Cupid's Project

When I got back to the kitchen, Cameron was sitting at the dining room table waiting for me.

"Well, there's definitely a lot of damage up there that Roc's not going to be able to get to before the storm. I think if we put a tarp up there and try and put up a temporary sealant, we might avoid major damage. It just depends on how bad the storm is this week," he said, his eyes traveling over my body, noting my change of clothes. I was glad I'd put on the sweatshirt, though it did little to stop my own thoughts.

"Whatever you can do to minimize the damage would be great. By any chance, do you do repairs too? Rocco seems like he has a pretty full schedule and besides, I think I like you better," I smiled, trying to keep myself from flirting with him but having about as much success as I'd had with my attempts not to check out his ass. The mental image flashed through my mind again and I silently added soccer or some similar sport to the list of physical activities I assumed he did to maintain his body.

"Actually, I work downtown with an insurance agency. I do know a good deal about repairs thanks to summers spent working with my dad, but I'm nowhere near the professional that Rocco is. It'd probably take me twice the time."

"Why don't we just play it by ear? Go ahead and do whatever you can today and then after the storm has passed, we can re-evaluate. I would hate to take up your weekends when you have a regular full time job to do during the week," I lied. I would love to take up his weekends, though hopefully in a more naked capacity. Apparently my flash masturbation session had done nothing but make me more lascivious.

"Sounds like a plan. I'll just get that taken care of and then if you're free, I'd love to take you to dinner."

"What is it with you guys and asking me to dinner? Rocco already tried that line," I laughed, quite pleased at his invitation but not wanting to seem overly eager.

Cameron laughed, "Actually, that was my idea. Roc was a little peeved at your unsolicited advice. He's a good kid, but a little hot headed. He forwarded me the email you sent him and I pointed out that if you'd found his ad, you probably were looking for a contractor. By taking you to dinner and showing you that he's not that bad of a guy, he might have still managed to earn your business. Then I looked up your website and forwarded him the link, knowing that your blue eyes and great smile would help drive my point home. Roc's a sucker for leggy brunettes."

"And what are you a sucker for?" Now that he'd asked me out, I didn't feel like it was unacceptable to flirt with him.

"Leggy brunettes with blue eyes," he winked.

"I have a question and your answer will determine whether or not I accept your dinner invitation," I smiled back.

"I'm 36, single, no kids unless you count my oversized German Shepard puppy, Cash," he responded.

"Is the book in the truck yours?" I laughed. I'd been a fan of Bukowski since I'd found a copy of Notes of Dirty Old Man in the library of my jr. high school. Apparently the nuns hadn't thought such young girls would have any interest in cranky American literature, so they didn't censor the library's offerings. As early as twelve, I made it my mission to find any and every book with sex in it, and had been particularly pleased with Bukowski's alcoholic revelry and cynicism. When my parents found the book in my room, they deemed it unsuitable for a pre-teenaged girl, which of course made me love it all the more.

"Post Office? Don't tell me you don't like Bukowski -- I'll have to rescind my invitation. It's one of my favorite books and I was re-reading it this morning when Roc called and said that 'the pain in the ass real estate lady' needed me to come over and look at her roof. I finished it in the truck while I was waiting for you to get here and then decided to check out your roof. In fact, you should buy Me dinner since you were late."

"I'm truly sorry about that. My meeting ran late. I'll totally buy you dinner," I said sheepishly. I made a habit of being punctual and I was quite embarrassed to find my self being called out by this incredibly good looking and ostensibly well read man who was also going to fix my roof.

"No, I'll buy dinner," he said with a tone of finality, "but you can wear a skirt if you want to make it up to me."

Normally, overly flirtatious men are a complete turn off for me, but there was just something about Cameron's manner that sold it well. I knew that he wouldn't mind the opportunity to check out my legs again, but he seemed like enough of a gentleman that he wouldn't even mention it when he saw that I changed into jeans instead. He had the ease of someone who was incredibly self-aware and thereby able to let others be themselves around him. I realized as I changed that I was looking forward to dinner with him more than I had any date I'd been on in the past year, and it wasn't even a real date.

On the short drive to the sports bar and grill around the corner from my house, I inquired into his friendship with Rocco. They seemed like unlikely friends.

"Rocco was a trainer at my gym. He whipped my ass into shape for several months before I ran my first marathon. Not long after that, he came up with the idea for the handy man business, so I lost him as a trainer, but he still keeps in touch. I'm sort of an honorary big brother, I suppose. I help him out now and then when he can't get to all of the calls he receives, provide advice on women, you know, the usual."

"So was he really busy today or did you just want an excuse to meet me?" I asked, hoping for the latter, "He sounded a little rude on the phone."

"Are you kidding? Roc thinks you're a cougar, though I'm not sure you're really old enough for the title. He was probably in a bad mood because he really was busy today. He would have been here if he could."

Our dinner conversation flowed effortlessly as we talked of shared interests in Sundance films and classic rock over a couple of beers. We talked about my business which led to a discussion about college. We realized that we had both been at the University of Arizona at the same time but while I was studying business, he'd been studying religion.

"Religion? Wow... why?" I asked. All I'd gotten out of my religious upbringing was a desperation to escape to the dorms where sex, drugs and rock n' roll wouldn't be so frowned upon, "And how did that lead to a career selling insurance?"

"First of all, I don't sell insurance. I said I work with an insurance agency. I'm actually the director of human resources. My uncle, who owns the company, seemed to think I had a way with people and I was a 30 year old with a degree in World Religion sick of bouncing around to whichever corporate jobs would have me. He offered me the position provided that I work on a master's degree in business. So, I took a few courses at ASU," he paused as I glared at him for traitorously attending the rival university. He smiled knowingly and added, "Don't worry, they didn't convert me. I'm a Wildcat through and through. It was just practical to study in Phoenix since I'd been up here since graduation. I earned a MBA with a specialization in human resources and... yeah, I've been there about six years and I love it."

"As for the degree in religion, I didn't grow up religious at all, so it just sort of fascinated me to see how religion affected culture, morals and people's way of life. Honestly, the more I learned about religion, the more I came to believe that everyone essentially believes in the same thing, with different labels. In essence, religion is just a way of explaining the unexplainable and helping humanity unite in a common goal to connect the world with love."

"That's a beautiful thought, but I assure you that I did not encounter much love growing up in a strict Catholic household. My divorce was the scandal of my entire family," I muttered, and then was angry with myself for bringing up a past relationship in the middle of a quasi first date.

"For what it's worth, my divorce wasn't exactly celebrated in my non-religious family. It's a rough deal. Nobody's perfect, Olivia. We all do what we can to make the world make sense to us. For some that requires a lot of rules and structure, for others it's casting those away. If I judge what works for someone else, that makes me as intolerant as I'm judging them for being."

"That's pretty fucking deep. Where were you when I was in counseling?" I laughed, trying to regain some semblance of balance in the conversation. His ideas about life just kept fueling my attraction to him. I was much more comfortable with the idea of dragging him back to my place and occupying his mouth with other tasks.

In a calming gesture, Cameron moved his hand over mine and said in a low voice, "Your family helped make you who you are, and I'd say that's enough to thank them for. I think you're amazing."

I had to admire the way he was able to say something like that, to someone he hardly knew and not feel self conscious but at the same time I couldn't help but feel like we were getting ahead of ourselves. I was thirty three and divorced, not fifteen and hoping to meet my soul mate and live happily ever after.

This talk of religion and family was miles away from the banter that I hoped would lead us back to my bed so I made an attempt to redirect, "And you haven't even seen me naked, yet."

He called me out on it right away, a pattern I was starting to notice and vaguely dislike, "Too deep, huh? It's ok, we can pick up the conversation another time." He then retreated to topics that were neither profound nor sexual, making me at turns grateful and confused. What type of man let such a blatant come on go by without comment? Was he gay?

When we returned to my house, he walked me to my door. I was actually afraid to proposition him again, so I took the coward's way out, "Well, Cameron, thank you for dinner and setting my roof up to hopefully weather the storm. You want to give me your card so I can get in touch with you once it blows over?"

"You know you're completely full of shit, right?" he laughed, "Don't pretend we didn't connect in the restaurant tonight. I'm not asking you to run off and join the circus with me, but I am going to insist that you not insult our intelligence by pretending there's nothing there."

I don't know if I was more shocked by being called on the carpet again or by his frank assessment that there was "something there". It had taken me months and many orgasms to feel like I had any real sort of connection to Bryan. Cameron was upfront and honest. It was refreshingly different but also incredibly disconcerting, especially for someone who didn't want to be in a relationship.

Wrapping his arms around my back, he pulled me closer to him and kissed me softly. My hands ran over his forearms, feeling the muscles tense and the pressure of his lips increase in response. It was honestly one of the best first kisses I'd ever had and it lasted only a few seconds. I thought about inviting him in. It was so much easier to picture him in my bed than to examine his assertion that we had "something". Before I even got the words out of my mouth he smiled and said goodnight, pulling a business card out of his wallet and placing it in my hand.

"Call me," he said as he walked to his truck.

Inside my house, away from Cameron's knowing gaze, I tried to shake the evening off. Six months without sex and a string of bad first dates had set me up to feel like this was more than it was -- a cute guy taking me out to dinner. Yes, we found each other attractive. Yes, we had some similar interests. There was definitely good chemistry, but why had he passed on the clear opportunity to have sex with me? We could have come back to my house and had sex on every surface possible -- something told me he had the stamina.

This thought reminded me of my abbreviated masturbation session earlier and I suddenly felt the need to make it up to myself. I decided to engage in my all time favorite routine, which I've always thought of as "romancing myself'. I lit some candles in my bathroom, grabbed a glass of Pinot Noir, drew a bubble bath and read, for probably the hundredth time, an English translation of Goethe's Venetian Epigrams - another find from my rebellious youth searching for taboo sections of the library. The fact that some of the epigrams were originally censored due to their sexual content, sent shivers down my spine, though they were hardly as explicit as modern erotica. I always enjoyed a feeling of connection to an ageless sensuality that made the orgasms I had watching modern porn pale in comparison because I had to truly engage my brain.

In the bath, I gently caressed my calves, my thighs, my hips, reveling in the feel of the soap suds against my smooth skin. I rubbed my thumb over my lips, moistening them with my tongue and biting them softly, playfully nibbling on my lower lip. I imagined that my hands were Cameron's, touching my neck, sweeping my hair off my shoulders. My fingers pulled gently on my hair and I leaned my head back against the tub, imagining his lips trailing across my body slowly, lingering at the cleavage between my breasts, and lightly pinching my nipples in a way that elicited a throaty moan. Just as I started to feel the familiar sensations of my arousal, I stopped, pulling myself out of the tub and walking into my bedroom.

Laying on my bed, I began the exploration of my body again, this time alternating between lingering caresses along my bare skin and urgent strokes, fueling my excitement. My fingers again found their way to my clit, swollen and throbbing insistently. Lightly, I traced circles over it, only to move back to my nipples with similarly teasing movements. My body was well acquainted with this game, aware that delaying my orgasm would produce a much stronger one. Unlike before, I had the time to exact the control and patience required. My entire body hummed along with the sensual melody created by the combination of the smell the perfumed bubbles had left on my skin, tracing fingertips and throaty moans, drawing me nearer to release.

Just as I felt myself tiptoeing on the border of that liberation, I paused again. Getting up off of my bed, I opened a drawer in my night stand containing a handful of colorful, battery operated devices. Selecting my favorite, a vibrating dildo with an additional clit stimulator, I returned to the bed. Deftly, I inserted first one finger and then another, assuring myself that I was wet enough to continue. The warm walls of my pussy clung to my fingers as I slid them in and out, creating a tempo I would emulate with the dildo after a few minutes. I could feel my heart racing, lending its accompaniment to the rhythmic consciousness washing over me.

I switched on the vibrator and closed my eyes, seeing first Cameron and then Rocco before me. Rather than choose between them, I envisioned them both joining me on the bed, Cameron positioned between my thighs about to burry himself inside me as Rocco pressed his rigid cock against my lips. Switching on the vibrator, I positioned it just outside my pussy and then slowly, inch by inch, slid it inside, moaning as it filled me in a way my fingers could not. The clit stimulator thrummed softly, and I sucked on the fingers of my other hand, as if they were Rocco. Steadily I increased the pace of my hand, bucking my hips against the vibrations, until I could no longer stand the waiting. With one hand pumping furiously and the other holding the clit stimulator in direct contact, I felt my body tense, my heels dig in to the sheets and my walls clamp around the dildo as a scream of pure satisfaction escaped my lips.

I could not remember the last time my orgasm had been that good. True, I had years of practice with the art of bringing my own body to climax, but I had to assume that part of it was the energy brought on by imagining both Cameron and Rocco. My attraction to Rocco was simple, so sexual and familiar. On the other hand, I felt drawn to Cameron on a level I suspected I hadn't ever really been on with a man before. I wanted him as clearly as I wanted Rocco, but there was something else that I couldn't quite put my finger on. My brain searched for a way to categorize it, but nothing came. The question echoed through my mind as I listened to the rain beginning to fall outside, lulling me to sleep in my bed, all alone.

The next few days I was so busy showing homes that I managed to avoid thinking about Cameron or Rocco. Well, most of the time anyway. I put off calling Cameron, like he'd instructed me, until Wednesday when I came home to a larger than usual puddle of water in my living room, in front of my fireplace.

"You know, it's the Guy who's supposed to wait three days after a date to call," Cameron answered when he saw my number flash across the screen of his cell phone.

"Too right, my apologies. However, at this exact moment, this is a business call. My living room is starting to stage for Noah's Ark," I exaggerated.

"Shit. I was afraid the storm might laugh at my meager preparations. I'll call Roc and see if he can swing by. He can probably put in some more sealant with his caulking gun, if it's not too wet."

I giggled. Sure, I knew he was talking about caulk and not cock, but adding the bit about it being too wet just sent me over the edge, "Oh yes, I'm sure Rocco knows his way around the caulk."

"Perv. If you don't knock it off, I'll tell him you said that and then you'll never be able to get rid of him. There's nothing that guy likes more than a good caulk joke -- and by good I mean terrible. So, beautiful, how've you been? You miss me yet?"

The second that he asked, I realized that I did. I decided that if he could just run around stating his feelings, I could too, "Yep. Want to come pretend to help me with my roof and then take me out again?"

"Sorry, Princess, I have dinner with my parents tonight -- every Wednesday, in fact -- family tradition."

"Mama's boy!" I teased, but I wondered what it would be like to like your parents well enough to willingly spend time with them as an adult.

"I'd invite you along, but since just telling you I think you're amazing caused a full scale emotional retreat, I'm guessing you'd pass out at the thought of meeting my parents," he teased back. I wished his teasing had been a little less dead on, but he didn't seem to be too bothered, so perhaps my momentary neurotic attack hadn't unnerved him too much. I was, all at once, incredibly preoccupied with the thought that I would do whatever it took to lure this man into my bed.

We chatted for a bit and I felt thirteen again, insanely pleased to be talking on the phone to a boy I had a crush on, while simultaneously my thirty three year old self was impressed with how much we found to talk about.

"I tell you what, after dinner with my parents, I'll stop by and see you, but this time, no sweatshirt," Cameron added just before he hung up. Given his prior sexually elusive behavior I wondered if that comment was made from a desire to see me in less clothing or as a test of my indomitable will.

I was curled up on my couch reading Choke by Chuck Palahniuk when Cameron knocked on the door. I put the book face down on my coffee table to hold my place and tried not to run to answer the door. I was absurdly excited to see him and rather than putting a sweatshirt on, just to be obstinate, I was wearing jeans and a tank top without a bra. I might not have been sure about his goals but I was abundantly clear on mine.

If I'd thought Cameron had looked good in relaxed jeans and a t-shirt, swaggering around on top of my roof, it was nothing compared to him in dress slacks, a light green button down shirt and a blazer. This time, his glasses suited the look perfectly and beneath his clean shave, I could easily see him as the head of a human resources department, though his very presence would undoubtedly spur many HR inappropriate comments.