Marcia and...Me

There isn't a lot more to tell about Marcia.

Merely my perspective, twenty years in the making. With a bit of maturity, and a great deal of experience.

Really.

Funny, I've always thought of myself as preferring brunettes. But it wasn't Marcia's appearance that mattered.

Ever.

She was always, ever and simply beautiful to me.

Just...scintillating. Simply a beautiful soul shining through. And that is how I always saw her. Painfully beautiful to me, even. Most especially so when she was looking up to me, so openly. A beautiful, remarkable woman. It didn't really matter what package it came in.

Though that was pretty doggone nice, too.

I have seen enough of Marcia's relationship with Scott to surmise that they work as a team, a pair, a true couple.

Just as I envision the perfect relationship.

Hey, Scott's clearly the better man. He got her. Obviously, he dared to ask her out.

I'm not perfect. But I wonder what might have happened.

Would she have simply said 'no'? Probably, if she had any sense. Which she did.

It really doesn't matter. I'll never know.

Who knows. Possibly I would have discovered some fatal character flaw deep within her. Well, I can think of one serious flaw right off the bat.

Marcia married Scott instead of me.

See? Told you I have a sense of humor.

But either or both of us may have changed in that time.

May have?

Marcia might find some portions of this blog...disconcerting.

Certainly both of us have matured.

Of course, I'm still walking that particular path.

But perhaps I'm not fooling myself. As much.

***

After about twenty years, I can look back on it with some perspective.

What did I want for Marcia? All that I ever wanted was for her to be happy.

I could clearly see that quality in her relationship with Scott, and that's all that I needed. In a number of relationships, that is all that I have ever wanted for the other person. I have never been "possessive", and I don't understand those who are.

I was never jealous of Scott. As I said, the better man won.

Envious? That's a completely different issue. Would I have like to be one who was gently entwined with Marcia on those picnic tables?

Undeniably.

I'd have to say that I yearned to be the person there with her.

What might I wish?

I wish that on the day of her wedding, there in the hallway....that I had managed to release that long ago dream. Grieve the forever loss of a relationship never born.

Rather than burying it, to face now. Most of twenty years later. At least it has been...illuminating.

What else? I wish that I had at least had the fortitude to ask her out.

Whether she said yes or not, whatever else might or might not have developed between the two of us. I simply wish that I had had the integrity to see it through, to at least make the attempt to live the dream. Make the fairy tale reality.

Perhaps my life would have been different, had I dared grasp that dream. I might not have allowed other dreams to slip through my fingers.

It's time, and more than, for that to change.

I do still have dreams, after all.

Heh...I'm editing this after a funeral today.

It was Marcia's grandfather's funeral. It was the first time that I had seen any member of her family since...well, since her wedding. Odd echoes, more than I will tell you here. I remained at the Church during the graveside service, and God and I had a talk. He and I needed to get some things straight, and I found myself reading John 8. Yep, that one. It was easy to see the message that He had for me. After all, I'm the only one still casting stones. It's time for me to forgive myself. Forgive myself for lost opportunities, and live life as He meant me to.

Of course, I did see Marcia, and her mom at the luncheon afterwards. I talked to Carol far more than Marcia, and didn't really wish to intrude any more in what had to be family time.

And yes, I found myself a bit tongue-tied. At least reticent--with Marcia. Perhaps that was just because other people were around. Or, because I had mailed off a certain letter the day before Marcia's grandfather had passed away.

He moves in mysterious ways...and afterward, I was laughing at myself. Someone has to.

Care to join me?

Ah. I almost forgot. I haven't related to you the fairy tale beginning yet, have I?

Eventually, you'll get that.

Simply Marcia

Yes, Marcia is as special as I've painted her. Perhaps even more so.

Over the years I had an opportunity to come to know her, from various perspectives. Everything that I came to learn of her only served to confirm, even build upon that very first moment. That instant of destiny, the fairy tale beginning.

This was a remarkable girl.

Who would grow to become a remarkable woman.

Trust me, before too long, I was looking for something to prove it a lie.

Desperately.

How's that for irony?

Marcia's good looks simply weren't debatable, and as I came to find upon her return from Florida, her innate faith was unshakable. I was delighted my her sharp mind, her intelligence, always dreaming of a woman whom I could share with on every level.

What made her unique to all of the other sweethearts around was simple. There was a streak, a spark to Marcia, that made her special. A determination to live every moment to the fullest. A rich blend of romance, passion and adventure. The creativity and vivid imagination, an ability to dream of, to grasp just a bit more.

A born romantic, I was a goner.

And because I loved her family so much, when Marcia came back that summer with a boyfriend, when she was utterly lost to me...I had no escape.

I sincerely admit that even now, this desperately needs to be rewritten.

I simply cannot do her sparkling spirit justice.

I guess that I found ways to make myself miserable.

I have to admit that I relished everything about this young woman.

I have too many stories to tell here, and I don't know that any of them are really relevant. Except to say that to me, Marcia was simply and utterly beautiful.

Innately.

Marcia, Family Ties

I have mentioned it several times, but Marcia's family was exceptionally special to me.

Hah. This is where I get...er, more than a bit maudlin.

As if I hadn't been already.

But I digress.

I met them well before I knew her, as I realized later.

Marcia's brother Greg was a grade school spitfire in my earliest AWANA group. That's a story and a half. It wasn't until later that I would recognize that it was the same Greg, mischievous spirit only vaguely diminished with age.

Still, when Marcia returned from Florida, somehow I found myself close to her family. Her folks, Mike and Carol, welcomed me with open arms. I never knew why--aside from the fact that they were good Christians—as well as exceptionally nice people.

But being in their house, their home, was an education for me. I hadn't ever been somewhere that people weren't always fighting all the time. When they had little disagreements that they called “arguments” and later apologized for, I had to smile.

I was accepted into their home—into their hearts—for everything. An evening around the television, complete with plentiful popcorn. They taped the final episode of M*A*S*H* for me while I was at college. Supper at the family table--and I have a story about a chili soup dinner that one day I'll absolutely have to confess to Mike. He was outnumbered.

And always, ever and always, was not only their home, but their hearts open to me.

And of course, there is Greg. My friend, and at times my best friend. I really cannot comment on some of the times that we shared, and experience has already shown that I remember some of the details far better than he. And a few of them I really have to duck my head and keep quiet about.

Well, at least in public, where someone might be looking.

But Greg, though older now, was still a ball of fire, and some of his hijinks I heard about rather than experienced with him. I remember when he was at college, and we started talking long distance. He had met a wonderful girl, and I got to meet Evonne, one night at his parent's house.

Great legs—and a night of "Hefty, hefty, hefty..."

You had to be there.

Greg is a good guy.

Am I a fool to admit to myself that I would have liked to make her family my own?

Or to recognize that, despite all this, family was merely one of the secondary attractions that Marcia held for me.

But that's yet another story.

Marcia and Love

Now, then.

You have heard of two of the most embarrassing moments.

Of my life.

Perhaps some of you might refer to them as...poignant. All that I know, is that it wasn't terribly easy to be there. To live through them.

I could wend our way to a year previous to our last installment, upon the occasion of another episode at Marcia's parent's house. This one being the combined graduation party for the siblings, high school for Greg, junior college for Marcia.

I suppose that the most dramatic happening of the evening was the jeans and red t-shirt that Marcia was wearing. They were more than a bit snug...and Marcia had a dynamic figure. Think Vanna White...or for you younger types, Scarlett Johannsen. Trust me, every guy there noticed. She looked spectacular. Inevitably, she spent most of the evening hand in hand with her boyfriend, Scott, and it wasn't exactly the first time that I had seen her in a tight t-shirt and jeans.

Of course, that occasion had been a few years previously, and had to be the summer after Marcia graduated from high school herself. In this case, I suspect that it was a bright yellow t-shirt. No particular reason to think so, just...it fits.

Anyway, I was out cruising one night with Marcia's brother. Doesn't that sound silly, almost twenty-five years later? But well into the night, Greg and I ran into Marcia and a couple of her friends at the Mall. The three girls were standing beside their car, watching the cars pass. This was quite the collection of attractive young women, I tell you.

Greg was more than happy to stop and talk with the girls. Two of them weren't his sister, after all. So I pulled over, and casually wandered over to the trio. By the time I arrived, of course, Greg was doing his level best to distract the other two girls. Completely unintentionally, of course, he's just a natural clown, and I'm quite sure that they regarded him fondly.

Not that he didn't have hopes.

I settled next to Marcia, who was regarding her brother with a bit of fond exasperation, and quietly started a conversation with her. Just what I wanted--an opportunity to talk with Marcia. This was before she met her eventual fiancé, of course.

Yet we hadn't more than started chatting, when a car pulled up in front of us. Annoyed at the interruption, I glanced over to see a guy in an older convertible, a fedora cocked jauntily on his head. He quite obviously was trying to attract the attention of the three good looking girls, but I certainly wasn't impressed. I'm afraid I'd have to admit that a rather derogatory term came to mind.

And it wasn't 'poser'.

After a moment, feeling that I had given him the benefit of the doubt, I quite deliberately turned back to Marcia and friends, expecting that she would be ready to resume our rudely interrupted conversation. I opened my mouth to say something, anything so that the guy would get the hint that he could move along...and froze in shock.

For Marcia most certainly wasn't looking at me.

Indeed, she was gazing quite raptly at the sleazeba--- er, gentleman in the convertible. And there were other signs that he had managed to capture Marcia's complete attention. Let's just say that it was blatantly obvious that somehow he had managed to stimulate her...imagination. 'Flushed' would have been a good starting point. With that tight yellow t-shirt, her reaction...stood out clearly.

Hey, I told you that she was beautiful.

I meant it.

Nonplused and disgusted at my poor showing, I collected Greg and moved along. Yet I always have to remember that Marcia indeed had a vivid imagination. Romance and passion. For a deeply committed Christian, she wasn't a naive, straight-laced sweet thing.

Er, just sweet.

Hmm. I suppose that I could have told you that this section...exists somewhere outside of the pure fairy tale.

And that imagination, especially in combination with her faith, was a large part of what I liked about her.

I had it thrown in my face a few years later, well after I had last seen her, when a supposed friend dragged another acquaintance a couple of hundred miles just to drop a bomb on me regarding Marcia.

That this other acquaintance had slept with her years before, when she was very young.

He was clearly disappointed in my calm acceptance, however.

I knew very well that everyone is human.

I had long since suspected a far deeper passion in this woman...I wouldn't have been so long attracted to her otherwise.

Is there a good way to say that? Passionless...just doesn't appeal to me.

And I belatedly remembered...the rest of the story.

You see, the very first fall after I first met Marcia, she went away to school. You'd think that this would cause some difficulty for a guy who thought that he had found the perfect girl...and you'd be right. But eventually I would hear the reason for her absence, and one day make a connection that I wasn't capable of one night in the wee hours of the morning.

After all, the reason that Marcia spent her sophomore year in Florida was because she was fighting with her parents, and sneaking out at night.

Just as she would one day comment of her brother.

Is it such a reach to recognize that perhaps the other parallels were in place as well? Just because she came back from Florida temperate and well behaved certainly didn't mean that Marcia was suddenly a different person. That's not the way that God makes us.

I remember her return, as it was eagerly awaited amongst the youth group. Marcia had spent a year in the exotic locale of Florida, after all. That summer the youth choir made another trip, and my class, a year removed from graduation, was invited along. Mainly because of a shortage of male voices, I'm sure.

But I remember seeing Marcia again, and it was impossible to penetrate the wall of excited girls around her. Especially when it became evident that Marcia already knew how to water ski. And so it was to be another summer of lost opportunities.

And a year after that summer of cruising, Marcia would return from college with a boyfriend. Who would then become a fiancé, who would eventually become a husband.

Opportunity lost.

And I saw more of the two of them--in the process seeing more of Marcia.

I worked that summer for the City Parks Department, which was headquartered adjacent to the community college. Yes, we're still going backwards here, folks.

In the process of my duties, oftimes I would come across Marcia and her boyfriend adorning one picnic table or another. No, not making out, just touching, holding one another. Studiously and closely entwined.

I saw her for the warm and intimate, sensuous, loving and romantic woman that she was.

And that...hurt.

To know that I had missed it.

That was only one more part of Marcia's life that I looked in on, but it wasn't the only one that fit.

Would have fit.

With me.

As if I hadn't missed it from that very first moment.

Marcia, Stairway to...?

I have to begin somewhere, because you are nowhere near the foreshadowed moment from the last post.

Hah! That'll teach ya!

So this one starts out with a pair of white pantyhose.

Really.

As a matter of fact, a pair of white pantyhose...that never coelesced into reality.

Seriously.

Like so much else of this ever winding tale.

I told you that I was close to Marcia's family. Her folks, Mike and Carol, her brother Greg. Yeah, I'll go back and change the names some day. Honest.

I know that this began as one of many many evenings that I had spent at their home, though they were becoming rarer and rarer, now that I had moved out of town, gone away to college. Yet as usual, there were movies and popcorn, and a warm glow wrapped about the house.

Love and family, the two things that forever permeated this household.

Sometimes things just happen, y'know?

During the evening, Marcia and I had fallen into a conversation. Slowly everyone else drifted away to the television, until Marcia and I found ourselves possessing the kitchen entirely to ourselves. She had been on a couple of mission trips overseas, and I had enjoyed a couple of far more modest expeditions, but we found a number of notes to compare and expand upon.

The only contingency being that Marcia needed to run to the store for a pair of white stockings to wear to church on the morrow. Since we were talking, I offered to accompany her.

When eventually she and I found ourselves both deserted and intent on our conversation, my memory tells me that she and I relocated to the far more comfortable couch in the den next to the kitchen.

Yes, for those of you who read the last installment, Marcia was engaged at this point. Part of my ongoing...frustration, for want of a better word.

So Marcia and I sat, alone and ignored, in the back of the house, entirely intent on our conversation, only the distant drone of the television from the front room to keep us company.

We wandered from mundane to esoteric topic, conversing about any great number of things. Including why her little bro, Greg, was so preoccupied with...girls. Marcia commented that she didn't understand it, and told me a little anecdote for the possible origins of his fascination, which I won't recount here. She did mention how he had been a handful, arguing with his parents and sneaking out at night.

To my utter embarassment, I didn't twig to a hugely relevant clue when I heard one. Years later I would make a connection, and curse my fallibility.

Hey, I'll plead exhaustion, okay?

Eventually the sounds from the living room dwindled, and finally disappeared as people made their way upstairs to bed. Evidently her parents trusted me. Evidently for good reason.

And still Marcia and I chattered on.

I don't want to say that I was in heaven, but...this was the first time that I had ever had quality time with Marcia, all to myself. And to my embarassment...

Okay, I'll admit it.

As the wee hours progressed, as conversation dwindled, as I simply didn't wish for the night, the stolen moments with this incredible young woman to end...fatigue having set in, I thrashed my mind for fresh topics. And found...nothing.

In a panic, I resorted to a desperate, amazingly stupid measure.

I repeated something that I knew perfectly well that we had talked about hours before.

I knew very well that if I was aware, Marcia had to be as well. Even as the words came out of my mouth, I was narrowly watching her reaction....and she was gracious enough to let me get away with it. And I managed to stretch our time together a tiny bit longer.

I can't tell you how embarrassed I am to admit that. Mortified.

Those stolen moments complete, Marcia and I finally wrapped up our conversation. To realize that it was now four o'clock. In the blessed AM. No wonder everyone else had wandered off to bed.

Slowly we made our way to the front of the house, where the stairwell crooked and creaked it's way upstairs from the front door.

Whispering, though we had to be waking everyone abed at the top of the echoing stairs, finally I said good-night to Marcia, standing on the landing just above.

And stuck out my hand.

She regarded my gesture for a moment, then with a half sort of chuckle, glanced up at me.

"A handshake's just not gonna do it, Jeff."

Disbelieving, I took a step up those horrid, ancient stairs to meet her, and hesitantly, awkwardly, fumblingly took Marcia into my arms. Entirely aware of every inch of her. For years I had dreamed of nothing else, wanted nothing more than this woman. To feel the warmth and softness of her in my arms. Feel her soak into me.

Now, of course, I was so afraid of how much I liked her, so aware that she belonged to someone else...that I just have to have given Marcia the worst hug in the entire history of the planet.

Somewhere, I have a list of all the wonderful hugs that I have enjoyed in my life. Honestly, I swear. This one I muffed, big time.

It might always haunt me.

Because Marcia certainly hadn't said her wedding vows, then.

Halfway home it struck me. We never did go get the white pantyhose,

Marcia Last

Funny, I suppose that I am going to do something completely different, and write about Marcia...backwards. Yes, that's true. Just to be different...and because in so many ways, she is completely different than any other woman in my life. I suppose that I went about everything completely backwards, anyway.

Damn idiot. Falling in love with a girl at first sight, anyway.

So, of course, I must start with the very last time that I saw Marcia. Which makes complete, utter and total sense...because it might have been the very first time that I saw the truth.

The truth that really mattered.

And what do you get for your price of admission? Well, very likely a story that makes little if any sense, because it is taken entirely outside of almost a decade's worth of context.

*

The setting, of course, is fairly straightforward. It's Marcia's wedding day.

How's that for a kicker?

I do remember that it was difficult for me to attend, way back in the latter reaches of the eighties, and I was absolutely disgusted to find, at the last moment, that I didn't have a suit that would fit me. So I stuck together some sketchy approximation of "respectable", for not only Marcia's sake, but her entire family meant a great deal to me. And off I went for a wedding that I entirely approved of...and absolutely loathed the thought of.

To tell you the truth, all that I wanted was for Marcia to be happy. And how could she ever be happy with a schmuck like me? Scott was a nice guy, after all.

I have to admit that much of the ceremony went by in a blur. Marcia was beautiful, of course. I remember passing through the reception line, and the horrible thought of kissing the bride passed through my mind. Not that kissing her would have been horrible, of course, but...well, uh, you get the idea.

And there were a couple of guys brave enough to take advantage of that ancient tradition, with a peck on the cheek. But no, not for me. The least problem being that I was far, far too shy.

Marcia was radiant.

The reception was in the church Annex afterwards, and though I had been close to dad Mike, mom Carol, and (especially) brother Greg for some time, I remained in the background.

I knew where my place was in this particular celebration.

Still, I couldn't stay too far distant.

Scott attempted to cater to Marcia's sense of romance and adventure by hiring a balloon to carry them away from the reception. Unfortunately, the winds that afternoon were too high to take off.

Like many other dreams that day, that particular one never got off the ground.

As everyone vanished, I found myself helping to clean up the Annex, like the decent guy I sometimes manage to be. Refrigerating food, putting away tables and chairs, helping to dispose of the trash, that sort of thing. There were surprisingly few hands available. Yet I felt myself more than obligated.

Marcia was floating about in her happiness and joy (still radiant), and at one point, when the place was becoming quite deserted, I accompanied one of the guys towards the Church, along the hall connecting the main building with the Annex. He assured me that he could handle his task alone, and vanished into the bowels of the Church, trailing the rest of the men of the wedding party.

I stood there alone for a moment in the long empty corridor, gazing after him. Feeling the utter silence, pondering the events of the day...and what they had meant to me. What really mattered to me was that Marcia was quite obviously, completely happy.

As she could never be with a wreck like me.

And her happiness...satisfied me.

Hearing a slight rustle behind me, I turned in startlement.

To find Marcia behind me, quietly looking up at me expectantly, a smile caressing her face, head tilted slightly to the side.

She was still in her elegant gown, though her veil missing, the train was long since departed.

Take that, metaphor city.

Marcia looked absolutely, stunningly beautiful, graceful neck curving down to greet bare shoulders.

And she was happy. Content. There was no doubt in my mind.

The moment stretched, and she didn't say anything, just looking up, into my eyes.

The silence surrounding us billowed. I knew how absolutely alone we were, the guests departed, the few remaining family members in the farthest reaches of the buildings.

Take her into your arms. Kiss her.

Not really a thought, more simply a profound feeling; the awareness, the conviction blossomed in my heart, filling my soul. I knew, utterly, that it was absolutely the right and fitting and perfect thing to do. Something once in our life for us to share. Knowing completely that no one else could ever see, would ever know.

Once in your life, for you will never have another opportunity.

Yet another voice, a voice of conscience, wrested me away. Away from battles surrendered before being fought, a dream forever lost.

It was too late to kiss her...more than an hour ago. The moment that she said her vows.

It was an angry voice. There was a finality to that statement which resounded through me.

I don't remember exactly what I did, what I said. I think that I mumbled something absolutely nonsensical and inane, and physically wrenched myself away. Horribly, turning my back on her.

I doubt that Marcia ever understood my abrupt departure.

I stalked...nay, blindly half stumbled away.

Remembering a fumbled moment on a staircase, a year before, in the middle of the night.

Hating myself, for lost opportunities. Shattered dreams.

Fractured fairy tales.

Breathtaking

Lest any of you think that this blog only mentions older women, there have been a handful of far younger in my life, at least to one degree or another. Just like the others that I have written about.

As I approached--and crossed--the 'forty' line, there were a few twenty-somethings who flashed through my life. There was Tiffany, by far the most unconventional (er, I think), Crystal, who had beautiful skin, Raquel, who was deeply romantic, and...Christie. I always thought that Christie was beautiful, clever, attractive, intelligent, resourceful, funny, appealing and sexy...and that was before she trotted out her little red dress.

Suddenly...devastating.

Utterly so. Breathtaking is probably the best word that I have ever used.

To my amazement, I suddenly found that I was seeing on the exterior the exceptional woman that I had always sensed on the interior.

I remember one day, sitting in the basement of the Library. Just looking at her, the curve of her face, how her hair set off her eyes, gracefully framed her face. Thinking about how beautiful she was. Or remembering the time that online she sat unseen feet away, claiming to be elsewhere, while mysteriously “guessing” every element of my attire.

I always have regretted not walking her to her door that night.

Christie was absolutely beautiful. Her raven hair was dramatically set off by the ruby red of her dress. Rich tresses swept gracefully about her incredible cheeks, cascaded softly down her back. I had never seen her look so vibrant, so alive, so...luscious. Absolutely entrancing.

Like so many others, I never did manage to sift the depths of Christie's mischievous soul. I know that there is a great deal of joy and passion there, welling beyond the surface. I just didn't manage to touch it…for myself.

I never told her, but whatever she might have once told me, Christie does have a great figure. I have to admit, years later, I would have loved to see just how that tiny red dress opened—a hot topic of discussion that evening. It was tiny enough to spark the imagination, exactly what she was wearing beneath it that night. Just that high slit atop her sleek thighs alone, reaching towards her hip, the hint of a wonderful rump...was more than enough to capture any man’s imagination.

After all, it was Christie who made the dress come alive. Not the other way around.

Unfortunately, there were three of us friends, old roommates, out for dinner that night, and I suspected that if for anyone, Christie wore that little red dress for the other guy....to my eternal regret.

Still, I can think back on four girls with a smile on my face. Interestingly, all of these younger women are from vastly different ethnic and cultural backgrounds. From Chicago to Catalonia, with Turkish and Szechwan blending into the mix. That doesn’t even begin to mention disparate religious differences...and all four of them were beautiful.

It's kinda funny. A year or two later, Christie commented about how I liked bright colors. Perhaps it wasn't so much bright colors, but the incredible woman wearing them. And while she might not have been in the absolutely fit, perfect shape that she felt that she needed to be to wear that...remarkable dress, she is, was and always will be, beautiful, breathtaking and devasting.

Just because that's the woman that she is.

Like so many of my other stories, I have never been able to say this to Christie.

She deserves it.

Kay Revisited

Oh Kay.

A month or two following the original series, I will toss this on. I really could not think of any way to work it into the narrative. So I guess it will stand alone.

One night, and this was way back in my college days, I was headed home, and decided to drop by Paul and Kay's house. It was around ten o'clock, which was a bit late, but there were plenty of lights on. Hesitant, I saw a gap in the curtains of the dining room window, and glanced through to see if anyone was about.

A quick scan showed both the dining room, and kitchen beyond to be deserted. But suddenly there was a flicker of movement, and I recoiled in surprise. And pondered a moment, carefully reconstructing what I had just seen.

It didn't take long, because I realized that what had caught my eye was Kay, dashing from the doorway of the living room, across the corner of the kitchen, and into the bathroom. The door to her bedroom was just beyond the living room doorway, so doubtless she had just scooted from her bedroom into the bathroom.

Naked.

All right, so I had a mostly side-to-backside view, since Kay was at best parallel to me, then facing away, and it was only for the space of a step or two. She was gone before I even realized what I had seen. All that really registered was an instant's view of her bare back. Well, and her legs and backside, too.

I suppose that I could have waited for Kay to come out of the bathroom, for I wouldn't anticipate her to suddenly have acquired clothing somewhere. Yet I suddenly realized that I had been standing there musing, under a streetlight at ten o'clock at night, for some time now. It was definitely time for me to be moving along.

And...this stolen moment certainly wasn't the way that I would have chosen to see her.

Beauty is something to be...given.

I am going to say this now, just in case "Kay" ever happens to read this...which, really is the only reason that I am writing this. I enjoy women. I can't help it, that's who I am. I have learned that the secret to a wonderful lover isn't a body, isn't great looks, it's whether she has a beautiful soul. A woman with a beautiful soul, who knows how to love, will make a wonderful, incredible lover.

And Christian women, women of faith, by definition, know how to love.

But I saw more of Kay that day than I had ever anticipated, even just that brief glimpse. I don't know whether her husband, any man, has ever complimented her as she deserves. And I know women, I savor women, I enjoy the graceful female form. And what I saw, even in that brief glance, was an absolutely beautiful ass. Perfect, I can't imagine seeing one any better anywhere else. It most definitely wasn't just the white cords that day.

I certainly didn't see the rest of her body, but I could easily be satisfied living the rest of my life, being able to look at a woman with a great rear end like that. I don't think that it would be much of a stretch to say that, beneath all of those long ago ruffles, Kay had a beautiful body.

And the really dumb thing, is that it isn't even her looks that make her so attractive. I could feel the melody, the music flowing from fingers, pouring from her soul. It was easy to tell that Kay would be a wonderful lover...

In all dimensions of the word.

Linda

If I were using real names here, there would be a plethora of 'Linda's, 'Lisa's and variants of 'Lori'. So I may as well use one of them here, in simple tribute to my longtime friend Linda. She is perhaps the one and only of my early college friends that I have managed to keep in touch with, and there is a deep and valued bond between the two of us.

I'll be the first to admit that, like my relationships with everyone, she and I have at times had our difficulties communicating. A situation which is largely related to my own difficulties and for which I must humbly apologize. I don't know how to describe Linda to you.

There was a moment, a few years ago, that she was meeting me one night for coffee. She parked up the street, and stood on the sidewalk waiting as I hastened toward her. I remember one instant, when I looked up and saw her silhouette, head slightly tilted, long blond hair falling across her shoulder, the lithe lines of her willowy figure. With a pang it struck me, just how beautiful she is, has always been, and how I had never managed to tell her so. There is so much of her beauty that I have never been able to share with her.

Linda belongs here because, like most of our little cliché in college, we all had grown up with strong religious backgrounds of one type or another. I'm not going to try to guess at her faith today, except that I am reasonably certain that, like me, it remains an essential part of her. And...Linda is also one of the most amazingly attractive women that I have ever met. She's an incredible lover waiting to happen--without the veneer of religious sexual repression hanging over her femininity.

Linda and I shared a moment, over twenty years ago in college, that I doubtless will ever remember far better than she. I'm not going to describe the circumstances, but one afternoon we found ourselves on my couch, her legs across my lap. With me giving her a gentle massage. Linda complains that her legs aren't nearly what they were at twenty, but now on the 'wrong side' of forty, they're still better than ninety percent of the women out there. That was, and remains, one of the most sensuous moments of my life.

Life has shifted for both of us, but Linda and I still keep in touch, and I'd like to think that both have been there for the other when needed--a bag of M&M's at the right moment goes a long way. Coffee and cribbage has been a tie, and she has been one of the few people that I have been able to confide in over the years. Both of us have made different choices in partners, but there are a few other things that I'll tell you about Linda, some of which I have recently shared with her.

I'll have to admit to you here, that there were a few times, when she and I went out for dinner as friends, that when we were sitting at a table, it was nearly impossible to keep from reaching over to touch her. At the end of the evening, when we said good night, not to lean over and taste those wonderful lips.

I know, because many years ago, on an occasion when I was leaving our college town and didn't expect to be back, as we said good-bye in her parking lot I asked Linda permission to kiss her. And to my surprise, she said yes.

It wasn't more than a quick brush of lips, but I'll always remember their sweetness.

Linda and I have always had an unspoken agreement not to risk our friendship, and we've always each known that the other is not what we're looking for in a long-term relationship. I have to admit that I have made a conscious effort not to flirt with her. Sometimes it hasn't been easy. But I think that of all the women that I've ever known in my life, if I were built for 'casual sex', that she is one of those whom I might most regret not having shared a special moment with.

Linda is an amazingly attractive, sexy and sensuous woman, and I might always regret not drinking more deeply of her passion. Those wonderful lips. Who knows, she might have found herself far more responsive than she ever guessed. Or at least...admitted.

To me or herself.

Diane

You won't read much about Diane here, but she must needs be acknowledged, for the size of the impact that she has had on my life.

You see, Diane doesn't belong here, despite her strong Christian background, because with her I actually had a healthy, open relationship. All right, as healthy as I was capable of being, and at times that was quite something. I have to say that I have loved Di as well as I have any woman, ever in my life...and with my shortcomings, I'm ashamed to admit that that is a sad thing to say.

Diane came into our relationship a very battered, drained and emotionally scarred woman. The damage went back to her teens, and ranged through an emotionally unavailable husband, widowhood, and a close male friend who did far more harm than he is ever capable of realizing. To say that she had difficulties with her femininity would be an understatement.

Yet still, she gave to me, and I to she, and both of us healed and grew. I needed what she had to give, and vice versa. Di was an amazingly beautiful, sensuous, passionate woman, and I enjoyed her a great deal. And she me...she told me how wonderful it was to play again.

Perhaps more about Diane...later.

Banana-Rama Beth

I'm sure that I have written that I have never had is a lot of luck with women my own age. I've dated women substantially older, or younger. Both seem to work out quite well. But it wasn’t until my ten year class reunion, as my twenties faded, that things seemed to click a little bit better.

And yes, Beth is the story, but there is a great deal of back story, for I think that Beth is more than a bit unique. And how do I tell you enough about her, without telling too much?

It wouldn’t be cheating to tell you that Beth was a bit of a wallflower in high school, though I knew her there. Indeed, she and I were part of a very small, very intimate Literature class that managed to keep us all entertained. My impression of Beth was that she was quietly religious, very conservative, and extremely aware of all of “the rules”. She was quiet enough, but not completely a wallflower. If she was voted the “most innocent” by our fellow seniors, she had to be noticed by someone.

And I have to admit that Beth had some quite noticeable assets, if I dare be so crass. In reconstructing my high school days, I have come to realize that high school girls are even more fixated on bust size than high school boys are. Now to tell the truth, I’m quite certain that there were a couple of girls in our class er, more fully endowed than Beth. As illustrated by those selfsame senior awards.

But to be honest, I would have had to say that Beth may well have had the best breasts in the class. I'll never be able to say that to her. Sheer size isn’t everything, and along with a couple of girls who were a bit taller (and, strangely, were best friends), Beth probably had the best figure in the class. She just, um, didn’t display it all that well. I said that she was religious, and conservative.

I ran into Beth once or twice in the years succeeding graduation, but I also moved away before too long. Then our class reunion rolled around, and it was a very interesting time.

I say interesting, for if Beth was a wallflower, that would have been a compliment for me. Mr. Invisible. But evidently maturity wrought some changes, and my head was dizzied as attractive women, who never had the time of day for me in high school, kept coming up to me and exclaiming, “Somebody told me that you were Jeff, and I just couldn’t believe it!”

Now, I have to say that I went home that summer weekend in the midst of an unrequited love. Suffering from at least the torn conscience of that relationship, and I have to admit that it was nice to be away. I don’t know if I will ever write about this ‘Lisa’. I have to admit that it was nice to be home—and catching some positive feedback along the way.

Still, when the music started I had touched bases with Beth, now a divorced single mom, during dinner; and it was only natural to ask her for a dance. Not too long before I had taken a Ballroom Dance class, and I was pleased to try out some of the Swing and other steps with Beth. And though rusty, she seemed satisfied, even enthusiastic, in following my lead.

After a couple of dances, I noticed her glancing over at her friend, ‘Chris’. I knew from dinner conversation that they worked together, and she seemed to be looking for encouragement or advice. All that I caught was a quick nod in return, and I suppose that I’ll always wonder what was going on. Still, I can remember more than once offering to get Beth a drink from the bar, and she declined, telling me that she didn’t drink. That, and what I recall to be a sleek blue dress that simply flowed about her. Beth told me that she had a twenty-two inch waist, that her exercise was from mowing--and it showed.

Still a few dances later, Beth and I were on the dance floor again, when the D.J. segued to a slow dance. And I felt Beth slowly become comfortable in my arms. I am going to admit right now just how good she felt…and just how torn my emotions were.

For on the one hand, and I have to say this first, I was completely aware that Beth was right where I wanted Lisa to be. Beth was the same height, the same general build, even the same hair color, and I had liked Lisa for quite a long while. So there was a strong pull just to savor Beth, as Lisa, in my arms.

Yet Beth had her own unmistakable and appealing attributes. For one thing, sitting talking during dinner, she was far more forthcoming than Lisa ever was. I still wasn’t getting a grip on the complexity that was Beth, but I was seeing glimpses of it. For one thing, she obviously had no clue just how attractive she was. And as she grew warmer, and closer to me, I began to feel more and more of that. Literally. For with Beth’s head on my chest, obviously she began to start feeling me.

I could feel Beth relaxing as she came closer and closer to me, throughout the slow dances. And I only wanted to draw her closer, because she felt so wonderful. Both physically, and feeling her openness, her wanting, her need. As if physically weren’t more than enough in the first place.

I can be very tactile, I suppose, and I was completely aware of those really nice breasts pressing more and more firmly into me. I say that Beth reminded me of Lisa, but Lisa certainly had absolutely nothing like this! The psychological aspect only made it tougher, let alone more complicated, and I felt myself responding.

Obviously Beth did as well, for she only seemed to hold me tighter, and before long those full, firm breasts were pancaked against my chest. My arousal only grew, and I was astonished—and pleased—to feel Beth’s hips and abdomen drawing even closer—her arms were quite linked around me. Clinging tightly, would be apt. I don’t think that a couple could dance any closer, it felt like she was practically riding me right there on the dance floor. No, I’m certainly not complaining.

I was torn by how much I wanted Beth because I wanted her to be Lisa…and how much I wanted Beth because she was Beth. In the end I decided that the only fair thing, fair to Beth, was simply to walk away. It was simply an issue of…integrity. I knew full well that I wanted her, and suspected that she wanted me, but I also knew full well that it hadn’t begun as simply "Beth". There was far too much “Lisa” mixed into my emotions—especially at the start.

And so, well before the end of the evening, I offered to walk Beth to her car. I don’t know that she ever understood, for I recall what happened as we stood there in the parking lot. I know that I gave her a quick peck on the lips, but I didn’t dare anything else. I remember how she looked at me, and quietly said, “I’ll do whatever you want to do.” Now, that certainly seemed like carte blanche to me, and I found myself hanging in indecision. Ah, that integrity. My torn conscience.

I know that Beth misinterpreted my hesitance, for she made an attempt to reach me. Perhaps she was concerned that as a divorced single mom, I was worried that she was promiscuous…but that wasn’t the case. She was too much of a sweetheart. Still, Beth broached the heart of her story (not to be repeated here), then she and I left the reunion for an all night restaurant, where we sat and talked until four AM. It was a moment of connection and understanding—and not the one that I might have wanted.

Which really doesn’t matter for anything. Except that I far rather would have gone back to her place, or found a nice hotel room, and spent those same hours feeling Beth in my arms. She was sexy, she was sweet, and I would never have that opportunity again. Lost forever. Good lord, how I simply wanted to slip that dress from her shoulders, and watch it fall to the floor...

She didn't know that she had a beautiful body, and I would never so much as see it, let alone being able to tell her so.

Perhaps rather than integrity, it was simply a matter of stupidity.

But who could have known that ‘Miss Innocent’, this sweet Christian girl, was such a beautiful, sensuous, passionate woman?

Certainly not me.

Andi

'Andi' was originally part of 'Silly Men', but gets a post all to herself. She more than deserves it.

In her sixties, it was still easy to see the vestiges of great good looks. I would say that once you got to know her, looked at her home and surroundings, it was even easier to see the beauty, the romance, the passion of her soul. It's amazing how many men don't know what to look for. She was quite down on her own appearance, but at the same time was proud of her daughter and granddaughter--which was almost laughable were it not so sad, because they both looked just like Andi. And they are beautiful, attractive women!

I know that Andi was divorced around forty, and she told me that the first thing that she did was go out and buy a leather jacket with a fur collar. That combination speaks broadly, of her innate passion, femininity and sensuality.

A retired school teacher, one night she and I sat for hours on her front porch in the dark, talking. She is a leader of her church, indeed I could hear in her voice the depth what it meant to her when she said that she was "born again".

Yet I also remember how one afternoon a group of us were joking about going to a strip bar, and someone told her that she would have to get up and dance. She laughed and said that she would, but that people would probably run away when she took off her clothes.

Later, when she and I stepped outside, I told her that I wouldn't have run away. An assertation not entirely noble. She laughed again, and I remember that she murmured something about "doing it before it's too late". But then Andi surprised me when she shot back that if she got up and danced, then I'd have to do so as well.

Then, as if suddenly realizing what she just said, I watched her withdraw back into herself...

So Andi and I sat into the night that summer eve talking, drinking Diet Pepsi. She had some mini-lights in her garden (another way to see the passion and romance of a woman's soul-just look at her garden), and a small fountain bubbling. It was quiet and peaceful, and she shared with me a secret that she thought she'd never tell anyone else.

I had asked her another...what was her secret fantasy. The secret that she did tell me, she said, was even more personal, and I'll hold that confidence completely. Yet what she refused to share with me was the secret, the nature of her passion, a clue to her honest sexuality, deepest sensuality.

I didn't prompt her, didn't push her, I was willing to allow Andi the time and space to open herself to me. Yet she didn't and perhaps there was a reason for that. It might simply have been too personal. Maybe she thought it was just too risqué, too..."kinky". Perhaps in some dimension she was attracted to me, and afraid to admit it, afraid of some subtle rejection.

Was it so hard for Andi to believe that she was an attractive, interesting, even sexy woman? What kind of damage did her husband, the other men in her life do to her?

And just how many women out there are similarly...disserviced?

Carol Epilogue

Of course, this story didn't end there. Nor, I have to admit, have I included all related portions, however distantly.

Like a cool August night.

The fact remains that eventually I sought out Carol. Awkwardly and clumsily though it may have been, I found myself completely unwilling to allow any more mysteries to remain untouched for the remainder of my life. And on a day when I set out to resolve three of them, a day when I was about to depart for another city, far away, I went looking for Carol.

I found her at work, at the company for whom we were both once employed. Funny, at last note she now only worked there occasionally, I presume for the pleasure of encountering old friends. But find her I did.

Carol was pleased to take some moments to talk with me, and I'm afraid that I stole far more than she could really spare. We talked for some time, there in the middle of a busy crowd, and I admit that I was determined to not let the moment pass. So determined, in fact, that allowing the course of the conversation to flow to various topics, I forced it along.

We spoke, and finally I explained to her the basis for my four months previously "Dutch" question. Not surprisingly, she didn't recall the comment, some dozen years later. Yet she also softly added that sometimes a naive person, who was raised away from overt sexuality, can sometimes innocently make suggestive comments unintentionally.

We spoke some more, and I wish that I could recall all that we talked about. Yet I do remember how it ended.

Someone behind me had been gesturing for Carol for some time, but still she had catered to my whims. Finally she started to rise, and desperately I found myself asking a forbidden question. And doing so badly. As well as baldly.

"Carol, all of those years ago, when we worked together...were you attracted to me?"

I needed to know the answer to that question--or one very like it. What I had intended was perhaps something more innocuous, less invasive, like, "Did you see me as an attractive guy?"

An entirely different issue. Merely a bit of reassurance for a guy who had had more than a few blows to his confidence.

Still, I will always remember Carol's reaction. I could see the query hit her, she completely froze in mid motion. The question was a jolt to her, for whatever of many possible reasons I cannot guess.

I watched, as she turned her eyes back to me, composure slip back into place. Her reply, when it came, was quiet, simple, honest, and straightforward. Apparently

"I had someone then."

With that, Carol strode off to where she was needed.

And I couldn't help but think...that's an odd way to say that she was already married.

Just another mystery from Carol.

And, even given Carol's completely plausible explanation, I still cannot come up with a completely innocent connotation for the original conundrum.

"Would you eat...me? "

Carol Conclusion

Emotions and senses awhirl, slowly I followed Carol out through the front door. She had swept on, saying her farewells. Several minutes later I was standing by the street, from a distance watching Carol say her good-byes. I was standing with our departing friend Samantha as she chatted with a helper.

Over behind the moving van I saw Carol step into one of the guys arms, one of her 'special guys' from one of her charity projects. Almost inevitably I watched, waited...and noted my unsurprise when that errant hand slid down to rub the small of his back in a slow circle. As the two men standing in the back of the van regarded the scene.

Certainly this wasn't nearly as lingering a hug as I had been gifted with, but that caress seemed inevitable. I still have to wonder. Does Carol simply not understand, comprehend just how sensual an act that is? That the small of the back is one of the major erogenous zones?

Really--am I stretching too much here? Expecting that a Christian woman, married for about fifteen years at this point, could understand (or, alternately, fail to grasp) a such fundamental piece of human sexuality?

Dutch Treat

Finally there was again a swarm about, and since there were more than enough guys loading the van, I stuck to my cleaning. Eventually Carol drifted on with the other women, and even had an impromptu "listening and prayer" session by the garage. I said that she was generous.

Still, five o'clock rolled around, and Carol had to set off. I could hear her say good-bye to one of the women cleaning in the kitchen, and I half expected her to step outside and up the drive. Still, I wasn't surprised when she swept into the living room, where I had just finished vacuuming the stairs--but I was that she had both arms outstretched for a hug.

Still, I wasn't one to quibble with acceptance, I enjoy a hug as well as the next person, and back to the stairs, let Carol settle into my arms.

I notice details, remember?

It's odd, almost like stop motion. First, Carol settled her full breasts carefully, almost gauging that they were halfway into my chest. Some women use their breasts as weapons when they hug, my first, fleeting impression was that Carol was taking care not to do this when she hugged me.

But then she had slipped into me, far shorter than my six-three, yet her arms were about me. And with wonder, I could feel the love, feel Carol flowing into me.

I'm not even beginning to do this justice...

She simply rested there, cheek on my chest, for long moments. Wonderingly, I looked at the three women on the other side of the screen door, back to this scene. Just as Carol's hand slipped along my spine to the small of my back, and gently traced a small circle.

Startled, as warmth rushed through me, I glanced down at Carol, nestled there in my arms...and was struck, for the first time, by how utterly beautiful her face was. I just gaped in amazement.

Eventually, Carol slipped free of my arms. Just as she turned to leave, to slip away through the door, I managed one, brief sentence.

"I wish that I had met you...before you were married."

A sliver of the truth, but the only one that I could give her.

I couldn't bring myself to say what I could have...because I couldn't even admit that to myself.

Carol kind of laughed, a startled, half-restrained chuckle, almost taken aback, almost as if she wanted to say something else. I couldn't really read it, but a moment later she was gone.