Carol Confirmed

Well, finally the opportunity arrived, and in an utterly bizarre manner. Her/my friend Samantha was moving, and though a strange conjunction of circumstances that I won't describe here, everyone departed for some time in the midst of moving. As much of the household possessions were on the lawn, I elected myself to remain and oversee their safety. It was a quiet, middle class neighborhood, but who knew what might happen?

If only I did.

After sitting about on the front step for a while, mindful of all that needed to be done, I set off to do some small amount of cleaning. Much of the furniture hadn't been moved in eighteen years, and I knew how to use a vacuum. I could do that, and still occasionally check the windows.

I proceeded in such a manner for a while, when on one glance out the window I noted a strange car in front of the neighbors house. With it's trunk open. Concerned, I shut off the vacuum and headed downstairs. Only to meet Carol, striding up the front walk, a delicate blossom drifting in a crystal bowl in her hand.

It turned out that she had mistaken the time, arriving some hours late, and quickly she and I set to a not quite monumental task. I was happy to have a woman for leadership, for though I was not unaccustomed to work, I was quite uncertain of the process of cleaning a house for departure. Amazingly, it turned out that vacuuming, and getting all of the ancient dustbunnies vanished, was a good step, meeting her approval.

So Carol and I fell to work in silent companionship. Yet at least on my part, it was a strained silence, for I was entirely aware of the strange conjunction of coincidences that led to Carol and I being alone, in an entire house, with absolutely no one else about. Undisturbed, and for what proved to be an extended period of time. There was absolutely no doubt in my mind that He had arranged this opportunity. I had...more than a little experience of the "too many coincidences" that God could arrange, to bring circumstances to where he wanted them.

But...how to use it?

My mind strained through reams of subjects of which I could talk with Carol about...yet none seemed quite so significant that God should feel a need to intercede. Obviously He intended something special...and I had no idea what it was!

And Carol...only made things worse.

The two of us were working in the master bedroom. She was cleaning baseboards, while I maneuvered the Hoover. I almost think that the silence was getting a bit strained, when suddenly Carol made a suggestion. Over the drone of the vacuum I could only make out something about, "Do you want to...in the closet?", and I looked in her in disbelief. I glanced toward the walk-in closet, which was not liberally carpeted with eighteen years worth of dust, and I looked back at her.

"No, I think I'll go over the carpet out here once first," I replied. Both of us resumed our tasks.

Yet now to my strained confusion was now added, "Why did Carol want me to go into the closet?"

And...I swear that she said something about..."us".

The day proceeded, though the silence was even more strained. It wasn't as if Carol wasn't easy to talk to. I wanted to talk with her. I was also entirely aware of the great deal of cleaning yet to be done--Samantha was departing early the next morning. That had to be my frirst priority.

I did manage one small question, in the time allotted. Harboring some small doubt, after all of these years. Perhaps I had imagined the whole thing. Yet considering that particular combination of words, there was really only one way to know...

"Carol, I wanted to ask you something," I began. "I can't remember for sure, but I thought that you mentioned once that you were...Dutch?"

Carol seemed immediately pleased, even flattered that I had remembered something so personal about her, and immediately set off on a long explanation of her French and Dutch ancestry...

I am forced to admit that I didn't absorb large parts of it (I might even be wrong about the "French" portion), immediately dazed at the long delayed affirmation that I had not been deluding myself all of these years...

After another half hour or so, one of the neighbor's young sons stopped looking for his dad, who had departed with the rest of the crew. Carol, knowing the family, efficiently put him to work, and the window of opportunity waned.

And it was still some time before everyone else returned.

Carol-ized

Despite a couple of flickers over the years when I had a chance to speak with Carol on various levels, I didn't really have the opportunity to speak with her for an extended period, to any great depth. And I knew that I would like to, if only because of the "Danish".

I have to admit that there was a day or two, when we spoke for a while, when chance brought the two of us to work together at another locale. Both times it was curiosity into other issues, related to another women, that ended up being the topic. I really didn't consider Carol "available".

I know that the first time, partially prompted by her/my friend Samantha's comment on Carol's attitude toward's certain matters, I simply asked Carol what she thought. Far from not being willing to talk about "sex", or private matters, Carol and I chatted for some time. Of course it began with Carol's query of, "When you say 'sex', do you mean 'intimacy'? I found myself wondering exactly where Sam was seeing this reluctance.

Another time, curious because I was interested in a woman who might not be able to bear children, I asked Carol about her perspective. I knew that she was her husband's second wife, and he hadn't wanted any more children, leaving her without children of her own. I was curious as to her experience and perceptions, wondering how such a loss could affect a woman. To which she very kindly enlightened me, on a fairly personal subject. I always appreciated her thoughtful and considered response.

But, having the opportunity to speak in any depth, with any degree of privacy? Let alone about...interpersonal sexuality? That simply wasn't going to happen.

At least...not for several more years.

Carol, A Closer Look

That mystery lingered in my mind, for it was almost completely the antithesis of the image that Carol projected, the person that even her close friends saw her as being. So who was she, really?

A couple of years later, I was to see a bit more of Carol. I went to my friend's house, and Carol was helping her hang mini-blinds. I was...intrigued. For this was the first time I had seen Carol outside of work. Instead of clunky, ratty work shoes, she was wearing graceful white sneakers--and the show only got better from there.

I was somehow surprised to find that she had very nicely curved, toned legs, and with the shorts-tank outfit she was wearing she looked quite fetching. It certainly accentuated her figure. Trim waist, nice backside and strong shoulders. Great, fresh skin, too. The surprise was that Carol looked utterly feminine. The outfit only accented her athletic grace. Obviously, away from work, she took great care with her appearance.

Of course, with Samantha present, I didn't really have a chance to talk with Carol. The two women greeted me, but completed their task. Then Carol headed on to her next meeting while Sam and I prepared for a weekend trip.

Frankly, this was the first time that I really saw Carol as a woman, and a feminine, attractive woman at that. Desirable...somewhere in there she showed me an element that had been missing in the time that we had worked together. That distinct element of utter femininity. A grace that had been entirly lacking in her work attire.

Finally I admitted to myself that if Carol were single, I'd like to go out with her. Barely could I admit such a thing to myself..

And that is just another step in the parade.

Caroling

Here is a mystery that I really cannot let go of. It baffles and intrigues me, and I'll relate it to you, step by step, in hopes that you see something I cannot. Rather, make a leap that I cannot.

This story starts many years ago, with a then coworker whom I'll call 'Carol'. Carol was a friend of a friend, I had heard of her for years, and I was pleased to finally meet her. A few years older than me, I knew very well that she was a strong Christian, a woman of great faith and even deeper love. She had married for the first time just a couple of years before, on the cusp of middle age, though she looked much younger. Athletic and fit, what really showed through in Carol was her gentleness and love for other people. In many ways, Carol was a prototypical 'Christian's Christian'. She knew and understood what His Love is, and she poured it forth like an overflowing cup, touching all of those around her. Indeed, she seemed entirely pure, clean and innocent of any overt sexuality whatsoever.

Having heard a great many stories of Carol from my friend, I immediately labeled her as an "interesting person", and tended to look at her a bit more closely. I should mention straight off that I also classified Carol as entirely unavailable, falling into that "unavailable" category both by virtue of being a strong Christian, and by being "married". Double indemnity.

Being interested in her simply didn't enter my head.

Still, I was mildly amused watching her, because she was an interesting character. Carol took every opportunity to pour forth a bit of love, spread some oil on troubled waters. It was amazing to see her work, I could feel the goodness in her. Some of the people out there proseletyzing should look up "lifestyle evangelism". That was Carol. In every way. She was (and doubtless is) generous. She has a generous soul. It's simply who she is.

I also notice details, and some of them struck me wryly. So many little incongruencies. I mentioned that Carol was athletic, she had a sturdy and generous figure. No "willow" here. But firm, no "Rubenesque" either. Yet she was still graceful, as well. I meant the word "athletic". So it was a bit disconcerting to note how poorly her uniform pants fit, how awkward the shoes she wore to work were. Well, I suppose that they were comfortable.

I have to admit that I also notice more subtle things. Like, the fact that Carol was quite...full figured. Yet one day it really struck me, through the reasonably sheer back of her uniform blouse, just how slender her bra straps were. Hey, I said that I notice anomalies. It was especially puzzling that one or the other would go wildly awry on her shoulder occasionally. The jury suggested that Carol didn't need a whole lot of support.

But that's not the story of Carol, really. That happened on day as I was about to take break. At the time I had what probably was an annoying habit of simply devouring cream cheese Danishes at my lunch break. Not only that, but I'm sure that I verbally savored them as I prepared them, with a bit of butter in the microwave. Too much of a sensual delight--and I know that I conveyed that fact. This was certainly a habit that I would live to regret. But it was also one that provided one of the great mysteries of my life.

For this day, Carol and I were working alone. It wasn't busy, and when my turn came for break I know that I made some comment, with great enthusiasm, about relishing my daily Danish, and made off for the microwave. I had just slipped the plate into the oven to warm, when Carol strolled over, and I greeted her smiling, my mind happily on my delightful dish. For the moment.

I still remember the precise words that she said. Carol walked right up to me, clear blue eyes guilelessly meeting my own. Facing me, her body language was completely open.

"I'm not Danish, I'm Dutch. Would you eat me?"

Such simple statement. Capable of roiling a world.

To say that I was...confounded...would be an understatement. I can't recall the torrent of thoughts that rushed through my mind ("In a heartbeat!" among them), nor do I recall what lame, disjointed comment I mumbled in reply as the microwave chimed, and I walked dazedly away. I said that I didn't consider Carol available--not that I didn't find her attractive. But I didn't do more than look.

I sat there with a forgotten, congealing Danish before me, and tried to make sense of things. Carol had only been married two or three years, so it couldn't be a case of the "seven year itch", as they still were practically newlyweds. I tried to consider who else Carol might be...I had always seen her as entirely chaste. No off color jokes, no...nothing. My friend/her friend had even told me that she couldn't talk with Carol about sex...because Carol considered it such an entirely private issue.

Speaking of "anomalies"...

I was...befuddled. Obviously I had misunderstood Carol in manner. After an instant's disbelief, I had absolutely no doubt of the words that had come from her mouth. Therefore, there had to be some non-sexual, totally innocent connotation that she had intended, and I had simply misconstrued her words. So off to work I returned, and I didn't mention the incident again.

Yet it was not to be forgotten. For years I have tried to come up with a totally innocent connotation. And have not been able to. Not even marginally so. I consider myself to have a pretty good imagination, and am good with words and their meanings. Nothing. For the life of me.

Do you wanna try?

Please?

Of course, Carol, being a friend of a friend, would wander in and out of my life through the ensuing years, even until the very day on which that friend departed. Sometimes, wandering can be quite...emphatic.

Hardly Carolyn

Indecisive, we'll brush through a brief moment from a long time ago. I'd like to think that it's an illustrative anecdote of who women are, and what they might be. Especially Christian women, and what they might need--or desire. So here we go with the tale of Carolyn, a mere instant that I will wonder about always.

Carolyn gets a mention here, almost in passing. Yet I have to add her, just because it’s an anomaly of which I will never know the truth. A Christian woman, and a mysterious moment of revealed femininity and sexuality. Another anecdote that was a long time ago, however brief, when I was in my early twenties.

I have to admit that on the surface, Carolyn would hardly seem to belong here. A staunch and faithful Christian, she had a wonderful husband and a happy home and family. It was easy to see the love between all of them.

Then in her forties, I always felt that Carolyn could have passed as a sister to her daughter, Angela. Fit, and trim, with curly blond hair, Carolyn had been a college tennis player, and it still showed. It’s funny, her husband Al had been a small school hoops star—and you really couldn’t tell. He was one of those guys who let himself go—a little too much.

On the other hand, I remember walking past Carolyn as she stood at the kitchen counter, and thinking what a great backside she had.

Always vibrant, several times I had a chance to talk with her on a number of topics, and I always found her open and emphatic. I liked Carolyn, and trusted her with some of my more personal thoughts.

One example was when I was talking about my friend “Buck”. I loved the guy to death, he was my buddy, but some of his habits regarding his wife were at the least questionable. Mostly involving his faithfulness (or apparent lack thereof), and I would share some of my observations and suspicions with Carolyn. She would always be outraged that Buck was behaving so, and I would listen to her frustration about how wrong it was for him to act in such a way.

Well, one hot summer night,, after basketball Buck and I dropped by Carolyn’s house looking for her oldest son, Sammy. I knew there was some risk bringing Buck along, that he wouldn't be welcome, but I figured that Sam would be out the door in a flash. I really wasn’t concerned when Buck accompanied me to the door, for the odds of Carolyn answering were only about one in five. Or so I thought.

For Carolyn opened the door, expecting to see Sam. Evidently he had gone out, not telling her where. It was already well after dark, indeed it was pitch back, and she had no idea where he was. Which Carolyn quickly informed us of.

We quickly understood that Carolyn and Al had been inside watching TV, with the air conditioning turned well down—Al’s preference. To keep the cool air from escaping into the steamy night, Carolyn stepped out onto the broad front porch with us, flipping on the porch light before she closed the door. Evidently Al was completely engrossed in his program. Carolyn was dressed for the air conditioning, in heavy slippers, gray sweat pants and a long sleeved, white ribbed mock turtle that I assumed was a body suit. Obviously she had been “in” for the night.

I was mildly surprised that Carolyn didn’t seem to mind Buck’s presence at all, indeed, she seemed pleased to have an audience with whom to release some of her worries and frustrations about mildly miscreant Sam. While I might have had an idea where Sam was (he certainly wasn’t playing basketball), I definitely wasn’t going to distress Carolyn further. So Buck and I stood and chatted with Carolyn for a while, a good forty-five minutes. It turned out to be an interesting talk, and I was surprised that Buck actually had the presence of mind not to say anything to upset her further. So I thought, anyway.

It was a pleasant conversation, the three of us standing there under the porch light, the pitch black gloom of night a few feet away. Perhaps as the focal point of the conversation, Carolyn had simply stepped out between Buck and I, her five-seven between two guys towering well over six feet tall. As I said, it was a hot and steamy night, and both Buck and I were dressed for it, in gym shorts and tank tops. Carolyn wasn’t, in "keeping warm" apparel, which led to the discordance of my observation.

For we were standing there, just the three of us in a deserted neighborhood, conversing in the heat, when suddenly I noticed. Carolyn was still completely involved in the conversation, but her nipples were quite clearly standing hard through that white, ribbed blouse.

I have to say that I was a bit…taken aback.

All of these years later, I would like to say that Carolyn was merely chilly. But I can’t quite convince myself of that—she was dressed warmly, and had been outside on a balmy night for some time. I have to admit that I only know of two causes for such a reaction. So what was it, what had sparked her imagination?

I really don’t know. Was there an undercurrent rushing through the back of her mind of being so close to a “bad boy” like Buck? Did that awaken something within her? Was it just being between two tall, reasonably good looking, athletic young men? What was it that piqued her interest…and why? Did Carolyn simply have a wild, and vivid imagination? Did she have a secret passion waiting to be unlocked? This is a question that I would really like to have answered. I'd like to understand.

And I have to say...they were quite pretty, too.

Touching Base

All right, so I haven't posted for a few days. That doesn't mean that I have forgotten, I really am trying to decide which direction to go next. Continue with the general editions, or slip back into a specific thread, like "Sharon" or "Kay"? And do I continue, essentially chronologically, or jump into the future? Simply illustrate stages and growth, or offer up greater and lesser mysteries?

I suppose it isn't as if I haven't got a half dozen posts ready to slip into the stream. Perhaps a few need a bit of polishing, but that's simple enough. Really, I have to decide the flavor of the moment, and when you're like a kid in a candy store...

Christianity's "Dirty Little Secret"

In case you didn't know, this is an easy one.

What, really, is it that Christianity does to women of faith? Truly, on the one hand, it teaches women about "unconditional love", for that is what God gives us. For Protestants, at least. This is a trait that Christian woman value, perhaps more highly that any other, simply because of how the faith--and women--are structured. So they strive to emulate that quality, learn to love one another unconditionally. The faith encourages people, women especially, to learn to open their hearts completely.

I have no problem with that. I believe that it's a quality that all people should offer one another.

The problem comes when it is put into practice.

You see, churches by their nature offer fellowship to lonely people. Most Christian singles see churches as the best place to meet other singles, to have a chance to meet a life partner. This quickly becomes circular reasoning, so I don't think that I'm going to risk getting lost in it.

So, while Christian women may go to a church, or a Christian singles group looking for a partner, those same beliefs also disarm them from part of their femininity. After all, in a conservative Christian church, a woman isn't supposed to be remotely "sexy". So any woman with a healthy libido is supposed to simply hide it, suppress and repress her natural inclinations. Be a good girl.

Don't you dare step a foot into Victoria's Secret.

Bizarre, because our sexuality is part of us, something that God Himself gave to us.

As I mentioned, churches are great for fellowship, and many of these Christian women, who generally outnumber men, end up spending a great deal of time together. I can't claim to understand the loneliness of a woman, her desire for closeness. I can barely begin to describe the phenomena adequately. Yet when open hearted, unconditionally loving Christian women start spending a lot of time together, confiding in one another, sometimes things happen.

I know. I've spoken with more than one person who has had a ministry with women who struggle with what some refer to as "lesbian issues".

I don't think that this is quite apt. It might be more appropriate to say that these women are struggling on the edge of bisexuality, due to a lack of active interest from men. Somehow, all of that wonderful, open love that is opened within their hearts must be expressed, and emotional (let alone physical) intimacy is a temptation.

Just because you're a Christian doesn't mean that your libido turns off.

Hey, I admit that I am writing this as an outsider. Mainly, as a guy.

Though I have to admit to having heard stories. Just because, as mentioned elsewhere, I listen well.

Yet I have to admit being startled one day, when I was looking at Ty Teenie Beenies with a friend. 'Jean' was in her late thirties, athletic and active, but plain. A strong Christian, she didn't wear makeup, jewelry or perfume, and in years no one had known her to mention a boyfriend, let alone having a date. Some people considered her asexual, yet some also quietly mused about her female housemate. She was strongly a woman of faith, and a good friend described her as "sheltered, innocent and naive".

We were examining one particular model, Spinner the Spider, and I commented on the rich colors. "Wow, those are great colors".

"Yes, but who would I wear it for?"

Startled, no shocked, I glanced over at her, but she was focused completely on the plush creature in her hands. Obviously while I was seeing the rich blend of orange-gold and black, she was seeing the tiger-stripe pattern. And I could hear the simple frustration in her voice. Yet who would have ever thought that Jean would have envisioned herself in a sexy tiger-stripe something or other?

At least to me, tiger-stripes are blatantly sexual.

Hardly...naive.

Silly Men

This summary is not available. Please click here to view the post.

Still Stalling

Yes, I am. You see, the truth of the matter is, this blog isn't really for me.

On the one hand, it's for certain women out there, women that I have encountered through the course of my life. But really, it's for all Christian women, or more appropriately, for all women.

As a tribute for some, perhaps as a doorway to understanding for others.

Which you may well see as this blog develops. Very shortly.

Independence!

Hmmm...so, what else should I do for Independence Day? Declare my independence?

It's time for a momentary pause, as I ponder exactly where to go next with this thread. So I thought and considered (while I stall), and decided what I may as well tell you.

What's this really all about?

Hey, I suppose that there is really no reason to confuse you. Let's just say that I have had a number of odd incidents in my life that I have tended to label "anomalies" --that's a key phrase. And I suppose that they really are far more than that, I just haven't wanted to admit it. And to me, they are signs that not only am I unhappy, but so were (and quite likely are) each of the respective people involved.

And I know some of this far too well. I suppose that I'm moderately empathetic, I feel people's pain too well, and too often. Sometimes I allow their pain to dictate my own actions, seriously to my own detriment. Yet really, who and what am I writing about?

I suppose that it all begins a very long time ago. I can tell you that there was Kay, the pianist and church organist who offered me something special...and I can't see what it was that she needed from me. But of course, it didn't really begin with her, because while I was raised in a conservative Church and family, there was always something different about me. I was chaste, innocent and naive...and yet I wasn't.

At the same time that I was struggling to get girls my age interested in my gawkiness, well nigh to seventeen before I got my first kiss. Two years before that awkward event I had a grown woman, 'Elaine' (perhaps written later)...well, let's just say that she decided to display her interest incontrovertably. Some people might consider this fantasy or even bragging, but by the time I was eighteen, well before 'Kay', two mature, attractive, married women had already made serious passes at me. And the stupid thing? I was almost entirely oblivious to their interest--and I hadn't even managed to go parking with a girl yet! So Kay, a beautiful and gentle artist, is entirely her own story. And the one that I chose to begin with.

Don't get me wrong, I like women. I've dated women as much as twenty-five years older than me, and fifteen years younger. I simply enjoy being with women, on every level. I savor them at every opportunity. No that I have taken that many opportunities--as 'Sharon' should have told you.

Perhaps the most important is 'Veronica', a beautiful, intelligent lady who was the first woman with whom I was intimate with to any degree. Somewhat older than I, she took great joy in our relationship. Trust me, I did as well. I have to admit that it hurt me to know that she could be so dramatically sensuous and passionate with me at night...then be so torn by guilt at Church the next morning. And she, most certainly, is all her own story.

I'll also have to mention 'Constance', whose deep and powerful romance and passion I glimpsed beyond a conservative exterior, and 'Pam', a tomboy who was a wealth and breadth of surprises. And who knows what other surprises may emerge...

Then there is the fact that I listen well, that people open up and talk with me about things they wouldn't dream of telling anyone else. More on that...before too long.

The big question, of course, is how do Christianity and sexuality really fit together, when placed in a practical perspective? I have a feeling that's a big question for a lot of people. It has been for me--all too often.

So many ghosts...it's time for a little resolution.

Happy Independence Day!

Finally Sharon

So, what is the truth of Sharon?

That summer I was to work at the Bible Camp, one final time. The Youth Pastor from Sharon’s Church was there, a new guy, and we struck up an acquaintance. On the basketball court one day, I asked him if he knew Sharon. He thought for a moment, and then placed her. And told me of her.

Evidently Sharon had come home from college that summer, and wanted to be married right away. The senior Pastor, upon knowing how briefly the two had known one another, declined and suggested that they wait. That is the last of Sharon’s story, and I heard no more.

Strange. I try to avoid real names here, to protect those once involved. I see nothing here to protect, aside from my own one-time naiveté. That said...Sharon Kay Potter. Perhaps one day she'll Google her maiden name...however many "Sharon Potters" there are out there.

Hey, Sharon, the bear was from me!

Funny, I could see her sensual, romantic and passionate nature, and I wonder how her life has gone. Did she get married? Did the marriage last? Years later I will add, was she impatient because she was pregnant? I guess I’ll never know. A few years ago, I wrote to Sharon’s parents, asking how she was. I requested that they either write back, or forward my letter to Sharon.

I heard nothing.

What did I feel about Sharon? In some innocent way, I suppose that she was my first love, however unconsummated or naïve. I looked her, and later I recognize that I would have liked to see what might have developed with her. Perhaps nothing. Perhaps everything.

Yet all of these years later, like everything else, it hardly matters, does it?

Sharon, Embracing Cyrano

Of course, neither the semester nor my life as I knew it ended with that particular Valentine's Day.

Occasionally I saw Sharon around and about, as on Sundays we ate in the same dorm cafeteria. I remember one Sunday morning I saw her in a dress, just having returned from Church. Perhaps the one time in my life I saw Sharon in a dress and heels. Oddly, both of her ankles were taped underneath her pantyhose. Always feeling herself clumsy, she had a woeful tale for me in a similar vein.

And one more mention before the grand finale.

One day I went over to the Commons of one of the other dorm complexes to study, a newer building away from either Sharon’s or my own. There was a girl studying next to me, and when we both chanced to stretch in a study break at the same moment, I struck up a conversation.

Amazingly enough, it turned out that this was Sharon’s roommate, whom I don’t recall having previously met. More than a bit resentful, she told me that she was only studying there for one reason. Apparently she had been banished from her room by Sharon and her boyfriend, so that they could have “privacy”. I could hear the quotation marks in her voice. I know what she thought they were doing, but my mind didn’t want to approach that.

I tried one last time. Silly me. Sharon’s birthday fell in finals week. Eager for one last chance, knowing that I had missed opportunities, and determined to play my own Cyrano, I went shopping. If I could coach Mike, I could choose the right things for Sharon myself—and I remembered that trip to Cedar Rapids. I found a wonderful card, and selected a cute, sweet and cuddly stuffed bear. And not a cheap one.

I paid for the bear to be packaged, just so that it was perfect. Heart in my throat, on Sharon’s birthday I set off for her dorm.

I was a bit disconcerted when I arrived to find her room swarming with women. Dazedly I gathered that they were decorating for Sharon’s twenty-first birthday. I stepped past a couple of girls intent on the confection that the door was becoming, and into a madhouse. Eventually I gathered that Sharon was out, and not expected back for a while. Numbly, through the din I handed across the package and the card, and worked my way back to the door. And headed home.

And waited.

I didn’t hear from Sharon. I knew when she was supposed to finish finals and leave, before me, and I fussed about it. Finally my Dad picked me up for the long drive home, and I fussed some more.

And finally I realized it. My...tactical error.

Anticipating seeing Sharon, though I hadn’t called first, I had expected to hand her the card and wrapped box. My signature was on the card, but I had no note with the box. The card and package weren’t attached. Clearly, in that chaos, I could see what had happened. The girl had absently turned, and put the two items into the pile. Eventually, Sharon had worked her way through her gifts. Read my card, perhaps smiled. Opened the package with the bear, smiled again…and wondered who it was from. Wondered what unthinking dunderhead of a sweetheart had given her such a nice gift—without a note. And then moved on to the next package.

That's how things work sometimes. For me, anyway.

Sharon does have an epilogue, of course.

Sharon and Shakespeare

We all grew up, and occasionally Mike would pursue Sharon. Before he left for the Navy, he drove to see her once or twice. I felt more than a little like Cyrano de Bergerac coaching him, from her sister’s names to her favorite color. No Romeo and Juliet, no Shakespeare here, let alone Edmond Rostand.. Yet I suppose that Mike paid the price—the dinner that her Mom fixed was a dish that he absolutely detested. Yet, to his credit, he ate it like a man.

A year or two later, I was taking the bus to visit my girlfriend—another girl that I had met when we were both counselors. Perhaps one day I’ll write about “Dana”. But I found that I had a long layover in the city near Sharon’s home. Just on an odd chance, since we were still writing, I called Sharon. I was pleased and a little surprised when she immediately told me that she would drive up to see me.

We ended up spending a couple of hours together, wandering downtown. I’ll always remember her face when she showed me the stuffed bear store just off the skywalk. It was a great day. Perhaps I even confessed, from the safety of another relationship, that I had liked her, all of those years ago.

Well, more time passed, and I finally transferred from junior college to the big university. I have to admit that of my three finalists, I selected this one simply because Sharon was there. And so this begins the final chapter of the saga of Sharon.

I arrived at the University for a visit before I enrolled, around my 22^nd birthday. It was late November, or early December, and I was staying with my cousin for the long weekend. After a day visiting with Professors and advisers, I called Sharon, hoping that she wasn’t out on a date. We hadn’t written in a bit, but my adviser at the junior college had attended Iowa State, and found her phone number and address with a phone call.

Sharon was pleased to hear from me, and invited me over. We ended up spending a couple of hours in the basement of her dorm as Sharon did laundry. She told me about her boyfriend (rats), and I told her about my plans. It was a really nice evening, there in that bare, bricked old laundry room.

I arrived for school in January, entirely unprepared for what I was getting into. Sharon was on the back of my mind, and eventually I called her. We sat in her cramped dorm and talked for a couple of hours. I was dismayed to find that she had broken up with her boyfriend of December, and was now seeing someone else. I had missed the opportunity of the interval!

Funny, she talked about how her then-boyfriend was a former wrestler, and very jealous. I wasn’t sure whether she was saying that as a good thing, or bad.

Not learning my lesson, weeks passed. Valentine’s Day approached, and I badly wanted to remember Sharon, once in my life. Yet I also remembered the "hulking and jealous wrestler”, and was apprehensive about doing so.

Finally, being the ninny that I am (or, was), I paid one of the guys on my dorm floor to go to a florist and send Sharon a rose anonymously. All right, so that was a bit…convoluted, even for me. I relaxed when he finally returned with the receipt.

A day or two later I got up my courage, and called Sharon. She invited me over when she was free, and as I walked into her room, I casually glanced at her dresser. Which held three single roses in vases. Huh.

With a bit more poise, I could have made a comment as to how popular she was. At the time, startled, I didn’t say anything—and as we talked Sharon didn’t mention any “secret admirer”. My, was I a gutless wonder.

But of course, the story hardly ends with Valentine's Day.

Sharon Sweetheart

I suppose that if I’m going to write about “Christianity and Sex”, I could have begun with “Sharon”. Sharon is a perfect illustration of my own bumbling attempts at romance, and the fact that there is something more in a Christian woman. Or, girl in this case.

Sharon is a simple story; I met her at Bible Camp the summer before I was a junior in high school, 1977. She was a year younger, petite and slender, with short, wavy blond hair and wire rimmed glasses. I don’t know what it was about her, but I liked her right away. She was smart, warm hearted, and a real sweetheart. Cute, too. We kind of chummed around for a week when we were both counselors, and I had high hopes for the senior high camp a couple of weeks later.

To make a long story short, I played it coy, not knowing how to treat a girl, and my best friend at Church, Mike, ended up with Sharon. That would be status quo for the ensuing several years. We were something of a trio, but Mike was always with Sharon. “One Who Wears Yellow Shorts”

I could tell you a lot about Sharon, and I’d like to. For example, she had a sister a year younger, “Kathy”, who had long, rich brown hair and was absolutely beautiful. And smart. Or how my stomach twisted when I would occasionally wander across Mike and Sharon kissing. Yet there are lots of things about Sharon that I simply can’t fit in here.

Oh sure, Sharon and I wrote for years, but I could never catch the right rhythm. I can remember my senior year, there was a winter youth retreat at a large hotel. I was excited about the weekend, because I knew that Mike wouldn’t be there. And I was eager, finally, to have my opportunity.

And so, one way or another, I was at the hotel before Sharon’s group. I heard about their arrival, and headed for the lobby. An instant that I don’t think I’ll ever forget. For there was Sharon, recognizable next to Kathy, and the rest of her friends. But that was the only way.

For Sharon had…blossomed, since the summer. Her short, wavy blond hair was now shoulder length, straight, thick and golden, a blond counterpart to her sister’s chestnut loveliness. And she had finally gotten contacts, which freed her lovely features from “cute” into “beauty”. I felt my heart soar.

Yet this was the end of my hopes for Sharon. As sweet as she was, with “cute” I had a chance. At “beautiful”, she was far beyond me.

Or was it? For the story was not to end there.

Kay Remembered

I am reminded of a little story of “Kay” and “Paul” that will always linger in my mind. The time and greater context aren’t important, for the moment stands easily upon it’s own merits.

Just imagine a school bus full of people, people a bit subdued after a long trip. Paul is driving, with Kay alone in the seat immediately behind him. Most of the occupants tended towards the rear of the bus. I know that I was a row or two behind Kay, on the opposite side of the aisle.

On a long drive through busy traffic, suddenly caught in a jam Paul sees a landmark that strikes a chord. He and Kay are back in their hometown, they grew up blocks apart, though they didn’t meet until college. Paul is in a jovial, nostalgic mood, and as usual, is pleased to share his reminiscences.

“Hey there’s the Planetarium. Boy, do I remember some good times there,” he called over the chatter, drawing a momentary silence and the attention of the whole crowd. “That was one of the best places to go parking in the whole city.”

I could see him looking in the mirror above, but I didn’t know if he was glancing at Kay, or to see the reactions of his sudden audience. However, a glance at Kay told me that she had suddenly gone very still.

“Yep,” he continued, with apparent satisfaction, “I remember when Kay and I went parking at the Planetarium. Boy, did we have some fun there.”

Suddenly my eyes were fastened on Kay. And I swear I could feel the cold beginning to emanate from her on that sweltering bus. Yet Paul seemed entirely oblivious.

“Remember that, Kay?” The relish in his voice was evident…I’d almost call it lascivious. It was obvious that Paul certainly had had some good times there at the Planetarium.

Kay, if anything, was only getting stiller. I could feel the chill all the way to my seat.

“Eh, Kay?” Paul verbally nudged. H obviously wanted her to join in the fun, to coax her into acknowledging their adolescent fooling around.

I could almost see the waves of cold now emanating from Kay.

“Kay?” The playfulness was unabated. Though I could still see him looking in the mirror, Paul cannot have been paying the slightest attention to his wife.

Finally, she responded. I could feel the frost in her voice now, sub zero.

“I have never been parking at the Planetarium in my life.”

Her voice was final and absolute. Suddenly everyone busied themselves finding other things to do.

How can a man not remember his own wife any better? In something that had to have been merely a handful of years past? I have remembered, have treasured my handful of memories of Kay.

And this is why I have chosen to write her story.

Kay Summation

After all of this, I really only have one conclusion. Only one thing that I can really even truly guess at. Which is that Kay wanted something from me that she was lacking in her marriage. I can't guess exactly what it was. I am honest and frank enough with myself to recognize that perhaps she merely wanted someone who could make her pregnant, to fulfill her need for motherhood.

On the other hand, it could have been my honesty, my simple appreciation. Perhaps she sensed my generous soul, or even my gentleness. Some quality of "me" that caught her attention. I don't really know, and I suppose that this is something that will confuse me for the rest of my life.

I have seen Kay recently, at least in a photo. One day when I googled her, a photograph popped up. You could find it, too, if I told you her real name. Only a couple of years old. She was an organist for a wedding, and the joyful bride immortalized Kayon her wedding website.

I looked at the picture. A trace of gray in the soft, blond hair. A few fine wrinkles-she’s in her mid-fifties now. But still Kay. Still that warm and gentle smile—and somehow it didn’t surprise me, that in the midst of all of the gay colors of the wedding party, Kay was dressed in black. Still beautiful.

Truth be told?

Part of me would love to make a trip to the small town where Kay lives now. I think that I'd get a cabin on the lake, somewhere secluded, away from where everyone who walks past knows her. And I’d call Kay and ask her for that free haircut. Just to see if she would come to that cabin by the lake.

And if she came…

Well, I think that’s quite another story, yet to be written, now isn’t it?

Kay Post Script

There is one more, tiny little chapter for Kay.

It was about some years later, still now years ago, when I finally tracked down where Paul and Kay had moved about to. In the mean time, the couple had adopted two wonderful children, doubtless to Kay’s utter delight. Much to my chagrin, they had just left a position, where I found Kay's recently abandoned personal e-mail address.

Still, with a little help from the internet, I found their new phone number, took a deep breath, and gave them a call. Much to my surprise and pleasure, I got to speak with Kay first. We had fun chatting for several minutes on a variety of innocent topics, then I caught her off guard, remembering that free haircut that Kay had offered so long ago. My, did she break into peals of laughter! She quickly informed me that her son would not allow her anywhere near his hair!

We talked for a minute or two longer, then in the midst of a sentence, she interrupted me with "Would you like to talk to Paul?"

Wishing to finish what I was saying, and not listening to how she had suddenly gone flat , her voice monochromatic, I said, "Sure, in a moment," and continued on.

I have mentioned 'dense' before, haven't I?

But all that I wanted to tell her, finally, was that she was a beautiful woman. That I understood. And I finally had the chance…I blundered on.

I finally caught it when Kay politely interrupted me again, with that same neutral tone, "Would you like to talk to Paul?"

Duh. Paul was standing there, silently demanding the phone.

After I had chatted with him, going over old times for a while and hung up the phone, that fact eventually sunk in. I haven't had the heart to call them again, though I was tempted to try to catch Kay at home alone sometime.

I have to admit that it hurt, knowing that for Kay, after all of these years, nothing had changed. She still couldn’t be free, was bound more tightly than any woman should be. Knowing that I had failed her.

Yet even so, that's still not the end of the story. You might have to wait for this one…

Kay Oh'd

Sometimes, there is that little epiphany. Even for a guy as dense as me. I cannot fully describe the event, just that Kay and Paul were leaving the Church for another position, so a party was thrown for them in the banquet hall. Of course there was a receiving line (for those departing?) before the buffet, and I found myself standing alone, about two-thirds of the way back in the queue of a hundred or two people who attended. Paul and Kay really were loved. Finally, I reached the feted couple, and stepped up to shake Paul's hand. No animosity between us, at that stage a year or two later I had forgotten all about these little "anomalies". They had totally slipped from my consciousness, and I was genuinely regretting seeing Paul leave.

I had a word with him, then the couple before me stepped on from Kay. As the family behind me stepped up to greet Paul, I moved towards her, arm outstretched...and was quite surprised when she stepped past my proffered hand and into my arms.

That wasn't the only emotion that I immediately felt, for Kay nestled into the length of my body like she belonged there, melded like she was a part of me that I had been missing. She just fit, and perfectly so, right there in my arms. She allowed herself to fit, and I could feel her essence, her being flow into me. This might sound silly, but that hug was one of the few times that I have mingled completely and utterly with a woman.

Oh...

Allowing her to give to me, and to drink of myself. I could feel her openness, and was drawn into it myself. Now, I'm trying to describe it too much. And in that amazed instant, I finally understood. And...was amazed all the more.

For as good as Kay felt, she was doing so in front of her husband, in front of the whole Church as well. For she didn't just step into my arms, allow herself into me, she molded to me, soaked into me, gave of herself, her warmth, her femininity—and drank deeply of me at the same time...and I found that I had absolutely no desire to part, to leave. I was suddenly and completely aware of Kay…as a woman. I can’t tell you what an incredible gift that was.

Yet as fully aware of Kay as I was, as wholly filled with sudden wonder, I was equally as completely aware of the myriad people around us.

For like a raindrop in a still pool, the silence spread about us. I held Kay in my arms, and first I heard the murmur of the group behind me, speaking with Paul, fall silent. Then the people standing behind them, and the people sitting beyond. It was like a curtain falling across the room. And still, Kay lingered. She didn't cling, she simply, and utterly...belonged. She fit.

And finally, when I knew full well that the whole hall was completely silent, that everyone was aware of how long--how many long and graceful minutes falling into hours that I savored--Kay had been in my arms, she pulled herself free.

All that I remember of the next moments, quite dizzied, was that she promised a free haircut if I should manage to visit where they were bound. And that wasn't the end of Kay--though it is the last time that I have seen her.

Kay Interlude

I'm sorry, you'll have to wait a bit for the next real installment of the Kay thread. I'm not quite satisfied with some of my phraseology. This was a beautiful thing, whatever it was, whatever Kay offered or desired, and I want to be able to do justice to the moment...and the woman. Especially the moment yet to arrive.

Perhaps you haven't seen this, grasped my intent, for I know that my writing ability (or perhaps the restricted space) isn't what I might desire in adequately expressing myself. But there is something I want to be clear about, before I conclude this little saga.

I really didn't understand.

The reasons for this are manifold. Part of it is very straightforward. I was an ugly duckling--or I thought that I was. I remember when my ninth grade English teacher (apparently) took pity on me, and told me that I was a good looking young man. I was surprised that anyone would say such a thing...and of course, didn't believe it for a minute. But I was gratified, nonetheless. For none of the girls my own age would have anything to do with me.

All right, some were willing to be friends, were indeed open with me, but only on a platonic level. And only when there weren't large groups around. After all, I do listen well.

And...Kay?

I guess that you do get to hear more of her qualities.

As good looking, as attractive, as beautiful as she was, perhaps the greatest thing that I can say about Kay was that she was a real sweetheart. She is one of those women who simply have a great deal of love in their heart, a great deal of love to give. It was easy to taste her warm, gentle femininity.

And her music, the flow of melody through her, added another dimension to her soul. Is it just another creative person who can see this? For in the rich blend of harmony, so her soul opened more deeply, more completely to beauty. As notes flowed and intertwined, blended and blossomed, so did Kay. So did her heart take on the beauty, the majesty, the purity, the love and passion of the music that reached through her eyes, and poured from her fingers.

Hmmm. After even that poor effort, to attempt to tell you how physically beautiful Kay was, almost seems a detraction. I remember softly waved blond hair, clear blue eyes and great cheeks; but I think that her real beauty emerged when her face reflected her soul, when she laughed whole heartedly, or any other time that she allowed her true spirit to flow free. Her eyes alight and twinkling. Or lost in the magic of music. When she relaxed in talk, or was laughing and open. I suppose other people might have called Kay merely 'pretty', but I always saw far more in her.

And after that, am I supposed to tell you that Kay had a great body? Well, of course she did. And why no one else saw that, I don't know. I remember very nice legs, a wonderful rump, and at least the hint of very nice breasts. I have a suspicion that they were very pretty. Especially if they were as nice as that backside was. Do you really want me to say that Kay had a great ass?

So here was me. Tall, gawky, a castaway. Homely. An outsider. And there was Kay. More mature, ten years older. Talented. Popular. ‘Pretty’ flowing on into ‘beautiful’. Let alone married. I simply had no reason to begin to imagine, let alone believe, that such a...wonderful woman could begin to be attracted to me. It simply wasn't possible.

All of these years later, I'll admit that perhaps "homely" was only in my mind. Still...

And there was that other level, that forbidden level, for Kay was undeniably sexy. Sexy in a wholesome way, of course, but as I look back, there was a longing for more. Hints, and glimpses here and there. I have this strong suspicion that if ever allowed to roam free, that Kay would have been an incredible lover.

Aye, and there's the rub.

You have to remember how I'm built, and forget about all of the other issues. Fact one---sex outside of marriage is a sin. No ifs, ands or buts. Just the facts, ma'am. Return to Go, do not collect a hundred dollars.

That is a value that I was practically born with.

Perhaps today it is modified to "sex without commitment is a sin". Or even "sex without love..."

So there's the dichotomy. Kay was not only forbidden, but unimaginable.

And still...

I think that I can be honest with myself. I'm not sure. My soul is cleaved in half, for part of me believes that it's best that nothing ever happened between us.

And part of me wishes that at least once I had had the opportunity to reach out to this beautiful woman. To touch that wonderful skin, to caress her, to feel Kay come alive.

Getting to know Kay would have been like a song. Loving her, like music. First, strike a chord.

Love with Kay would have been a tune that grows into a melody. A melody that blends into a harmony...harmony that grows into a symphony...

Kay has an incredible richness and beauty of essence. This was a woman to be savored. How can I not regret not even tasting the smallest sip of her?

Not pouring myself deep into her, healing the hurts, filling the cracks and crevices of her soul...

Most of all, I think that I regret not giving her whatever it was that she desired. A moment, a memory, a gentle touch of real love; some small breadth of honest appreciation.

And I easily could have spent hours, or days, doing so.

And that without…commitment.

Where might a greater opportunity have led?

How pathetic that sounds.

I didn’t understand…