February and Early March - Infatuation
Karen

Jeffrey is an extraordinary man.  I don't think I've ever been swept off my feet by a man who constantly treats me like a queen.  In fact, I've never really received the royal treatment before.

He seats me in the car before getting in to drive.  He opens doors for me.  He pulls out my chair when dining.  He holds out my coat for me to put on.  He offers his arm when we tread on the icy sidewalks.  He insists on paying for everything when we go out. 

Even though I'm flat broke most of the time (and no he doesn't know this), I still like to feel independent and that I should contribute.  Jeffrey will just shake his head and say I square away any debt just by being with him, that my company more than anything pays him back.  When he says things like this, it just blows my mind.

He's a gentleman from another era.  Most of the time, all the delicate attention is thrilling.  I feel like I'm on a lofty pedestal.  The other two percent of the time, I just wish he would be less of a prince and more like a frog, showing me warts and leaping before looking.  Considerate, courteous and chivalrous have their moments.  Wanton, wicked and wayward would have hours if you know what I mean.

We've been dating for more than a month now.  In that short span of time, we've packed in a jazz fest, a musical, a comedy revue, eaten our way through Chinese, Italian, Thai and Mexican cuisine, walked along the boardwalk down by the pier in my home city of Toronto, played golf, went bowling (He creamed me here.  Why is it that men always throw the damn ball with such strength while mine kind of just meanders down the lane, almost stopping and then piddles off to the left missing all pins?), and danced until dawn in the more adult night spots I've discovered in my trolling days.

Each time I'm with him, he spins me closer into his web.  He has so many sides to him-the intellectual scholar, the brilliant scientist, the wise-cracking teacher which is the persona he uses to motivate his students, the clever conversationalist, the funny almost zany jokester which is a side he seldom shows to the public, specifically the pub dwellers, the talented gourmet which is heaven as I can't cook to save my life.

You might be wondering around now about the sensual side of Mr. Wonderful.  God knows I let some of that out of the bag in my first two stories.

Jeffrey appreciates women, and he likes to show that by the looks brimming with desire that he casts on me, the gentle trace of his fingers stroking and caressing my face, my lips, the curves of my breast and ass and by the not-so-gentle urgent penetration and rampaging of my body when his need overcomes his old-fashioned charm and solicitous sensitivity.

That's when things really catch on fire.  I wish sometimes he'd stay in that bestial, take-charge mode forever.  Yes, I'm used to younger men who take initiative and lead more often and who are a little more barbaric in their assault.

It drives me crazy when Jeffrey treats me like I'm made of glass.  Don't get me wrong.  I'm not complaining here.  The sex is phenomenal, and he's a fantastic lover, always caring and concerned with making everything special for me.  He makes sure I achieve my pinnacle before he reaches his own peak.

My orgasms are hot, intense and leave me weak like a rag doll.  Jeffrey's kisses turn me inside out.  He uses his lips, tongue and teeth like weapons to make me surrender what little sanity I have left when he plunders my own like buried treasure.

He's everything I've been searching for all my life.  Why then do I still feel something is lacking in our relationship?  What more could I possibly want or desire of him? 

I just want him to relax with me and be himself.  I just think he feels that he has to constantly prove himself worthy of me.  That's so bogus.

Jeffrey

It's been a while since anyone has shown any interest.  Hell, let's be honest; it's been a long dry spell broken only by one-night stands and lots of nights spent alone with my right hand.  A little too much information?  Must be her influence on me.

I guess it's been a month now since we've been seeing each other, but it's been a pretty  intense ride.

She's refreshing, down-to-earth and quirky.  Her acerbic wit and clever repartee dazzles me at times.  Karen's the queen of innuendo which I must say I don't object to at all.  I find all of this very flattering.

However, she's incredibly blunt, and when she blunders out something without thinking and then blushes in dismay at her faux pas, that's what pulls at my heartstrings.  I find her absolutely adorable then.

What isn't a turn-on about her?  

She's enthusiastic about the dull intellectual pursuits that are part and parcel of my every day career.  For the first time in ages, I'm eager to discuss my research and know that I'm not putting her to sleep inside of a minute.

Karen asks me all kinds of questions about my teaching.  What kind of students do I have?  What are the methods I use to hold their interest?  How I even grade their papers she wants to learn.  Her fascination seems to have no bounds

Then there are my hobbies.  Even though I know she doesn't like jazz, preferring new country and easy rock, she's indulgent and never tries to switch the radio station when we're driving in my car.

We go to plays, concerts and museums.  She's like a little girl in some ways in getting such pleasure just being out and about and doing ordinary small things.

I get the feeling she hasn't had a lot of joie de vivre in her life.  God, how I want to change that for her.

When she smiles, sometimes a rare occurrence, she'll literally take your breath away.  Her whole face illuminates.  Those sapphire eyes glow and twinkle.  The corner of the right side of her mouth turns up as she gives her lop-sided reward. 

That's what I think of her smile, like it's a precious bonus that lets you know you've entertained her.  I valiantly try to keep one pasted permanently on her face.  I'm not always successful.

She has an endearing habit of curling her hair around her fingers when she's nervous or unsure of my reaction to something she's said or done.

Don't get me started on her hair.  When Karen shakes that long red mane of hers and tosses it ever so casually over her shoulder, I can't stop wanting to run my fingers through it, feel its silky strands and smell the clean lingering fragrance of her lemon scented shampoo.

Thinking of her in this way almost always causes a physical reaction.  I'll be up standing in front of my class, get sidetracked by another red-haired female co-ed and have to cover up a raging boner.

It's a little embarrassing at my age.  I mean how many times can you suddenly turn to the blackboard and write a formula or grab a folder off your desk and hold it in front of your crotch like a shield?

It's like I've been give a second chance here at rejuvenation.  I just turned 54 in December, and I figure she's got to be at least eighteen years my junior.  That's a lot of mileage for me.  What's she getting out of it?-an overweight, very mature (euphemism for old man) relic from another generation.

But Karen doesn't see me like that, and for once I see myself through someone else's eyes.  If I joke about my age, she gets ticked.  She does that fluttering thing with her eyelashes that only women seem to master and fixes me with that 'don't start again Wigand' look.  It reins me in for a while until again I start to wonder why she's with me. 

Who am I kidding?  I can't compete with the likes of Max, Thorne, Aubrey, let alone the younger set.  Yet, she's really not interested in any of them.

I'm not the only one here fighting insecurities though.  Karen's dieting.  Why, I don't have a clue.  She's five foot three and can't weigh more than 110 pounds.  When we dine out, she moves her food around the plate to make it look like she's eaten more than she has.  It's a kid's trick; my daughters do it so I'm savvy to her. 

So, I'm double her size and more.  You don't think that makes me uncomfortable when we have sex missionary style?  So yeah, maybe I hold back a little and not play as rough as I would like.

She's not as fragile as she looks.  The hockey game proved that theory.  She took some pretty hard knocks from Clarity and Tulip never mind when she crashed into O'Brien.  I saw the subsequent bruises as I moved my lips to each one tenderly and massaged away the stiffness.

Karen also hates her nose, feet and fingernails which she chews on.  To me, she's beautiful, and she hasn't learned the lesson of graciously receiving a compliment.  She fidgets, reddens or rolls her eyes.

I know she thinks all the ladies at the pub are sexier, more confident and smarter.  I can't seem to convince her that she out-ranks any of them in my humble but very biased opinion.  We're a fine pair, aren't we?

Late March - Deception
Karen

Looks like the honeymoon's over.  Time to come back down to earth.

He's starting to ask questions, a lot of questions.  Probing questions that I've been able to tap dance around before now due to our mutual obsession with each other.

Some examples:  Why don't we ever go to your place?  In fact, why don't you ever let me drive you home?  Where did you say you work again?  So tell me what a typical day at your work is like?  Are you close to your family?  You don't talk about them at all. 

I don't like lying to him.  I think it's unfair and morally wrong, yet I keep doing it.  At first, the tales were easy to fabricate.  He didn't really press and just accepted my pat answers.

"Where do you work?"

"Uh...I'm in sales."

"What kind?"

"Insurance."  I said that one simply enough because a former friend of mine had worked for a large insurance company and I knew some of the terms and lingo.

"With what firm?"

"Canada Life."  It was one of the biggies in the industry, and I remembered walking by its Head Office downtown as it has a large weather beacon on top of the roof.

"I've heard of it."  

Oh, oh.

"I work in a small branch office."

"Insurance's a big field.  Can we be a bit more specific?"  He said that teasingly not sensing my apprehension.

"Group Life and Health.  I sell group life and health plans to companies for their employees."

"Sounds challenging.  Do you enjoy it?"

"It's okay."

I got another expectant look as if I was supposed to elaborate.  "Pays the bills, you know how it is."

That was how one of our conversations went.  

Another one began with:

"So what's the big secret about your home?  Are you secretly married with eighteen kids?"

"No Jeffrey.  I told you.  I live in a modest apartment building, and it's undergoing extensive renovations right now.  Management doesn't want any visitors around as they could get sued if anyone got hurt."  Pretty lame I know.  It was the best I could do on short notice.

"What does Management care if I accompany you to your doorstep late at night?  I'm just assuring you get home safely.  I'm an old-fashioned guy, and I don't want you getting jumped on in the parking lot."

"I'm a big modern girl.  It doesn't make sense when I can simply drive my car to the pub and you can drop me right back there to pick it up.  You always escort me to my car, and I appreciate the very gallant gesture.  Besides security's excellent in our building."

He wasn't buying that one anymore.  I could tell.  His lips pursed, in almost an exact replica of Jack's face when he's annoyed about something.  He left it alone though.

How on earth did I think I was going to be able to continue to pull the wool over this man's eyes?

Jeffrey

She never talks about herself.  I find that really strange.  When you first start dating...or whatever it is we're doing, the exchange of basic information is kind of a given for both sides.

I didn't realize until maybe our third outing how she always turns the focus on me.  She does it so effortlessly; it appears genuine and may even be genuine.  Forgive me for being a selfish arrogant bastard for not noticing sooner and for enjoying having my ego stroked while she turned on the charm full force.

Yes, she talks about herself but not in intimate terms.  I know all about her feelings on issues like current events, contentious subjects like religion and politics and things of a general nature.  She's not shy in expressing her opinion or defending it if I differ or hold an opposing one.

Where are all the vital statistics?  And no I'm not talking about her age.  A gentleman never asks.  I know her last name is Donovan.  She's got an Irish background.  That's not exactly a wealth of knowledge.

It's like pulling teeth asking about her job, family or friends.  I get one syllable answers and a look like I'm pushing boundaries.  Why can't I take her home?  Why doesn't she want me to see where she lives?

Yes, I joked with her about being married and having kids.  But on the inside, I didn't think it was so funny.   I know so little about her.

A typical conversation on these subjects would go like this:

"Do you have any brothers or sisters?"

"I'm an only child."

"Do your parents live near you?  Do you see them often?"

"Mother is deceased; Father is AWOL."  Well no, it wouldn't be quite as staccato as this, but it might as well have been.

There seemed to be a big double standard going on with us, and for once, it wasn't the men, or this man in particular, doing all the double talk and fancy footwork.

Karen got me to open up about Liane, my ex.  It's not an easy subject for me.  What can you say about a woman you once loved, had two amazing children with and who left you when you needed her the most?  The point here is that I shared my feelings with her.  She hasn't reciprocated.

Trouble in paradise?  You tell me.