to wait all night, if necessary, for him to arrive.  I told Josh to go get some needed sleep, and I would keep vigil until the vet arrived.

The vet came very late into the night and examined my horse thoroughly and meticulously for a long time, and pronounced him in no immediate danger.  He said he thought the stallion had eaten some plant life that didn't agree with him and that it had given him a sick stomach and gas bloating.  He gave me some medicine to mix in his food and a tonic to put in his drinking water to curb the dehydration and stimulate his appetite. He said to keep him warm and comfortable and to try and get him on his feet in a couple of hours after the medication took effect and he should be fine. 

I was limp with gratitude for both his presence and his report.  I cried shamelessly as I took the prescription from his hands and watched him as he administered a shot to my poor brave steed.  I crouched down again at my post by Pacer's side and crooned to him softly as the vet took his leave.   Much later I urged Pacer to his legs and slowly walked him around.  He nickered and bumped his head against my shoulder so I knew he felt better.  After a brief turn around the paddock I put him back in his stall and he calmed and began to eat.

It was very early dawn as the long dark night meshed into misty foggy light.  I stood in the doorway of the barn staring out at the furtive beginnings of the day, my mind dulled, my head aching with residual emotional overload, the worry of the night, sleep deprivation, and the pain of seeing my precious horse in danger.  I felt totally alone, afraid, and absolutely vulnerable to the fates.  I realized how easy it is to lose everything you love in life in a matter of minutes.   

I lit a cigarette and watched tiny stars that still dotted the pale pink of the pre-dawn horizon.  Peepers croaked and crickets still sang their plaintive little songs in the outlying fields and ponds.  I pensively smoked and breathed in the cool fresh morning air, and my ears picked up a sound, like an eerie drumbeat from far off in the mist-shrouded distance, the steady dull thud of approaching hoof beats.  

Peering curiously into the rolling mist I glimpsed the distant approach of a ghostly, dark, shadowy figure riding toward the stable at a slow steady canter.  The horse's legs were shrouded in fog and he appeared to be gliding over the mist like a legless phantom.  I instantly recognized the wind swept flow of the long, black, caped duster, the outline of the well-worn drover's hat pulled low over the eyes, the familiar fluid ease of the rider's body as he sat effortlessly in the saddle.

My heart stopped dead in my chest.  I sensed an urgent inevitability about this meeting, knowing instinctively that he was coming to me, coming for me 

"God...Oh ..God ...." I whispered, shocked by the violence of both the relief, and the responding sexual ignition triggered in my depths as his figure approached through the gloom.

My core flooded with welcoming dew and I could feel him already inside me, deep inside, filling me.  My knees shook, tremors shivered down my spine, my pulse raced.  I had never seen him look more wildly predatory, sexual, and exciting than at that moment.  He was so incredibly beautiful, so focused and single-minded as he rode up to the stable door.  I was riveted where I stood by piercing, sea-blue eyes, under the brim of his hat. 

Silently, he reigned in his horse, and in one gracefully smooth motion was off the animal, and resolutely striding toward me.  He had a hot, hunting look of sexually driven determination, never taking his eyes from mine.  I studied his advance breathlessly, my lips parted as I struggled to utter a greeting, my eyes wide with expectancy. 

Suddenly he closed the gap between us and reached me, wordlessly grabbed me into his arms and crushed me to his chest.  One hand moved down to the small of my back, pressing me firmly into his bulging groin, the other went up into my hair at the nape of my neck and pulled my head into him.  He kissed my open mouth with unleashed passion, his tongue seeking entry then silkily brushing and swirling around mine. He captured my lower lip first, sucking on it hungrily, then my upper lip, before taking my whole mouth into his, drinking me in and making low moans in the back of his throat. 

I whimpered as I curled my tongue hungrily around his.  My soul cried,  "Oh, please, let this be happening!"  I started to push myself rhythmically against him in response to the pressure of his hips against mine and his tongue penetrating my mouth.   

His kiss was desperate, devouring, demanding.  I leaned into the hot, sweet, possessing, softness of his mouth, savoring the delicious taste of morning dew on his lips, the slight saltiness of his skin, the smell of leather, oilskin, horses and sandalwood, fresh morning air, his last cigarette, and raw male sex.  I was intoxicated, drowning in him.

After an eternity he spoke breathlessly into my open mouth, brushing his lips across mine, never breaking contact. 

"I tried all night to call you. I couldn't get through."  

I answered, my lips never leaving his.  "I was here in the barn all night."  I gasped.  "My horse is sick."  

We ground into each other with a ferocity that stunned us, clinging, kissing, and moaning.  My body was responding with frantic, feral need and desire to this man who was reducing me to a pulp of aching physical need.  Suddenly we shuddered into each other and came, both of us, crying each other's names, just on the heated friction we generated - just like that - with all our clothes on. 

"Oh my Jesus -- I can't believe this happen -- we --- oh, god...."  I started to fret, but he silenced me with a deep kiss.  Tears stung my eyes as we continued to plunder each other's mouths. I pressed my pelvis into his, eliciting a strangled moan from him, as our labored panting breath continued.  My knees gave way then, and he bent down to lift me up, and carried me in his arms into the inner tack room office.

He kicked the door shut and locked behind us with his boot, then sank down with me still in his arms onto the oversized, beat up leather sofa against the wall. He covered my body completely with his own, pressing his full solid weight down on to me into the soft cushions.  The pressure of his weight on top of me was intoxicating.  I couldn't get enough.

His mouth took absolute possession of mine as I felt under his shirt and stroked the hard muscles of his back, feeling them ripple with pleasure.  Our straining bodies fit together perfectly as the ignition of our passion engulfed us.  He buried his face in my neck, kissing, nipping, and gently licking the warm flesh along my jaw line and down to my collarbone, murmuring incoherently into my skin about how I always smelled and tasted like water lilies, wildflowers and honey.  He sucked in great wet mouthfuls of my stimulated skin and murmured incoherent endearments, sighing his feelings.

We removed each others clothes reverently, even down to our boots, chuckling at the mess we had already created in them, and whatever I was going to say was lost as he flipped me over on my stomach, pulled my jeans down over my buttocks and ran his wet tongue up my back from buttocks to nape, nibbling, biting, and sucking the warm flesh along my spine.  He ran his hands up and down my back thanking me for not wearing a bra. His hand slid between my legs and felt the wetness already there waiting in welcome for him again.

The softness of his beard brushed my butt cheeks and I could feel the hard bite of his fingers against my skin as his breath and his need deepened; I gloried in it and in his primitive responses. He gently bit my buttocks and turned me over and studied me. 

We took our pleasure as if time had stopped.  He kissed me for such a long time my legs failed when I tried to hurry him by lifting them over his shoulders, and I felt them give out and drop to his waist. He smiled and stroked my legs, sighing and touching my swollen inner lips with an awed reverence.  

"So fuckin' beautiful .... Easy, my love, we've got nothin' but time."

I crooned at him, drowning in him, welcoming the onset of oblivion to everything but his mouth.  It became my world.  My hands caressed his head and face and neck.  I grabbed his flannel shirt-covered chest, pulling him as close into me as I was able and demanded he take it off.   

I reached out and touched him, tentatively at first, then with more confidence, stroking the silky damp hair of his chest, shuddering in response to the heated male scent that surrounded and enveloped him.  The urge to touch him, taste him, eat him, was so strong it became a compulsion that made me raise up over him, push him onto his back on the sofa and bend over him to feast on his neck, his beautiful chest and nipples. 

He sighed, squirmed, hissed and moaned as I continued my explorations, traveling down his chest with my mouth and down his long legs with delicate butterfly explorative touches and kisses.  Whatever he had been about to say was lost as the gentle insistence of my fingers caused him to open his legs and he caught back a thick sob of tormented pleasure as my fingertips drew delicate circles on the inside of one thigh while my open mouth slowly caressed and sucked the inside of the other.  I drew in the scent and taste of him, filling my senses as I nuzzled the soft fur of his pelvis and scrotum.  He reached out and clasped my head, moaning frantically.

"Sheri, baby, for God's sake, what are you trying to do to me?"  He lifted me off him and turned me onto my back.  There was no denying our craving.  We melted into one another as I moaned in response to the assault on my mouth and body and returned his kisses eagerly, my arms winding tightly around his neck, my hands grabbing the soft curling hair at the back of his head.   I pressed myself into his hardness as he made purring, growling sounds.   

"Jesus ... I've wanted you so long, sweetheart ...so long ...  please, baby. Love me ...want this, too.   Want me..." he whispered.

He ran his hand slowly up under my torso, stroking my silky flesh, loving that I wasn't wearing a bra.  His reached down, bent his head, and I lifted myself to meet his lips, gasping as his mouth found soft mounds and hard peaks and devoured them.  His breath caught in his throat and he hissed through his teeth as his big work-rough hands kneaded and massaged the erect buttons with both fingers and lips until I mewled and writhed under him, whimpering, pleading for him, hot moisture seeping steadily from between my legs.  My nails dug into his upper arms and a moan escaped my throat. 

"God!  It's so sweet."  I tried to explain through trembling lips and I started up at him with my heart in my eyes.  He could see the intense pleasure his touch gave me. "Oh, Baby, so sweet I can hardly bear it..."

"I know," he said.

"I want you, my love; I've always wanted you. Now ... please, baby, come inside me ...."

Despite his need, despite his bobbing, pleading cock, he made me wait.  He slid down beside me and let his hand run down my pliant body as his lips touched my eyelids.  I whimpered as his mouth moved softly on mine.  He breathed my name into my mouth as it brushed and explored down my body in an ecstasy of taut silence.  All the while his hand roamed over me, finding hidden crevices and folds and exploring them with fingertips. 

My hands tightened in his glossy thick hair as I felt subterranean throbbing spasms beginning to roll again deep in my core.  My fingers dug desperately into his luxuriant hair, pulling his head up to kiss his face, his throat, his shoulders, any flesh available to me, until I was quivering, saturated with the urgent need for him to be buried in me.  He slid his hand down between us to test my readiness. 

"Fuck, luv!  You're soaking wet!  So hot!  God, you're killin' me!  Do you want me as much as I want you?"  His eyes fell to my open mouth as I nodded and breathed my surrender.  I reached down and firmly stroked his beautiful throbbing cock.  I wanted it in my mouth at the same time I was so impatient to have it in me.

He made me wait even longer then as his mouth moved lower and took full possession of my swollen weeping folds as his tongue tasted my honey in a new and shockingly intimate gesture of his fervor.  He moaned into me and I could feel his hot breath filling me and blowing on my wetness, driving me mindless.  I could see his erection, hard and bobbing against his lower stomach as he moved over me. 

I pushed my pelvis up, and with straining muscles, let him know how much I craved him, inside me.  He reciprocated fiercely, his hands everywhere, exploring, fondling, and caressing. He made incoherent, muffled, cooing sounds in his throat.  He tore off his remaining shirt and added it to the pile on the floor.  I yielded with sweet surrender as his fingers dug into my hips and I raised them to him.  My legs parted of their own accord and wrapped a