Every year my head of department invited me to his special wine tasting. Desmond had been a country boy scholarship winner from North East Victoria. His academic career had settled him in Melbourne but he never lost touch with his country roots and childhood friends. A few of them had taken over their family's farms and become vintners. They sent their friend Des annually a generous sample of their latest bottling.
Usually once during the academic year, Desmond decided that a particular vintage in his growing collection had reached perfection. He would invite a select group of us to a tasting. Apart from me, the other members of our party worked in different departments of our university. They had met Desmond in his role as independent chairperson, and often peacemaker, on various committees. This year five of us knew each other from previous tastings. The two things we knew about the three newcomers were that they appreciated wine and that they, like us, had won Des's friendship.
What was unusual this year was that Des had invited a woman to join us. He, like many other male teachers, had responded to the Me-Too onrush of accusations against men by avoiding any personal, non-formal relationship with female students and staff. What was different about this woman that Des had invited her to a party of males in his home?
We surreptitiously looked her over: she was tall, slim, a brunette with shoulder-length hair, no discernible make-up and casually dressed in jeans, a plain t-shirt and runners. We were put somewhat at ease when she introduced herself with a cheery, "Hi, all. I'm Kate from Biology. I'm still new here."
Introductions over, we settled comfortably into Des' large and homely, intergenerationally over-furnished living room. The big red Des had selected for more than just a furtive tasting was superb. It was accompanied by a generous feed of cheese, smoked ham and thick slices of country bread laid out on a sideboard for the taking. The relaxed, unfussed mood found us quickly companionably engaged in relishing the offerings, and a lively exchange of laughter and talk.
For us previous acquaintances, the talk switched naturally to the news and changes in our lives since we were together at Des's last year's party. I told them that after my divorce was concluded I had bought an apartment in Carlton. I lived now close to the university and might invite them over for a drink. Regarding the divorce, mine wasn't the only one. But - with a sideway glimpse at new member Kate - we male divorcees swallowed the hurtful details and turned to the wine and food.
When I asked Desmond where he had located this wonderful cheddar cheese, a movement by Kate made me look at her. She, holding a plate, chimed in, "God, Desmond, with your wine this cheese is worth dying for!" Looking up at Des, Kate licked a finger, swept the plate to collect the remaining cheese crumbs and then pushed the loaded finger into her mouth for an appreciative suck.
Desmond laughed and moved away and Kate's eyes shifted to me. With her dark eyes wide open and the laugh wrinkles behind her oversized fashion glasses, she let her finger demonstratively plop out of her mouth. Then she leaned back in her chair and pulled her legs up under her. Lifting her wine glass inviting me to toast, Kate gave me a broad smile and said, "So, to life and all you and I seem to enjoy."
Without wanting to be too quickly won over, I merely raised my glass in response. But now really looking at her for the first time, I was stricken by the openness and beauty of Kate's strong, intelligent face. Also, as she lounged in her chair, Kate neither hid nor displayed her slim body's allure from my furtive eyes. The well-shaped ankles left uncovered by her jeans, and the enticing shape of her smallish breasts under her t-shirt caused me a politically incorrect stirring in the groin.
I tried not to stare but it was long enough for Kate to notice. In leaning back her boobs suddenly showed nipples of pointy perfection under her stretched top. Kate momentarily turned her eyes down on their betrayal. When she looked up again, she gave me a knowing, not at all chastising smile.
The magical moment passed, and Kate and I were drawn into the lively exchange of opinions about our work situation. Eventually, our talk turned to the, most of us felt, increasing alienation of us in our university jobs. Be it in the humanities, sciences, marketing or psychology, the language in which we think, teach and write has become for the outside world a foreign tongue. And with it, we have become either half-understood or ignored.
I do not know if it was the wine or the sideways glance at Kate that made me burst into this general debate with a personal confession. With an embarrassed guffaw, I said, "You have just given me the perfect excuse for my writing for Literotica."
There was a moment of silence, then suppressed laughter before Roger, the mathematician, declared, "Oh, I see! Benjamin, our English prof, has started to write porn?"
"And our pure maths colleague knows all about the porn in Literotica!", commented David dryly.
This scored applause and tension-easing laughter. It encouraged me to give my reasons for what I was doing:
"My friends, I wanted to find out if I still could write. I mean differently, in a way that would be read and enjoyed by ordinary people. Requiring proof, I had to make my writings available. But how? They were not for our academic journals. Eager to have my story published, I settled on Literotica. It offered me for free a large and interestingly mixed readership. There was a price to pay. I had to shed my inhibitions in writing entertainingly and sexually arousing about erotic experiences."
I leaned back in my chair. Suddenly brave, I faced Kate as I concluded, "Yes, I needed to become sexually unashamed. Since then, some twenty-thousand anonymous readers have followed and enjoyed my disreputable stories. When it comes to sex, my language and my stories must have found the common touch!"
Kate's eyes had not wavered in looking at me. She had sucked in her lower lip. Suppressing a question, Kate blushed. None of the others asked about the details of my contributions to Literotika either, and our talking switched back to general matters.
When our party broke up and we gathered around Desmond for our Thank You and Good Byes, Kate stood close to me. So close, that her breast pressed attention demanding against my arm.
Then her breath caressed my cheek as she whispered, "Ben, I have questions I didn't dare ask. Can I text you?"
I looked down to see the phone in her hand resting against my hip. Its screen was lit up on 'Contacts'. Turning towards Kate, sheltered by our bodies, I typed in my phone number and private mail address. In looking down, our foreheads touched and neither she nor I pulled back.
But then we went home our separate ways. I strongly felt it was the wrong ending to the night. However, as I was undressing to go to bed, my phone binged.
Looking at the screen I suddenly knew the unknown number had to be Kate:
"Dear Ben, I have to send you this request while I am still in the afterglow of D's wine and remembering/feeling what tonight has happened between us. You looked at me and wanted me! You did, didn't you? I felt it so strongly. Therefore, I dare to ask you to let me read your stories. I want to know how you write, how you feel about sex, women and -- yes, I admit it -- their (and your!) sexual passion. Are you shocked? Is it too much to ask? Will you mail me the titles of your stories? Or your Username in Literotica? You see, I dare to be as shameless as you!!?? Kate."
