Image by Виктория Бородинова from Pixabay
Sometimes
I think it’s more fun to flirt than to fuck.
Of
course, I’ve always been focused more on the experience of arousal
than on the ultimate release. That’s just the way I’m wired. When
I recall my most intense erotic adventures, I don’t remember the
orgasms, but rather, the inexorable upward ramp of desire, the
thrilling anticipation of what was to come.
You
get a lot of the same pay-off from flirting, without the attendant
risks.
Knowing
someone wants me—realizing the power I have over my partner’s
body and imagination— it’s heady, almost addictive. Kick me out
of the feminist union if you want, but I love being seen as a sex
object. I don’t mind the fact that men (or women) might be watching
and lusting after me. Quite the contrary. I do the same, after all,
discretely ogling strangers, fantasizing about their hidden charms.
Flirting
goes a bit further, but not much. Flirting requires an
acknowledgment. A smile. A wave. An exchange of greetings, moving on
perhaps to compliments or double-entendres. Underneath it all,
there’s the excitement of mutual attraction, the pleasurable buzz
of arousal that doesn’t need to be consummated to be enjoyed.
When
you flirt, you don’t need to worry about practicality or propriety.
I can chat up the lanky twenty-something barista at my local coffee
shop, basking in the heat I feel in his gaze, despite the fact that
I’m forty years older and happily married. I can shoot back some
clever response to the burly construction worker who gives an
appreciative whistle as I walk past, though I know we have nothing in
common. I’ve brightened his day. He’s done the same for mine.
Maybe he’ll fantasize about me as he’s jerking off. That doesn’t
bother me. I might take the same liberties.
Flirting
is most satisfying, though, with an intellectual equal. I remember a
small party, years ago, with some university friends, hosted by a
very appealing philosophy professor and his wife. We’d gathered to
create homemade cheese tortellini. Christopher had dark eyes, the
graceful long-fingered hands of a musician, a devilish smile and a
delightfully agile mind. As we worked together—he cutting neat
squares of pasta dough which I filled and twisted closed—we
discussed politics, solipsism, and the works of Robertson Davies.
At
one level, the topics of our conversation hardly mattered. The focus
was the magnetism, the sexual tension that flickered between us. At
the same time, the mental gymnastics in which we engaged added to the
pleasure. If we were ever to connect, we knew the bond would be more
than physical. Not that either of us really considered going further—
well, of course, I don’t know in detail what was going on in his
mind, but both our spouses were present, and I had no inkling his
marriage was in any way less satisfying than mine. But reality was
irrelevant. Flirting is all about fantasy, about possibilities that
will very likely never materialize but which nevertheless excite.
The
detail with which I remember this particular long-past incident of
flirtation is testimony to how much it affected me.
I
worry, however, that flirting will become a dying art. These days,
flirting is often conflated with unwanted sexual attention. A
respectful and well-meaning compliment is likely to be interpreted as
inappropriate, offensive or threatening, while a friendly wolf
whistle will get you roundly condemned as a sexual predator. I
mentioned above that flirting involved lower risks than full-out sex,
but in today’s hyper-vigilant climate that might not be true.
Where’s
the line, though, between flirtation and harassment? How can someone
distinguish between innocent innuendo and potential abuse? When does
sexual objectification become demeaning or dangerous, rather than
fun?
I
don’t have an easy answer to these questions. It might depend on
mutuality, or on the certainty that a lack of reciprocity would
immediately put a halt to the unwanted attention. I do know that
individual reactions vary. I’m sure that some of the actions that
I’d accept as flirtatious behavior would be condemned as
unacceptably sexist by some women.
At
the same time, I’m certain that life would be far less colorful and
entertaining if every expression of sexual interest between strangers
were banned.
Given
my appreciation of flirting, you’d expect it to show up frequently
in my writing. In fact, I have very few stories that feature this
sort of interaction. I know most readers aren’t like me. They’re
looking for physical, not just fantasy, sex.
I
did find a few prominent examples, though. Here’s one of my
favorites, from the short story “Test Drive”, which appears in
the altruistic erotica anthology Coming
Together: On Wheels,
edited by Leigh Ellwood and benefiting UNHCR.
“Hey
there, pretty lady.”
His
drawl rumbled through me, an avalanche of heat, melting everything in
its path. My hair flew as I turned back in his direction.
I’d
intended to scold him for his barely polite greeting. The words
caught in my throat as I took him in.
He
lounged in the doorway of the Indian motorcycle showroom, hands in
his pockets, broad shoulders braced against the frame, one lean,
denim-clad leg crossed over the other—six feet of loose-limbed
masculinity. A sand-colored braid hung down across his solid chest,
almost to his waist. The rolled-up sleeves of his plaid shirt
revealed tanned forearms furred with golden down. His sun-bronzed
face wasn’t classically handsome, but when his bright blue eyes
snagged mine, I couldn’t look away.
Thirty.
Thirty five at most. I could almost be his mother. Shocking that all
I wanted to do was tear off my conservative skirt and blouse and
throw myself into those obviously strong arms.
“Want
to come for a ride, darlin’?”
“Ah—huh—what?”
A master’s degree in library science, reduced to inarticulate
mumbling by a bit of flirting. What was I, a teenager?
“Got
a sale going on, through next week. Discounts of twenty to thirty
percent on all our models. I have to say you’d look fantastic on a
bike, Miss.” He unfolded himself from his casual pose and handed me
a business card. “I’m Jack Taggart. Top sales associate in the
Midwest, three years running. And you are…?”
It’s
none of your business
who I am, I wanted to tell
him. Fat chance. “Um—Alice. Alice Robinson.”
“Pleased
to meet you, Miss Robinson.” Apparently helpless to resist, I
accepted the large, calloused hand he held out. Lighting sizzled
through me as our palms connected. “Or is it Mrs. Robinson?”
His
cocky grin sent blood rushing to my cheeks. I straightened my spine
and tried to regain some sort of control over my autonomic functions.
“Mrs. My husband died four years ago.”
“Oh—I’m
so sorry…”
He
gave my hand a sympathetic squeeze. With some difficulty, I pried it
out of his grasp. What if one of my co-workers came by? “That’s
okay. He was sick for quite some time. In some ways it was a
blessing.”
“Still,
it must be hard for you—being alone and all.”
I
shrugged. I missed Ben, but I had to admit I enjoyed some aspects of
being single. Aside from work, my time was my own. I didn’t have to
answer to anyone—except, occasionally, my daughter on the West
Coast. I smiled up into those sky-colored eyes, noting the crinkles
at the corners. Perhaps he wasn’t quite as young as I thought.
“What
makes you think I’m alone?”
“Well,
I admit that it’s unlikely a woman as lovely as you would be
unattached...”
“Is
this how you got to be the top-ranked salesman? Flattering the
customers?” I flipped a lock of hair over my shoulder and smoothed
my skirt down over my lap, very aware of the dampness underneath. It
might be the purest bull, but that didn’t stop me from reacting.
“That’s
not fair, Alice—can I call you Alice?” He continued without
waiting for my nod. “First of all, it’s the God honest truth. You
are the most beautiful woman who’s walked by the shop in days.”
“Sure,”
I said. “I’ll bet you told the same thing to the last half
dozen.”
“No
way! Secondly, I’m the best because I love the bikes. I know pretty
much everything about the full Indian line, from the Scout to the
Roadmaster. I don’t just sell them. I can repair ‘em, too—did a
six month mechanics training course in Minnesota. And of course I
ride, these days a Chief Dark Horse. Started on a vintage 1950 Black
Hawk, when I was sixteen.”
He
paused his monologue to give me another appreciative once over. “You
ever been on a bike, Alice? I know you’d love it.”
“I’ve
never been that inclined to risk my life,” I replied with a
chuckle. It was difficult for me to maintain an attitude of
skepticism in the face of his enthusiasm and his obvious admiration.
“It’s
no riskier than driving a car. And so much more fun! The speed—the
freedom—the sense of control—there’s nothing like it. It’s
addictive. Come on, Alice. Let me take you on a test drive.”
Of course, in this story, the protagonists do eventually have sex. But they have an awful lot of fun flirting first.
