Two Prime Numbers 19 67

Their conversation had been wide-ranging and multi-faceted, wonderfully refreshing and satisfying. Dinner itself had been exquisite, the table as private as they'd hoped, the food superb - filet mignon, kale Caesar salad, turnip soufflé, and a bottle of intense, almost tannin-less syrah. Due to familial training, Taylor had very seldom tasted wine, but even (especially?) for a tyro, she found this one mind-blowing. Likewise the entire evening: mind-blowing. She, a junior at a religious college, being treated so lavishly by the retired professorial visitor to campus – dinner at the best restaurant in town. And explicitly without ulterior, hidden, nefarious motives on Roger's part. It was a 'thank-you' for her hard work on his behalf.

Taylor set down her dessert menu, took another sip of her wine while looking squarely, unblinkingly into his eyes, then reached across the table for Roger's hand, squeezed it.

Silence.

He arched one eyebrow, waited.

"Can I ask a silly question?"

He nodded: his expression said 'Of course!'

She took a slow, deep breath: "Tell me honestly now – after our two days of running on the campus and beach with all those boobs and butts and legs on display – do you find me at all sexy?"

*****

Roger had flown across the country to teach, for the faculty of the small but striving campus, two iterations (Thursday, Friday) of his class, 'Proposal Strategy.' He would stay the weekend, leave Monday, so he could enjoy the beach and intense, predictable sunshine - a change from his Pacific NW home.

The school was private, undergraduate only, and seriously religious (way overly so, he felt, having browsed the college's web-site) but it had a brilliant policy about teaching students responsibility and teamwork. They assigned well-defined complex tasks (like his visit) to one student, gave them authority, responsibility and resources, and told them to figure it out and handle it, while doing the school proud.

Taylor (the only woman so-named whom Roger had ever met) was a work-study undergraduate in the office of the Vice-Provost for Research, the "VPR", doing whatever was needed. A generalized 'gofur'. Four weeks ago she was given his visit as an assignment; Roger and everything to do with his visit were entirely

her

responsibility while he was enroute to campus, actually aboard, or enroute home.

Accordingly (after Roger and the VPR's office had agreed on date, topic, and fee), she had initiated their getting together via Skype, with live real-time online face-to-face, a first for him. She was good (pretty, too, which for Roger wasn't a requirement but certainly never hurt) – organized, thorough, obviously very well educated already. Well-prepared even for that first call: she'd made him a short video showing the lecture facilities plus a short campus tour, and talked him through it.

They got along famously from the get-go. In that first conversation he'd discovered that her main interest was marine biology. Being an oceanographer, he volunteered to help her with general career advice, and on her graduate-school applications. While they were online for that initial contact, she'd sent him her CV and complete transcript, so he knew a good deal about her – age (19, soon 20); status (nominal junior, effective 1st semester senior); GPA (3.82); GRE scores (superb); home address (1000+ miles away, out of state). She already had his CV and personal data in the file, and was quite impressed – PhD, JD, age 67, retired, a wealth of experience spanning at least six careers.

Being impressed was mutual – she was taking the right foundational courses – lots of chemistry, math, physics – and seemed to have either found a good advisor or figured out a lot on her own. He complimented her on that: she blushed (visible even on low-res Skype), said it was her own doing, the choices seemed obvious. He told her –quite truthfully- that however obvious they might seem to HER, not many people figured it out early enough to handle it properly, as she was clearly doing.

Taylor had worked hard on this meeting - arranged menus and catering; printed schedules and fliers; inquired as to his lodging needs and made the arrangements -a mile from campus, a small suite ("NOT just a cheap little room!" her boss had said) in a very good hotel.

She found out he was a noon-time runner, and invited him to bring his gear. She was a runner too, would show him the campus and its beaches by foot, and she would get him a visitor's freebie pass for the gym adjacent to the meeting building.

And she did all the dozens of little things needed to make the classes a success - signs to restrooms, proper style and arrangement of tables, electricity to the tables, video facilities.

Roger arrived at noon Wednesday – the afternoon of which he planned to spend partly with the campus mucky-mucks, but mostly with Taylor, going over details. She picked him up, meeting him at the baggage claim per plan. Up close and in person, she was much smaller and younger-looking than he'd expected, but even prettier than when seen over Skype. Five two, one ten, with piercing pale-blue eyes, beautiful lightly-tanned skin, long shiny dark-reddish hair pulled into a pony-tail. Square-oval face with a perfect nose, insanely inviting lips, and perhaps the whitest teeth he'd ever seen. A beautiful butt, lovely runner's legs dangling from snug white shorts, and essentially no bosom whatever.

She wore a loose boat-necked sleeveless blouse, running shoes, sunglasses: full-stop! That was her entire ensemble. She'd warned him about the informality of student dress (including her own) in the northern Florida climate, and as a result Roger had arrived in tennis shorts and a good tee-shirt.

If he was pleasantly surprised by HER, the reverse was equally true. Taylor was astounded, enough so to break her own protocol and say "Um, wow! You sure don't LOOK like a retired professor! You said you're a runner – those legs prove it!" Then, perturbed at her unplanned and inexplicable (but, she hoped, forgivable) forwardness, she led him quickly to the car. The drive to his hotel was uneventful – full of friendly chatter half science half lecture-prep details.

He checked in, dropped his bag in the room and rejoined her for the trip to campus. The afternoon blew by: he had dinner (sushi) with two of the VPR staff, and they dropped him at the hotel.

He walked the mile to campus in the morning, a tall double latte in hand. At seven-thirty he met Taylor at the lecture-room: she was way ahead of him. Class was to start at 0830. The setup was perfect, save for the need to re-arrange a dozen work-tables. She seemed mildly chagrined, wondered aloud who had moved them about, said it was still too early to call for janitorial help, but that shouldn't be a problem – the two of them could easily do the job themselves in the time it would take to make such a call.

Each table was a two-person item, awkward but not heavy. And each carry required them to stoop whilst facing one another, which afforded Roger a dozen prolonged and perfectly delightful views down her blouse. She seemed oblivious: he wondered if she were actually so? If so, hooray! If she were not oblivious, then what (if anything) to infer?

At any rate, she wore no bra, and had no need for one. Two very small shallow cones, solid and totally ignorant of gravity, with translucent pink points, like new-sprung boobs borrowed from a girl just starting puberty. Suntan-brown, white, pink – a delightful combination! They got his attention far more seriously than would have a better-developed set, because they were a near-perfect replica of a pair particularly important in his personal history – there had been a certain Miss Anne and himself (egad, so many decades ago!), encouraged to be alone together far too much... all at the instigation of her solidly-Catholic parents whose main focus seemed to be getting their various daughters into service in the "human-being production line" as quickly as possible.

Anne was a precocious thing, who obviously enjoyed giving him frequent 'accidental' views down her blouses. Nothing beyond glimpses ever came of it, but he had fixated on her body. Taylor's bosom strongly resembled Anne's – and was therefore entrancing, maddening, and utterly addictive. And - damn it all! - completely off-limits.

As enrollees arrived and got coffee, Taylor worked the welcoming and registration table. All went well – an attentive and appreciative class, plenty of questions and enthusiasm. Lunch break was 1200 -1330, and as instructed, he'd brought his running gear to the class. At 1205 they were in the gym; at 1212, running side-by-side across campus. He let her set the pace – slower than he'd have gone were he solo, but fine.

The campus was swarming – almost literally so- with undergraduate women (over 70% of the student body was female). Apparently the entrance requirements included big boobs, perfect butts, long legs, suntans for the few Caucasians – and a willingness to put it all on open display. It was distracting, to the point where Taylor giggled as they passed one particularly exposed example, and said sideways "There are a LOT of them out and about today, aren't there?!"

She was pleased that Roger reddened – gotcha! He was so easy to talk to!

He shrugged, advanced his theory about admissions requirements.

She laughed, agreed. Then, after a hundred or so meters of silence, he volunteered "Lots of busty bodies, sure, and that's nice. A distraction for me even though I spent twenty years running the beaches of San Diego. Including the big nude beach, Black's. But frankly, I was trained – broken in as it were – on bodies much more like yours, and THAT's my idea of a good time."

Then, vaguely worried, he ended with "Incidentally, Taylor, that was definitely, absolutely NOT meant to be a pass at you – just a statement of fact about myself. No offense, please?! I'd hate it if I upset you after all the lovely hard work you've put in advancing my cause!"

She laughed, distinctly pinker than before his comment, and pinker than required by their pace. "That's okay – no offense meant and none taken. I'm flattered. But the Playboy syndrome is pretty wide-spread and I suspect you're in a VERY small minority! No double-entendre intended!" Then, half a beat later, "I mean it... I love talking with you. You're very open, and it's fun – we can go anywhere in our discussions while we're doing other things."

She stopped speaking for several paces, then said "Like moving tables, for instance. But you didn't seem to have anything to say back then."

He almost stumbled, caught himself, tried to come up with a retort, looked sideways at her, made smiling happy eye-contact, and quit trying. She hadn't been oblivious to the views she had given him, for sure! She was fast, indeed – fast and good!

They finished the run in plenty of time to shower and get back to the lecture room. Nobody gave them a glance as they entered and took up their proper stations.

Afternoon break at 1530: Roger was momentarily alone, standing by the screen, laser-pointer in hand. He waved her over. "Running again tomorrow? Maybe a bit faster?"

She grinned: "Absolutely! And I'm sure there'll be more boobs and butts for your enjoyment!"

He laughed, said low so as not to be overheard, "Try telling me you don't look at the male booties and legs!" Then, still for her ears only, "Attention! Attention! This is NOT a pass, I say again, this is NOT a pass - Taylor, your bottom and your boobs running alongside me is all I need, thank you very much."

She blushed prettily, said nothing: he went on: "Now – to more serious business. You, Madam, have been magnificent in all this –quite a professional effort, above and beyond the call. I intend to so inform the VPR when we're done. Meanwhile and more personally, please allow me to ask – are you in a position to entertain an invite for dinner tomorrow after we wrap things up? That would be dinner with a much older man – plenty old enough to be your grandfather? I know one who'd really appreciate the company."

She looked at him, momentarily wide-eyed and astonished, then cracked the most beautiful smile. She'd never been asked out in such an incredibly politic way – in one flashing instant she realized and admired how he'd left multiple no-fault, no-rejection, no-explanation-required escape routes.

Back during the Skyping and arrangement-making, back when first she thought about it, 67-19 had presented – at least superficially- quite a gap. But in his presence, actually interacting in person, the hypothetical gap simply wasn't there. Perhaps in some ways his fifty or more years' experience was a good thing to be facing!? Maybe there were reasons -other than power and money- that older men could be so attractive to much younger women?

Without a perceptible pause she replied "I'd love to accept. But just exactly WHO IS this gentleman I'm going to dinner with?"

He laughed: "My alter ego – the twenty-five year old inside. Be prepared to watch out!"

She asked if he had a restaurant in mind. Travel web-sites and airline magazines agreed that by far the best local restaurant was on the top floor of his hotel, so he named it: had she heard of the place?

She goggled momentarily – it was a great restaurant, with a fully commensurate reputation for price. It took some effort to get started: "Wow! Um, sure I have. It's supposed to be far and away the best place in town. I've never been there. I'm not sure I know anyone who has! I'd love to try it out with you – but I'd prefer your real self as my date, not some imaginary and probably rather immature twenty-fiver! I like your real self, believe me! Have you made reservations?"

He shook his head.

Something in her really, REALLY wanted to lock this event firmly into place. "Then we'd better do it right NOW!" She pulled out her phone: in thirty seconds she found the number and got through to the reservations desk.

Roger listened-in without comment. "Two for dinner tomorrow, please. Six thirty?" She looked at him for an okay: he nodded.

"Fine. Can you hold us a table with a view?"

Roger reached for the phone: she said "Hold on a sec, my date wants to say something." Then to him, hand over the mouthpiece, whispering and shaking her head, "

You

will be my date, you know! The

REAL

you! Like it or not! Your inner twenty-five-year-old, indeed. Such baloney! What would I want with a BOY, anyhow?" She grinned, stuck her tongue out at him, very six-year-oldish - and also incredibly sexy.

He took the phone: "Hi! We'd like a view but with as much privacy as possible. It's a special occasion. I'm in room 1369." He got confirmation, killed the connection, grinned at her and said "Bravo! Now you're committed – you can't get away!"

She was again astonished – he'd obviously been thinking – perhaps even feeling? – exactly the way she had. Eerie. Nice, complimentary, but eerie!

Dinner after Thursday's class was at the faculty club as the VPR's guest – appropriately, Taylor was invited, too. She tried to beg off but Roger wouldn't let her. She trotted to the dorm a whole 300 m away, returned significantly more formally dressed. When the little party assembled, Roger introduced her as the person to whom were due all thanks for the actual program, opined that everything had gone perfectly so far, then insisted on seating her between himself and the VPR – her third-level-up boss.

Under the table she kicked him gently in the shins several times.

Everyone survived dinner, in good spirits. She dropped him off at the hotel and much to his surprise –she was still in the driver's seat at the moment- she gave him a light peck on the cheek, a hand-squeeze, and a strangely breathy thank-you for insisting she come to the VPR's dinner. Then she was gone.

Friday AM she picked him up for class #2. The day went extraordinarily slowly, except for their noon run: her predictions about the scenery were completely accurate. They ran faster than the first day – Roger, she discovered, could set whatever pace they wanted, and maintain it dead-accurate. Once again, experience told. ('And in so MANY ways!' she told herself privately.) There was no doubt he was in better running shape than she, which both surprised and pleased her.

End of Friday's class: after six PM. The grounds-staff were clearing the room. Her duties done, Taylor picked up her large purse, headed to the ladies room, "...to change for dinner."

Ten minutes passed, she reappeared. He literally gaped slightly: his surprise and pleasure were obvious, and pleased her thoroughly. Loose, floaty harem-jama-like trousers of a blue-smoke gossamer fabric incapable of taking a wrinkle. He doubted that the pants, balled up, would be the volume of his fist. The fabric was a male observer's delight: it insisted on plastering itself paint-like –just momentarily- to random bits of underlying epidermis. The effect was extraordinarily sexy. The top was, again, a sleeveless boatneck affair (sans bra, of course – not the tiniest need!) even more nearly transparent than the trousers – and significantly more clingy. Some outfit, he thought, for a young woman at such a "religious" school! At any rate, he found the combined effect boggling – but the kicker was her hair – it had gone from ponytail to a tight, perfect French roll that emphasized a long, slender neck of which he'd been unaware. In those ten minutes she had added ten, perhaps fifteen years to her age – and multiple layers of sophistication to her persona.

His face as he scanned her up and down, plus his long, low whistle, were the perfect reward for her efforts. She linked her arm in his, said "You like?" When he actually sputtered trying to explain how much, she giggled once, said "Good! I like it when you like me!", then headed them outside. As they walked towards the parking lot, she squeezed his arm against her side, matched his stride, grinned up at him and asked "So, Mon Professor, what exactly is your hidden agenda, your concealed ulterior motive in this evening's invitation? There's ALWAYS one, I think!"

He was a bit nonplussed: she continued to grin at him as he fumbled for an answer. "There's really no ulterior motive, Miss Student."

She shook her head gently, shrugged, and said "Why do I doubt you? I don't even WANT to believe that – if it were true, it'd spoil the whole game, don't you think?" Then, giving him no time to respond, she announced "Here's our car!" Digging into her purse, she found the keys, handed them to him. "I'm your date, so you get to drive this time. Think you can you remember the way?"

He managed. Barely.

*****

Taylor set down her dessert menu, took another sip of her wine while looking squarely, unblinkingly into his eyes, then reached across the table for Roger's hand, squeezed it. Silence. He arched one eyebrow, waited. "Can I ask a silly question?" He nodded: his expression said 'of course!' She took a slow, deep breath: "Tell me honestly now – after our two days of running on the campus and beach with all those boobs and butts and legs on display – do you find me at all sexy?"

Roger was taken aback, thought the question ludicrous, the answer painfully obvious. But she was serious. He reached for their coupled hands with his other and made a sandwich, didn't let go.

It was their first clearly non-casual, overtly-intentional physical contact: she studied it, privately pronounced it "Good!"

He took a moment to compose his reply, carefully choosing individual words: "Taylor, I've learned from my entire lifetime of experience that no woman asks a man that question unless she's already made up her mind to invite him to her bed."