"Gilligan, if you like, I could help during Ginger's lessons."
Gilligan was so startled by the Professor's offer, he almost broke the cane chair the Skipper was having him make. "What could you do?" Admittedly, the Professor was older and presumably more experienced. And Gilligan had learned a lot filming the kiss between him and Ginger for the movie that was supposed to get them all rescued. But even with the limited choices on the island, the Professor wouldn't have been Gilligan's first pick for a man to get advice about women from.
"Well, you're going to need someone to run the record player, aren't you?"
Oh, right. The dance lessons. Before Gilligan could think of a polite and believable rejection, he heard Ginger's voice from behind, saying, "That's very sweet of you, Professor, but we're going to use the radio. I wouldn't want your arm to get tired."
"I don't mind."
"We appreciate that, but it'll be every night."
"Every night?"
"Yes, it's important that rehearsal is frequent and regular. So between eight and midnight every night. Don't worry, that's not opposite anyone's favorite radio programs. And we'll run and tell you all if there's any breaking news that affects the island."
Gilligan could think of lots of reports over the last three years that had been related to at least one of the castaways. And he was also thinking about what it'd be like to get daily four-hour lessons from Ginger.
"Well, you've certainly thought this through," the Professor said.
"My Hollywood training," Ginger said.
"Of course. And I guess it might be embarrassing for Gilligan to have an observer while he's first learning."
Gilligan thought he'd be just as embarrassed to have someone watching when he knew what he was doing.
Ginger smoothly said, "We'll demonstrate when we reach the Fred and Ginger level."
"Who's Fred?" Gilligan had to ask.
"Fred Astaire."
"Oh, right. Then I guess you're not the Ginger you meant."
She laughed, bent down, and kissed his cheek. "Oh, Gilligan." She sashayed away.
The Professor watched her go and murmured something that sounded like "Lucky son of a gun." Then he said, "Well, I should get to my herpetological research."
"But what about the snakes?"
The Professor shook his head and left without explaining. Gilligan hoped he'd given up on studying cliff-diving snakes. Gilligan had enough to feel guilty about as it was.
But guilt wasn't all he felt. Ginger had stirred him up last night, in a completely different way than ever before. Usually, he was holding back, or at most letting her do things to him. It was very different when he was as an active participant as she was. On the one hand, he'd never known it could be like this. And on the other, maybe on some level he had known, and that was why he'd backed away from not only Ginger but Mary Ann. He was at least as scared of himself as he was of the girls.
And that was just kissing! Well, hugging and kissing, holding her voluptuous body close as their mouths got closer and closer. Before, kissing had been about lips, but now tongues were included, too, and for someone as fond of food as Gilligan was, the more of his mouth that was involved, the better he liked it. Her tongue was as graceful as the rest of her, teasingly dancing across his lips. He'd tried to imitate it, but he needed practice, lots and lots of practice.
Four hours a night! That was more than he'd hoped for as he tossed and turned in his hammock, finding it hard to get to sleep and hoping he wouldn't wake the Skipper. He wondered if the Skipper would believe that Gilligan needed, let's see, twenty-eight hours of dancing lessons a week. Well, maybe he would. He thought of Gilligan as clumsy and slow-witted. The Professor seemed to buy it, and he was the smartest person on the island.
Not that Ginger was any dummy. Gilligan knew how clever she was from how she could wrap any man around her finger, him included. He did still wonder what she was getting out of this. But it wasn't like she was trying to get him to vote for Mr. Howell or share buried treasure or anything. Nothing had happened lately that would make her want anything from him.
Except, apparently, himself. She was an actress but she had seemed to sincerely want him last night. And twenty-eight hours a week was a lot of time to spend with him, without anyone else around. If there was some hidden scheme behind this, that was quite a sacrifice.
He'd wanted to ask her last night what she saw in him. OK, there weren't a lot of other single men on the island, not counting the occasional visitor. But he wasn't as strong as the Skipper or as brilliant as the Professor, not by a long shot. The Professor also looked more like a matinee idol than he did. Well, maybe that was it. Maybe Ginger was tired of the Hollywood type.
Or maybe it was that Gilligan was only 23, and young for his age. Maybe she liked being the (slightly) older and more experienced one, being able to teach him. And he wasn't ugly and he didn't smell bad. And he was a good person, or tried to be. And maybe after three years on the island, with their chances of being rescued ever dwindling, she couldn't afford to be choosy.
Well, whatever her reasons, she was willing to teach him and he was definitely looking forward to the lessons. He'd enjoy this while it lasted.
Not that he wasn't nervous of course. She seemed like she was willing to be patient with him, but this was mostly new territory for him, especially once it got beyond kissing. He wasn't entirely sure what lay beyond kissing, but he was curious if scared to find out.
Well, it was still morning and he had a lot of hours to get through before eight p.m. rolled around. He'd try to concentrate on the cane chair and not wonder where on the island tonight's date would be and whether it would be more hugs and kisses or maybe a little bit beyond. But as he wove the seat, he couldn't help wondering what other method there was to remove an apron besides untying the knots. And he shook his head at himself for having thought that the apron might make Ginger less intimidatingly seductive and more domestic and girl-next-door.