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Learning to love my man-boobs and my body.

vately 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."
He watched - her blush was visible even in the candle-light.

"The answer to your question, M'Lady, is an absolutely unqualified YES. In spades! You're an extraordinarily sexy woman, and also very pretty and very sensuous and extremely intelligent and capable - all those together in one package is vanishingly rare and monumentally arousing. In plain English, the simple fact is that you are so far beyond merely "sexy" that I can hardly stand being here with you. At the risk of being obnoxious or perhaps pathetic, I do wish there weren't the obvious "67 vs. 19" and "senior professor vs. undergraduate" problems. That'd give me a lot more freedom to do what I'd LIKE to do. Enough said?"

Her gaze hadn't flickered: she brought her other hand up to make a four-layer sandwich.

She spoke with an underlying vehemence, as if she'd thought her way through this very scenario much more than once. "Nineteen and sixty-seven are just numbers, nothing more. The only interesting thing about the pair is that both are primes. And that's just accidental, although it's cute. Anyhow, it'll go away next year."

Then, almost viciously, "Damn people, damn society, and damn their fetish for numbers and categories! Stamping idiotic numbers like that on people and then using the numbers to stuff humans into pigeonholes - it's both specious and pernicious. Categorization by age-numbers is just as arbitrary as categorizing people by anything else - religion, race, gender, education, height, weight, or whatever! Then society takes those silly damned numbers and says 'Oh, you there, Mister 67 in the 'old male' bin, because of the irrelevant number we've stamped on your chest you are not allowed to have anything to do with Miss 19 in the 'young' female bin!'"

She paused, snorted in disgust over the whole idea: "It's not very different from saying "blacks can't date whites" and suchlike. Is it?"

She paused again, squeezed their hands, went on. "Why should we - or anyone - care about those numbers? You're in MUCH better physical shape than me, despite the numbers... you almost ran me into the ground at lunch! Nineteen and sixty-seven are such CRAP!"

She giggled, embarrassed at her own vehemence, still held his gaze tightly. "Roger, do you know who Satchel Paige was?"

Roger nodded, impressed for the Nth time by Taylor's intellectual breadth - why would she know about the great black ballplayer?

She continued: "He didn't know what year he'd been born in - his response to "How old are you?" was always 'How old would YOU be, if you didn't know how old you was?'" She drew a breath: "In fact, the ONLY interesting thing represented by our age-numbers is that you've been around three and a half times as long as I, and therefore you have a huge accumulation of knowledge, places you've been, things you've learnt, people you know. That's GREAT, it's all stuff I'll never get from a book or video, and the only way for me to ever access it is personally. Obviously, if we were a rational society, age-numbers like ours should be complementary, not divisive!"

Roger stayed silent, leaving Taylor totally in charge of the moment.

"Roger, you asked me an important question, and then instead of answering, I went and climbed on my soapbox - and I'll just bet that I'm preaching to the choir! But it's good you should know how I think and feel about such things."

She set her handbag on her lap, reached inside, and then paused while looking deep into him.

"Here's my answer. I went shopping yesterday, in the evening. Which means I had time to think about what I was doing, and which also means that I've had time to change my mind if I wanted to. Which I do not."

She pulled out a white paper bag, set it on the table, opened it.

Roger watched, fascinated.

Very matter-of-factly she brou

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