In 1966 Kay Sweetly shyly unbuttoned her blouse. Her dark pageboy hair hung down with a slight tilt toward me. Her very pale breasts jiggled slightly, and had my full attention. The teenage girl was very cute like that—a train passing by two inches away couldn’t have broken the concentration of the young man I was then or of this old one trying to recall it now. I sat on the edge of the bed and lay on my side, one elbow on the bed, and vigorously stroked my exposed member—well, exposed under the sheet, I mean, but the action was quite apparent to her.
I looked at her and sighed and thought how beautiful she was, an angel with a clean white bandage on her side from her recent operation. She’d explained that to me, but it’d gone over my head, or through one ear and out the other. Oh, hell, I probably knew exactly what it was then, but now I’m lucky to even remember her name. The only thing worse than being that stupid Young man is being this stupid Old one, you know. But, anyway, that charming high school girl was so deliciously young—though old enough, since I was young! She was just pristine, as beautiful as a painting. Not a beauty contest winner—but someone real, who seemed uncannily rendered, as if she was a painting by some great Master whose name I could not recall.
How could she look so good? Oh, well. The term Attraction had a lot to do with it, I’m sure. I was under the influence of pheromones and passion. She was not my girlfriend, just a happy happenstance, a one-day happening—she happened to be there for me, I mean, and she happened to be lovely. I could hardly stand it, but I had to. I had ached for her, and here she was. We weren’t doing much, but it was way more than nothing.
“Are you really going to come?” she asked me in a whisper, patting me on the leg. In general, no one but my steady girlfriend had ever spoken that candidly to me. This was a girl and she was friendly, and she was a breath of fresh air, but…
I nodded and grunted in a friendly but distracted way, then drew this dark-haired gypsy to me for a very prolonged kiss. I thought that would distract her—I didn’t really want her to just watch. As soon as I’d finished, she covered herself up and so did I. Her beautiful self, my wretched self. She kissed me all over—my face and neck, I mean—then asked me very sweetly to take her home. She was such a nice friendly girl, but she didn’t act like she wanted to do it again. She was rather whimsical about it all, I’d guess you’d say. (In 1966, there weren’t many whimsical young women.) And I had a very nice girlfriend from whom I was estranged only long enough that couple of weeks to have these delicious kisses I’m telling you about and that vivifying erection you may wish I hadn’t mentioned. I never really saw Kay again, except at a distance, of course, in or around the school. But I always liked her and always regretted not knowing her better.
THOUGHT FOR THE DAY: "Truly there was no blame here; the real culprit was my love which had invented an image on which to feed." -- Lawrence Durrell (The Alexandria Quartet)
