On the other side of her carport, a little studio supporting the other side away from the house. Her mother’s old art space, I think, converted to a dayroom but till hung with all manner of 60’s-era regalia — incense, silks, scarves and shawls, beads and feather, wall hangings, cushions, embroidery, candles, feathers, and giant sable watercolor brushers…

Long conversation, just getting to know each other, talk of this and that, and reflections on sensations she and a friend practiced on each other there in the room. And this led to that, and that led to something else, and I took her hand and drew my forefinger across her palm, and then stroked her wrist and palm with open fingertips, and then stoked her forearm, wrist, and palm with my lips, exhaling warm breath and kissing her fingertips.

And taking up a soft, chocolate-dark sable brush I began to stroke her arms in earnest, the insides of her elbows, the curves between her knuckles, and rather than passively waiting my moves she rolled her hands this way, curved her arms that, so that we nearly danced together finding best places to brush. And when we, not she or I, found a good spot her eyes would close, sometimes whites rolling up under furrowing brows only to sparkle back open, sharp, alert, knowing, her grin alive and in the game.

She presented me with an even larger brush, and forearms turned to face, face to hairline and temples, temples to cheek and chin, chin to neck to throat to collarbone, and she pulled the sleeves of her peasant blouse off her shoulders pushing the collar down almost to crinkle-hard nipples before turning her back and arching her neck. And then shoulders became neck and neck became hairline and her goosebumps and shivers shook not just her frame but my composure.

And I reversed the brush, drawing spirals and curlicues with the lacquer-smooth but squared off tip, leaving faint, almost invisible white lines on her flesh that moments later turned pale pink and her back arched and curved and she said “left” and “lower” as the point found itches here and there. And with a shrug she pushed her blouse down to her waist and off her arms, and her arms came up to lift her hair and she conducted me from itch to scratch, and brush became fingernails, and fingers became feathers, and she lay face down and feathers became dusty mittens turned palm up and fur down.

And when at last she rolled over and mittens had lost their charm she pointed to a small curtain of strung glass beads, big as peas and autumn chilled, and I led them and rolled them across her torso, over her belly, over her ribs, swooping and swirling across her breasts and nipples, and all the while she’d keep my eye, and nod, and close her lids for a stroke before smiling them back at me again, encouraging me, challenging me…

And beads became lanyard with an old silver charm, and lanyard became sable again, dry-washing the curved sides of her breasts, her armpits, her bumpy areola, her full nipple and her other, smaller, creased one, and back up to her chin and across her lips, and across her eyelids, and up to her hairline…

And then and only then lips followed brush, touching her skin with mine for the first time since that first kiss…

We didn’t have intercourse, and we didn’t have orgasms, and we didn’t even take our pants off, but we certainly had sex.