It is nearly one in the morning, and while I have several tasks that should and will occupy my attention in the next few hours, I find that I cannot concentrate on them for any length of time. The things I can accomplish while on automatic pilot I am doing; the others must wait until my euphoria settles into the new heights it has achieved in the last three and a half hours. I find that I can sort casefiles, but not read them; I can wash dishes but not cook; I can relive the last two hundred and forty minutes on the Tivo of my mind, racing forwards and backwards, focusing in on the blissfully intense moments of the evening with a joy both carnal and candid.

 

I am scent-marked with the essence of Sara.

 

For all the intellectual work that has gone into the seduction of Sara Sidle, I find I’m utterly swept away by the intensity of her physical charms. Not that I’ve ever doubted their impact, or hesitated to consider them at in my private moments, yet still—the taste of her, the memory of her weight on me, her soft little groans against my mouth make me hers, completely.

 

And for a scientist dedicated to the evidence of his physical world, this new paradigm is delightful. While I have looked at this endeavor as a way to put into practice that which I have long desired, the reality and memory of the same is . . . overwhelming.

 

Besotted. That’s what I am—besotted. Infatuated, smitten, enthralled, enraptured.  Oh Sara—

 

It’s odd how even the pulse of her name through my thoughts is enough to make me respond; as if the mental echo is now forever tinted with sweet emotion. I’ve never considered myself sentimental— truthfully my nature and profession don’t encourage it—but for this one aspect: this love of a tall, restless, amazing brunette, I’ll indulge myself.

 

I have kissed her. Lightly, tentatively, at first, and with the invitation of her mouth opening under mine, with far more passion. Kissing is a challenging art; a duel and dance when done well between two people. I’ve never been particularly talented at kissing—too many of my early attempts were fueled by lust over affection, and as I grew older, I lost too many opportunities to practice.

 

I sense that’s about to change. Sara kisses well. Very well. Mind-meltingly, gaspingly pantingly well. Kissing Sara is now my newest obsession, my latest hobby, my thrill of thrills. Kissing Sara is a sweet, sweet delight, and I’m willing to take on the addiction to that talented mouth of hers. Not just in the name of science, oh no—the fundamental push of biology has permeated my initial intentions, brought to the forefront by Sara’s responses.

 

And what responses they were—one of the traits I have long admired in Sara is her intensity. In the soft light of a single lamp, tangled together on her sofa, I gained new respect for that intensity. For once I truly lost myself, for a little while, letting go of hesitation and restraint in the glorious opportunity to touch her, hold her, kiss her.

 

Sara is light, and long; she is warm and flexible. She has the advantage of me--

 

And her hands . . . it’s amusing in memory to know that I’ve been for the lack of a better word for it--groped by Ms. Sidle, to an astonishingly thorough degree. Sara has touched more of me now than any woman has in years—which is both a sad testament to my love life prior to this, and a promising start to the future. I let her touch me; encouraged the slide of her palms and fingertips along my neck, through my hair, across my shoulders. I sensed that as much as I enjoyed it, she seemed to need it as some sort of validation that I was well and truly hers.

 

I needed it myself, and to call it that is a clear indication that both mind and heart are coming from the same place. In the fullness of the moment I am Sara’s and she is mine. I have kissed her, stroked her, held her and touched her. Intimately.

 

It’s odd that there are no polite words for the natural interactions of a man and a woman who aren’t having sex yet but clearly want to. Foreplay is the term that comes to mind, but it’s far too cold and clinical. Sara called it necking, and I suppose that will have to do, even though our necks were only the starting point. With anyone else I’m sure what we managed to do while sprawled on her sofa would be considered shocking after a first date, but considering all the years we’ve known each other, it seemed more than right.

 

I lust for Sara. I lust to make her pretty bed rock and creak. I lust to find her tickle points and make her groan with pleasure. I lust to sate her appetites along with my own in all the ways I’ve ever fantasized about and drop off to sleep with her in my arms.

 

And there are plans for that, certainly; my suitcase is sitting by the door, waiting to be carried out to the car, mute testimony to Sara’s powers of persuasion.

 

Not that I needed much of that, not after the warm joy of her voice in my ear, urging me to stay for the weekend. So I finish the mundane little chores, moving quickly now in the knowledge that soon I will be returning to her. As I pass the notepad on the table, I pause a moment, staring at my hypothesis and notes there and the pomposity of this little exercise suddenly shows me how clearly I’ve been deluding myself. Denying myself.  I pick up my pen once more.

 

Conclusion: My initial hypothesis has been proven to be flawed: in point of fact, the subject, Sara, has been working far longer on her own plan of seduction. I confess to being biased in the matter; as the subject of her desire I must abandon all resistance and allow her to carry out her experiment since it so clearly and cleverly dovetails with my own. Any and all further experimentation in the fields of seduction must now be done as a joint venture; two minds and hearts striving for the same goals are noble and carnal enough to supersede any individual attempts.

 

However, this experiment has provided one enduring and universal truth.

 

I love Sara.

 

 

end