Guest post from DrLaura: "Stalking Desire"

That fateful day high on old Miller’s Hill had left me shaken. I hadn’t expected what had happened, and it had left me a changed woman. Indeed, a conflicted woman. But it wasn’t just Jack’s doing, it was mine as well, and deep within myself I had discovered feelings that I didn’t know I had. He had made me bloom like a flower, and now my petals yearned for more.

After that summer, we’d both left our small town to attend separate schools. Mine was a little Christian college, and Jack attended a large, secular university where he’d received a scholarship. He’d promised to remain true to himself, and I believed him because I’d seen his virtuousness as I’d gazed deep into his eyes. And yet, I worried – I’d been given a window into his nature, and there would be so many temptations far from the safety of our pure and wholesome community.

My first semester that year had been fairly uneventful. I focused on theology classes during the week and Bible studies on the weekend with a couple of like-minded young women. We shared a common desire to live our lives the right way, and, with their Milky-white complexions framed by flaxen hair, they embodied a purity that I knew was right.

One weekend, after we’d been discussing faith, family, and morality, I’d stepped out to the powder room, but when I returned, I’d caught the two of them whispering and giggling. “What are you laughing at?” I asked, blushing. They looked at each other conspiratorially, and then looked back at me, caught, with guilty looks on their faces.

After a short, uncomfortable silence, one of them broke it: “It’s something that Schwartzmann said to me,” and I cringed. That horrible, odious, little, swarthy boy had somehow wormed his way into our college and would say the most inappropriate things. Unspeakable things.

She continued, “As I was leaving the Quad, I heard a whistled catcall across the grass. I reflexively turned and looked, and he shouted at me ‘Hey baby, you cold or just happy to see me?’”, and then, her voice dropping to a whisper, she said with eyes wide, “He asked me to join him in the ‘Winnebago of Love’!”

The blood rushed to my face. How dare he! Prancing around with his shirt unbuttoned halfway down, shouting these unspeakable things across the Quad for everyone to hear! But what on Earth could have possessed my companions to find any humor in this? I asked them.

The other answered with a question: “What, pray tell, do you think goes on in the ‘Winnebago of Love’?”, and gave me a knowing smirk, and I blushed as I felt the bloom of my petals rise again as I imagined what Schwartzmann might have meant by the temperature reference.

We finished up our studies, but I was unable to focus – I couldn’t stop thinking about the “Winnebago” that that odious little Schwartzmann was talking about, and I yearned to ask Jack.  With his unfailing attention to my emotions and the flowers he always brought me, I knew that Jack could make these feelings of anxiety disappear.

And, as if on cue, no sooner had we completed our meeting and these fine young women left, when a knock on the door came. “Who is it?” I called out.  In a husky voice, I heard, “It’s me, Jack” through the door, and my heart skipped a beat. It couldn’t be! His secular university was hours away by car and we hadn’t agreed to meet. But he appeared in the flesh, and I was overcome with what I now know as an older woman to be the return of those deeply romantic feelings I had felt on old Miller’s Hill.

I ran to him, and, after a moment’s hesitation, warmly embraced him. I looked deeply into his eyes and said, “It’s wonderful to see you again, Jack! How are you?” as I chastely grasped his firm biceps.

His manner surprised me: He seemed shy, almost ashamed of something. He wouldn’t, or couldn’t, hold my gaze, and I felt a nearly uncontrollable desire to minister to his needs.

And then, as if releasing a great burden, Jack began to reveal it all: “I’ve made so many mistakes… And now my mother has lost everything,” and gave me a look of dread. He continued, “I’ve sown my magic seeds …”

The room seemed to spin slowly and I could only hear the pounding of my heart, as my worst fears seemed to be coming true…  But he held me close against his sculpted abs and pleaded, “It’s not my fault – I’m a red blooded American,” and with a hopeful smile he said something about an endless supply of “golden Fabergés” and my heart melted… And then, over angelic harp music, I heard him say with a sexy determination “It’s huge and thick, and grows to the sky”, and I felt myself losing control as I felt the thrust of

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