Writer’s Shop Talk: Setting the Stage for the ‘First Time’

Writer’s Workshop

Describe the look, feel, smell, and sounds of the setting where your characters first make love.

12:05 AM, Sunday, March 12, 2000

The hallway feels longer than a marathon track, each second stretching into infinity as I stand here, waiting. The soft hum of Mozart’s Andantino from Concerto for Flute and Harp, K.299, seeps through the door, a delicate reminder of Maddie’s presence beyond it. The sound is a lifeline, a melodic connection to the woman who’s consumed my thoughts for over two days since her plane touched down.

I shift my weight from foot to foot, the anticipation gnawing at me. There’s a symphony in the silence, punctuated by the rustle of fabric and the occasional giggle that slips through the cracks—a private concert just for me. It’s maddening and exhilarating all at once.

The door finally swings open, and there she stands, a vision in black lace, her silhouette framed by the city’s glow. “Come in,” she says, her voice a mix of command and invitation. The room is a canvas painted with shadows and light, every corner whispering secrets of the night.

She catches my gaze, a playful glint in her eyes. “You know, I’m quite the performer,” she teases, “but some things are best kept private.” Her laughter dances in the air, a melody more intoxicating than any concerto.

I return her smile, though a flutter of nerves dances in my stomach. We’re both stepping onto unfamiliar ground, a dance we’ve yet to learn. She moves to the stereo, browsing through the CDs with a thoughtful touch. “Choose something… romantic,” she suggests.

I nod and select Glenn Miller’s Greatest Hits from the collection, carefully placing the disc into the player. As “In the Mood” begins to play, its lively beat fills the room, contrasting with the quickened pace of my heart. I chuckle and lower the volume, mindful of the quiet night. “We wouldn’t want to disturb Mrs. Halverson or Mr. Piffles upstairs,” I say with a wink.

Maddie laughs, a sound that’s both a balm and a spark. “A bit too lively, don’t you think?” she remarks, but I’m already one step ahead.

“Wait for the next track,” I say, a promise hanging in the air between us. The city lights cast a glow on her face, and in this moment, I realize that no matter the tempo, our rhythm is just beginning to find its tune.

Maddie’s gaze finds mine across the room, her expression a blend of curiosity and expectation. She sits gracefully on the edge of the bed, her presence commanding yet vulnerable. The dim light softens the edges of her figure, her chestnut hair appearing almost ebony as it falls over her shoulders in a dark cascade. Her hazel eyes, alight with a mix of affection and desire, lock onto mine with an intensity that sends a familiar thrill through me.

Her body language speaks volumes, more eloquent than any concerto. The subtle tilt of her head, the unconscious touch of her tongue to her lips—it’s a silent symphony of longing. I stand rooted next to the stereo shelf, feeling a rush of youthful nervousness that belies my years. It’s a poignant echo of a distant past, a time when every first experience was heightened by the novelty of youth.

I’m a professor in my mid-30s, a man of letters and history, yet at this moment, I’m transported back to my 19-year-old self—awkward, eager, and on the cusp of discovery. The weight of expectation presses against me, a familiar foe I’ve battled in lecture halls and now face in the quiet of my bedroom. I love Maddie, more than the sum of my scholarly achievements, and the thought of failing her is a specter that haunts the edges of this perfect scene.

Her smile cuts through my apprehension, a beacon of reassurance in the soft city-lit room. “Come and sit by my side, my dearest Professor Jim,” she says, her voice a tender melody that soothes my frayed nerves. I move towards her, each step shedding the years until I’m by her side, our hands entwined.

Our lips meet in a kiss that’s a question and answer all at once. As our mouths explore the tender terrain of newfound affection, I’m enveloped by the softness of Maddie’s skin—a velvety caress that whispers against my own. It’s like the brush of a petal, a contrast to the fervor of our embrace.

The air is laced with the faint scent of jasmine and lavender, a subtle perfume that seems to emanate from her very being. It’s a floral symphony that enhances the moment, intertwining with our breaths, as if the night itself is blooming around us. This fragrance brings me back to just this morning, when the steam from the shower enveloped us, and the same delicate scents mingled with the warmth of the water.

And there, lingering on her lips, is the equally faint taste of red Chianti —a rich reminder of the evening’s earlier indulgence. It’s a flavor that speaks of shared laughter and candlelit confidences, a trace of sweetness that deepens the kiss with the memory of wine-soaked promises. The taste is as bold as the moment, in the steamy confines of her shower, where the water’s touch was the only thing more intoxicating than the kiss we shared.

As “In the Mood” gives way to the serene “Moonlight Serenade,” Maddie’s approval is a soft murmur against my lips. “Much better,” she breathes, and our kiss deepens, a crescendo of passion that needs no further words. The music wraps around us, a timeless embrace that holds the promise of the night. And as we lose ourselves in the melody and each other, the scene fades to a close, leaving the next chapter of our story yet to be written.