First date, set up by a common friend so it's totally blind, I took Christina out to dinner, now she's invited me back to her apartment.

So far, so good. But I can't read where she's willing to go. If anywhere, this could be just a nice talk with her.

She hands me my drink, she's having lemonade so we aren't having drunk sex. Pity. But she's kind of cute, and she's worming her little way into my feelings.

She sits on her couch. Hmmm. I go for a somewhat close sit. No objection, but she doesn't exactly lean into me either. More ambiguity.

She's talking about some painting and where she put it on the wall. Somehow there's more to the story than a hammer and a nail. I put my hand on her stomach. No objection. I think all I'm getting tonight is talk, but there could be other nights. I edge my hand up to touching the bottom of her breasts.

Christina shoots me a dirty look. I move my hand back down a half inch.

She's not giving me much. But she's nice, and funny. And lively. "So, Christina, I heard you're an author?" That sounds interesting.

She gives me a big smile. "Yeah. I love to write. Nothing published yet." She shrugs and looks down, I think a little embarrassed.

"And you write erotica?" I move my hand up, so just my thumb is against the bottom of her breast. She's wearing a light bra, so when I press up just a little while she talks, I feel the softness of her breast.

"I guess. I don't know what to call it. There's a few standard tropes for erotic stories, right?"

"Yeah." I'm sure there is, whatever a trope is. I put my other hand on the back of her neck. I don't think she notices, she's too focused on what she's saying.

"I make my stories erotic, Jon, but I don't follow the tropes. And usually my stories are just as much about power, and abuse. And love." She shrugs again.

"Power, abuse, and love. Sounds interesting. Tell me about power." I want to know about power. I start gently running my finger back and forth on her neck. My other hand moves to her thigh as she talks. She's wearing tight jeans.

"Power can be erotic." She pushes my hand down lower on her thigh, slowing me down but it's not an official warning. She then looks up and thinks. "Men have power over women. And control."

We really need more. I start moving my hands over her thigh. She's still trying to explain. "It's not just your size and strength. I mean, it's that too. But you just love power, and seeks power, and use. Power."

I move my hand up her thigh, regaining half of my lost ground. "But women have power and control over men too."

I'm get that -- she's the gatekeeper. But she seems to be an easily-distracted gatekeeper. "You want us. That gives us an odd kind of power. Maybe power isn't the right word." Another look-down in embarrassment, she notices my hand on her thigh but seems lost in her own thoughts.

I say, "No, I get it. Power. So it's equal."

"No!" She turns to me, all excited. Her movement shifts my hands to new places. One hand starts exploring her ear; the other is back to her stomach and slowly heading north. "It's all different. The power and control I have over you is different." She puts her hand to her mouth. "Oops! I'm not supposed to admit to having control."

"All is good," I assue her, smiling. "I heard nothing." I put my hand on her breast.

She lightly punches my shoulder. Honestly, does she not notice that my hand is on her breast? "So, Jon, as a culture, we have to negotiate that power and control. But we don't!!" Then she keeps talking. She sure can talk. But listening to a cute female talk about power and sex is not exactly hard on my ears.

I look, still amazed that my hand is on her breast. "So you men are fantastic at building machines and stuff, but most of you are not good at feelings." I'm getting hard. I might develop a fetish for incomprehensible explanations by excited, sexy women. "So that's your big vulnerability. Well, maybe not yours, sorry. Most men." Again that shy look-down.

But she finally sees my hand on her breast, seems surprised, and is about to brush it off. I say quickly, "Tell me about abuse."

She starts to push my hand away, then forgets, leaving both of our hands on her breast. "Our culture is talking more about abuse. That's really good, and important. My stories do that too. How it happens, and what it feels like. Even to the abuser -- abuse sounds horrible, but it comes out of love and sex and power. Well, it can, that's what I think."

While she spoke, my hands roamed over her breasts, trying to excite her. I stopped as soon as she stopped talking. "Where do you get your ideas?"

She gets excited -- by my question, not by my hand, but I start brushing her nipple when she starts talking. "I ask guys for their fantasy. More often than I expected, they have some idea that seems different from anything I ever expected. It's such a great opportunity for me, to go to places in writing that I couldn't get to without their help."

I can feel her nipple getting hard. So my hand is working too. I can feel her vulnerability and my power.

"The stories end up being kind of conceptual, and, um, um, kind of personalized." She looks at my hand brushing her nipple. "It's really hard to concentrate when you're doing that."

"Sorry." I drop my hand back to her thigh. "Sex? I mean, in your story. I'm guessing the obvious for that."

"Nothing's obvious. I don't know if I'm right about anything." She sounds frustrated.

"I'm sure you are. Or you're giving people something to think about." My hand is slowly creeping up the inside of her thigh. Prime real estate. "And the high quality part?"

She sighs contentedly. As she speaks, I start to softly rub on her jeans where I'm pretty sure her clit is. "I'm an author, so I know how to do suspense and humor and awesome moments. And I really like characters and emotion. Erotica is . . . erotica is . . . It's good for that. Because . . . "

She makes a little high-pitched noise that sounds like pleasure. So I found her clit. "Why is erotica good for that?" I rub just a little harder.

She looks into my eyes and asks plaintively, "Do I have to talk about that right now?"

I unbutton her jeans and she squeeks! My hands go into her pants, she gives a long happy sigh, and I start rubbing her clit. "You can tell me later, Christina." She just nods -- the gate-keeper is now off-duty.

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