Decades of Love, Part 1

Probably no one has met the way we met.

It was one of those fall days, beautiful while the sun was out, but after dark, the temperature drop forewarned us of the next season. A mutual Christian friend was hosting a housewarming party for her teenage friends. We randomly assembled in her parents’ living room for group games. SHE was across the room. I was looking for a fun evening to put a recent breakup behind me. So was SHE. I caught her eye often that hour, laughing with friends on my side of the room and SHE with hers.

Someone suggested an outdoor game to be played in pairs. Inwardly, I choose my partner. Inwardly SHE chose hers. Quickly others paired off, donned their coats, and exited. I delayed; SHE delayed. There were now but two left, unpartnered. I and SHE.

I donned my 3/4 length coat, SHE her windbreaker. The windbreaker had a male name on it. Hmm. Maybe a brother’s? Secondhand? Doubtful. Her actions and words as we walked and talked and pseudo-played the group game were intentional. The jacket choice would probably have been deliberate as well. We walked farther out in the yard, away from other ears. I had to know. She was holding my hand by this point, in my coat pocket to keep from shivering. I caught her eyes looking askance at mine. Why the lightweight, monogrammed choice? SHE did not hesitate to respond.

“I was asked to wear it tonight by my recent boyfriend. He didn’t want others to know we had broken up, so I told him I would.”

I guess actions speak louder than jackets.

I visited HER every second weekend. Letters. Long distance phone calls. SHE knew I was the one. But I worried that she would break my heart.

SHE kissed passionately. I ran.

I called casually three months later. And again two months after that—this time, with purpose. I requested an escort. SHE accepted.

That was a hot summer of dating. SHE wanted to kiss me. Privately, in public, it didn’t matter.

I wanted everything about her.

She couldn’t keep her hands off me.

A concert. An intermission. A proposal. Accepted. A ring two days later (I was spontaneous, okay?)

I wanted everything about her.

SHE couldn’t keep her hands off me.

Many times, I creamed my underwear while learning about her body. Pleasuring her through her jeans. Through her panties. Through her bra. On her bare breasts. Creaming on her breasts.

Somewhere within that progression, the wedding date was moved seven months earlier. Not because we were pregnant. We were trying to get married before consummating our passions.

There was a roadside park.

After dark.

In our old truck with a bench seat.

I lay on top, and we kissed until we were both wet.

Now an uncommited couple should stop before getting each other that wet. An uncommitted couple shouldn’t be–

Naked

On naked.

Penis over top of bushy virgin vagina. Going through the motions.

Thrusting.

Simulating what it would feel like to consummate.

We were committed. Did we need the formality of a ceremony to call us married?

I gathered all my willpower together and decided that cumming inside would not happen today.

When our heart rates slowed, we cleaned up our separate liquids and resumed our drive on that hot bench seat.

Several days of kissing passed…

I don’t remember if I followed the posted speed limit after that wedding reception. I do remember the guests were still eating when we left.

I wanted everything about her.

SHE couldn’t keep her hands off me.

All.

Honeymoon.

Long.