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Page 19.
 When you are a lost, broke young soul, unable to afford even a date with two beers, what a splendid thing to be taken in, pampered, fed, clothed, and sucked and @ed by a gorgeous woman. Not an inexperienced, self-centered child, but a mature woman, seasoned in her sexuality, still very young at heart, and best of all, asking nothing substantial in return—not even permanence. If she expects a lasting commitment, even marriage, she is most likely going to be deeply hurt. Unless he lies to her (which I tried never to do), she cannot claim to feel betrayed, because she refused to read her own tea leaves. When there is a reciprocal need, as there was between me and H, a lot of pleasure and fun can be had.
H just happened to be a tallish, thin woman who struck most men (and women) as aloof and hard. With her narrow eyes and high cheek bones, she may have seemed chilly—but she was shy and hurt inside. I read all that early on, when I saw her looking my way. It took a bit to break through the defensive walls, but when a woman longs to be rescued from her own defenses. H was truly a beautiful woman, which put many men (and women) off also. She was so gorgeous that I found myself torn by serious feelings for her, but the ten year difference loomed just over the horizon. I wasn't dealing with the issue, and she never let on if she was. I tried bringing it up in a tender moment, when I worried about hurting her, but she quickly put a fingertip on my lips and shook her head.
Thanksgiving rolled around—gray, cold, barren. H had me drive her car to a place up north, where we had dinner with some college friends of hers. They were even older, three couples in their late thirties, early forties. One was a Swedish engineer and his blonde (graying) butter-churn of a wife, who regarded me and H with a certain disdainful sorrow in moments when she thought nobody was looking. Then there was a New York philosophy professor with a bald, gleaming pate and a nut-brown ring of hair, and his loud, heavy Italian wife, both of them extremely kind and thoughtful.
Finally there was a quiet, insular Chinese man with wide cheekbones and a bony face on a bony body, who came and left with a leggy, long-haired woman of mixed Native American-French Canadian extraction—she was the most youthful and fun of the bunch, with her long black hair and saucy mouth. She and the Chinese man left right after dinner, and H explained to me that she had been shocked to see the Chinese man show up—he was a cousin of a man she had dumped after being engaged for years; what stories he would tell; what telegrams and messages she could expect to get. We decided, instead of going home that night, to drive up to Montreal. It was a long drive yet, five hours, but we took turns driving, listening to music, talking. "I feel so free with you," H said as she drove, and passing highway lights made the surfaces of her face flicker brighter, darker in hypnotic rhythm. I put my arm around her and whispered in her ear: "I want you to be my Christmas stocking stuffer."
She laughed. "You want me to pop out of a stocking? That would be a big stocking."
I nuzzled her ear lobe. "I just want you to pop out of your stockings that you wear."
"Oh, I see." Her eyes began plotting clever and sexy surprises. You see, when a young woman and her younger man are together, they are like children. There is no tomorrow or yesterday—just now, this moment, this day, all the fun we can have before we have to go inside and eat our vegetables. This interlude is youth's last playtime. For both it is the Indian Summer of being truly young. For her, it is a brief, light moment between marriages and huge, heavy years full of responsibilities; for him, the last random flight of the arrow before his heavy years arrive. "I will be glad to be your stocking stuffer. I am also glad that we are planning that far ahead."
"A whole four weeks," I said. Was she thinking that I might run out on her between now and then? Not a chance. Even I could plan that far ahead.
Love making with me, for her, was still in that scared, stiff phase. I wondered if I could help her stop being scared. Sometimes, like in the hotel room in Montreal, she actually trembled as I helped her undress. I was tired of asking her what was the matter. I knew—guilt. She felt guilty about our not being married, about not feeling she could present me to her parents, who lived not far away in Trois Rivieres. She felt guilty about wanting more in our sex than she could readily ask for. I was waiting for the dam to break, for the walls to tumble, for the real H to come out.
The first time we made love, she warmed a little bit, which gave me reason to expect more. There was much slow, hesitant undressing, and much looking—she grasped my dong and looked at it as if it were a telephone receiver she wasn't sure she wanted to pick up. I was patient, emptying my mind of expectations and being thankful for whatever I did get. She had a long, thin body. Not ribby or emaciated. Just long and thin, with soft padding in the right places. Her breasts were small and tilted, with brown nipples that rose up like chocolate chips. "What do you like?" she whispered self-consciously. She sat like a statue, wanting me to show her. She held one slender hand over her pubic area. "Let's kiss," I suggested. Even that we had not done much so far. We lay nakedly side by side and kissed. She liked my tongue in her mouth, and pulled me closer to stick her tongue in mine better. Her breathing grew fast and heavy, and I knew there was a tiger in there waiting to come out. She guided my hand to her breasts and signaled for me to play with them. She still looked a bit embarrassed and maybe felt silly asking me in words what she thought should happen in gestures and looks. "It's okay to talk," I said. She laughed. "Instruct me, then, because I am very inexperienced. I was engaged to a man who was rather cold, and I didn't want him touching me, so I spent years pretending to be frigid."
"We have to thaw you out then."
"Okay." She laughed. "I have something nice."
"I'll bet you do."
"Want to see, or want to wait?"
"Can I look, and then we wait?" "Okay. Look." She moved her gaze so I should follow it down the length of her body.
Puzzled, I let my lips guide me, from her dry little lips, down her bony jaw and chin, down her long neck, over the foothills of her dove-like breasts—whose nipples became longer when they grew erect—down the downy furrow of her belly, bouncing over her outie belly button, down a dip and then up over her hairy Venus mound. "See?" I still didn't, but pushed her long thin thighs apart—enjoying seeing the tender meat inside quiver as her thighs moved—and studied what she wanted me to see. I saw pert little buttocks and a pretty brown pucker down below. Above that was a generous region of genitals. She had a brownie, outie oysterie.
"Take a look," she urged. I liked her labia, which were stuck together like hands in prayer. With the tip of my tongue, I shook them and unglued them. I parted them by moving my head up and down. As they unfolded, I saw the loose flesh in the slightly open hole of her oyster. I saw the pinkish hole that she squirted pee with.
"I see it," I said. "Oh God, how wonderful." She had a marvelous clitoris. It was wide, with a massive hood that spread like the clouds over a Himalayan mountain top. Folds of yellowish brown skin formed a generous hood over this prodigious button about the size of my fingertip looking head-on. That's big. It was about the size of a slightly worn, rounded pencil eraser. I kissed it, and had to force myself to stop. I smelled its moisture, its slightly salty body fluids amid the dampness emanating from her open vagina onto my almost-touching face. I was going to work my way down there to that reward, taking my time, as long as I could stand it.
"You like it?" she asked as she touched my cheek and I returned to start kissing her. I nodded. "You have a treasure there."
"The treasure is yours," she said. I knew she meant it, and that was the dark side of Spring/Summer. She was glorious, but the nagging thought of our future kept gnawing at my soul. I suppressed it, just as she had pressed a finger on my lips. She was a woman who fell hard when she fell in love, and she was trying not to fall in love with me. If she had not been so breathtakingly beautiful, I would have run from her just to avoid that.
Maybe I was in love with her in my own broken and incomplete manner. Perhaps the fact that I didn't want to hurt her meant that I genuinely felt something for her. I had never been truly in love yet, so I had nothing to gauge by. Looking back I think some of those passionate affairs are really tragic love stories. What is worse, the dark sense of pain and the anticipation of loss adds beauty, adventure, even high artfulness to the passion the two lovers shower on each other.
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