In Defense of Love

"Urges…" I continued. I pulled at the knot on her robe. She dipped her shoulders and let it fall to the floor.

We kissed, and it was Yaa-Yee that pushed me back on the bed. We rolled on the bed and kissed with clicking teeth. When we stopped, she was on top, and she impaled herself on me and rode me with abandon.

Afterwards, as we were lying next to each other catching our breath, I said, "So much for your promise."

"That promise was only good if she were in the room," Yaa-Yee shot back with a smile. We both laughed, and I knew then that I felt nothing for Beth. It was Yaa-Yee and me who were connected. It certainly wasn't love. It wasn't even "like." It was simply a mutual respect and a shared appreciation for sex. It wasn't much of a connection, but it was infinitely more rewarding than the nothing I felt for Beth.

When Beth got back from the doctor's office I was eating a bowl of cereal and Yaa-Yee was fixing something in the kitchen.

She sat across from me at the table.

"So what did you guys do this morning?" she ask in absolute innocence.

"The bum just got up," Yaa-Yee lied from the kitchen.

I was hurt and too embarrassed to look at Beth, and it had NOTHING to do with the fact that Yaa-Yee and I had just fucked like animals.

I should have had a heart-to-heart with Beth that day. In retrospect, that would have been the mature and kind and decent thing to do. But put yourself in my situation. I had a good thing going, right? I still don't forgive myself.

Beth and Yaa-Yee and I would ménage a trois just once more, and while it was fun, it was also strangely awkward. I would clandestinely make love to Yaa-Yee two more times, and there was something workman-like and distant about it.

But that's not why I don't forgive myself.

Towards the end of summer, Beth and I drove up north to spend a weekend at her parents' cabin, and that is where everything finally became clear to me.

Her parents were there when we arrived. They must have been fairly liberal folks. We had lunch with them, and then they left.

"You kids have fun," her mom said from the car.

It was the dog that made me see the truth – a collie named Bucky. We went back in the cabin and she played with the dog for the next ten minutes. I sat in a chair and watched, and my heart turned in my chest.

She hugged and petted Bucky with gleeful enthusiasm, and when the dog would lick her face, a radiant, puerile joy filled her body. She was as innocent and pure as seven-year-old girl in that moment. Everything else was washed away. That dog loved her, and that was all she wanted. She deserved that. She deserved so much more than me. She deserved, at least, the truth, but I was too much a selfish asshole to give it her. And that's why I don't forgive myself.

I had to leave the room with tears in my eyes.

I tried very hard that weekend to make love to HER, and not just have sex with a convenient and willing vagina. I tried to imagine love. I couldn't.

Two weeks after our stay in the cabin it was time for me to go back to school. I decided, finally, to tell her the truth (how big of me now that I was leaving); when I left, we would never talk again. She came by my apartment to see me. I asked her to sit down on the couch. I hesitated in getting the first word out, and unfortunately she beat me out of the box.

"Oh, I have something for you," she said, pulling a lovingly wrapped present out of her purse. I sighed.

"Beth, you really shouldn't have," I said with unknowing understatement.

It was stationary. Excellent quality. Expensive.

"And just so you don't use it for any other purpose, I addressed all the envelopes to me," Beth said perkily.

I opened the box and confirmed her claim, and a lump swelled in my throat.

I looked in her smiling eyes, and I thought my head would implode. She sensed my consternation, and all the happiness was sucked out of her body.

"I'm not going to write you," I said. Finally the truth. It wasn't liberating. I have never felt lower or more despicable in my life.

She closed her eyes to try and stop the tears, but they spurted forth.

"I'm sorry, Beth," I said feebly and humbly.

There was a cryptic, implausible explanation from me – tears, and then a panged look of resignation from her.

I tried to give her the stationary back when she left.

"Throw it a way," she said icily without looking back. Those were, fittingly, the last words between us.

The sex wasn't worth that.

Beth wasn't the only woman I have misled in my life, but she was the most naïve, and the sweetest, and the most hurt I suspect. And I "deceived" her for the longest period of time. It's not my heart that aches when I think of that goodbye. It's something deeper inside, something clawing at what I like to think is the otherwise decent, strong, and loving fabric of my soul.

She was weak for indulging the fantasy that I loved her, but what did I expect her to do? Give up hope? For her to break it off with me? I was far weaker for torturing her hopes just so I had a place to stick my dick.

And what did I get. Sex? Some. And a lesion in my soul that is still growing a quarter century later.

*****

LESSON THREE: Just Fall in Love

This is even more painful for me to recall. There are only a few instances. These are the women I now know I truly loved, but at the time I was going out with them I wouldn't let myself admit it. I was too scared of my feelings, and therefore I'd find faults with them that I now recognize were meaningless and shallow and based on my own insecurities.

There are very few people in life, especially of the opposite sex, that you genuinely connect with. A handful if you are lucky. I am talking about people who accept YOU. Not the façade of you, the role you play. We all have friends because of who we are or what we do or where we live – glorified acquaintances really. When you do meet someone you "connect" with, you know it, however.

Bertrand Russell once said that every loving relationship either blossoms into marriage or falls apart. He's right. What I would do differently if I could live my life over doesn't involve marriage. I would have simply allowed myself to love these special women without fear of what others thought or fear of it falling apart or fear of becoming lost emotionally. This is a painful apology, but it comes from the heart.

Eva lived downstairs in the apartment building I lived in as a junior in college. She was a Midwestern farm girl with milky-smooth skin and long, sturdy legs. She was plain: light brown hair, brown eyes, a trace of acne scarring on her face. She had one eye that occasionally drifted. She was no more than a few pounds over the lightest weight she could healthily carry, but the way God proportioned her, she was unavoidably bottom heavy –gloriously so!

I was wildly physically attracted to her. The first time I saw her she was leafing through her mail in the entryway of our building. Her jeans were packed tight, and as I walked past her my eyes fixated on her bodacious behind. It felt like her body was exuding some sort magnetic power over me and I had to consciously steer my hips in my originally intended path for fear of rudely bumping into her. I looked back over my shoulder and our eyes met and she smiled.

It was like a fist clenching and twisting with great power in my abdomen. I almost doubled over in the elevator. I hurried to my room and locked the door. I was so furiously eager for sexual release that I fumbled stupidly with my jeans and almost fell on the floor. I didn't want to lose the vision or the sensation it so violently stirred within me. I threw myself on the bed and flailed away with abandon envisioning my steely cock sliding between those soft, plump bum cheeks, and I erupted spectacularly in celebration of woman whose name I didn't know and whose voice I hadn't yet heard.

I didn't ask my roommate Tom about her because she wasn't the typical girl we'd ogle over or prattle on about. I didn't want him to think I wasn't "cool." In retrospect, I wish I hadn't given a damn what he or anyone else thought.

I saw her a week later. I was out with some buddies at a warehouse-sized party bar just off Rush Street called the Suds Factory. It was two-dollar pitcher night, and at that price cups seemed superfluous, so we were each sipping from our own pitcher, toting them about like they were oversized mugs (they were relatively small pitchers, but we still looked ridiculous). I was at that point of inebriation where I was flush and talking too loudly, but I wasn't slurring my words or loosing my balance.

She was sitting in a booth across from an unassuming man and a woman who was clearly pretty, even despite her efforts to look chicly dour and nerdy.

Should I ask her to dance? Should I say hi? I waited to see if someone (a boyfriend?) was going to join them. It was soon apparent there was no one else. I just kept staring.

There were a hundred or more women in that bar that night, and at least fifty percent of them were either definitely or arguably better looking than Eva, but for whatever reason (and it wasn't just that voluptuous bum – I know that now), I was mesmerized by the fact that she was there. She finally looked over at me in that somebody-is-looking-at-me way and our eyes met again. I raised the pitcher a little and she smiled and waived demurely. We were not within shouting range, let alone speaking range, so I motioned at the dance floor to invite her to meet me there. She looked like she didn't trust her interpretation of my body language. How rude, you idiot, I thought of myself. I held up a finger and made my way over to the table.

"Hi, I'm your neighbor Charlie," I said.

She took my hand softly and introduced herself and her friends. Her name was now emblazoned in my memory – Eva. I didn't bother to listen to her friends' names. Eva's hair was feathered and shiny clean. She was wearing a dark blue sleeveless mock turtleneck with gold hoop earrings. The skin on her upper arm was smooth and white-pink and so inviting I wanted to taste it.

We exchanged a few pleasantries about our apartment building.

"I'm sorry about that," I said, finally getting to the point. "I suppose if you want to ask someone to dance, you ought to have the courtesy talk to them first."

"It's okay," she said, never removing her eyes from mine.

"Eva doesn't like to dance," her beatnik-wannabe girlfriend said with an I-am-coming-to-your-rescue tone. "Ouch," she then exclaimed, and I suspected some under-the-table activity.

"Don't mind her," Eva said shaking her head, her eyes fixed on mine. "She doesn't even like men."

Eva said this matter-of-factly, but there was a glint in her eye that let me know she was just teasing.

"What?" her friend gasped.

I laughed out loud, set down my pitcher of beer, and held out my hand. I liked this girl.

"Would you like to dance?" I asked.

"Yes I would," she replied chipperly.

I told her friends to help themselves to the pitcher of beer (crudely, I realized latter, as I had been slurping directly from it) and led Eva out to the dance floor.

We danced one fast song and one slow, and I was proud that I didn't allow a hand near her bottom. We talked about stuff that college kids talk about in the first weeks of school. While we were slow dancing I asked my question.

"When you're ready to go, would you let me walk you home?"

She seemed startled and she leaned away from me as if to get my face in better focus.

"I came with my friends," she said.

"So did I. I just figured we live in the same building, it's a nice night – why make them go out of their way?"

She smiled and hiccupped a little laugh.

"What?" I asked.

"You are not going to try to get into my pants, are you?" she said bluntly and playfully, eying me up.

I laughed. "What? I haven't even tried to kiss you yet," I said with mock disdain.

"Yeah, but you were thinking about it."

"Maybe I really like you as a person," I offered with another laugh, "and I just want to get to know you."

"Oh, so you're not thinking about getting into my pants?" she said feigning hurt.

I shook my head. I did like this girl. "Okay. I am definitely thinking about getting in your pants…"

"Good," she interrupted. "It's NOT going to happen, but that's good to know."

We moved closer together and swayed to the music. I didn't know what to say. She spoke first.

"And now that I know you are honest – yes, I will walk home with you."

We strolled up Rush Street and across the streetlamp lit campus, and we talked about family and school and the excitement of being in a big City and how different it was from our respective homes. I opened the door to our apartment building for her, and I walked behind her up two flights of stairs. It was excruciating. I can't say for sure, but I thought I detected a slight but purposeful sway in her hips. I whimpered under my breath.

"So," I said nervously as she turned to face me in front of her door, "do you want to keep talking?"

"You mean am I going to invite you in?" She put her hands together behind her and rocked on her heels girlishly.

"I am really enjoying talking to you," I said as I took a step closer to her. She leaned forward, her face close to mine.

"I better not."

Now I had the hurt look. "Why not?"

"You're a little drunk."

I gasped in mock horror at the suggestion. "I can't be drunk;" I said with a smile, "I never walk when I'm drunk – it's too dangerous."

She laughed out loud and had to turn her head away. And that's when I should have known that I was in love with her.

When she looked back at me I held up my hand with my thumb and forefinger out. "A little kiss?" I motioned

She looked at me and screwed up her face. "If I were sure this wasn't the alcohol talking…"

"Believe me," I interrupted, "if this were the alcohol talking, we'd be talking about your pants again."

"With the same result;" she said grabbing her beltline, "they're staying on."

I looked at her hips and a surge of sexual arousal shot threw me.

"You know," I started, swallowing hard, "you're very sexy when you talk about your pants."

"All right. I should go in now," she said, and I detected a flush of embarrassment.

There was an awkward pause and then she hopped up and kissed me hard an+d quick on the mouth.

"Goodnight," she said, and slipped inside her apartment.

I stood there for a moment, aching, and then I raced again up to my room and vigorously masturbated. In my fantasy, I thought of her masturbating, maybe, possibly, thinking of me?

The following morning was a Saturday. I called Eva at nine to ask her to breakfast.

We were inseparable that weekend. We saw a movie on Saturday night, and later we were drinking wine on her couch, talking. It was late. We kissed, and finally, blessedly, I was able to run my hands over her bottom.

"Can I spend the night?" I asked before attempting to unbutton her shirt or unbuckle her pants.

She looked at me like she was sizing me up. Did I have a chance?

"The pants are staying on again," she finally said with a pout.

"You sleep in your pants?" I said facetiously.

"No, but if you want to spend the night, well, figuratively, the pants are staying on."

"Figuratively?" I implored with a laugh.

"You know what I mean."

I did, but I figured I'd wear her down.

She made me keep my boxers on. She wore black tights and a large T-shirt with the Rolling Stones tongue logo on the front. We cuddled and talked and kissed in her double bed while the clock radio whispered pop songs in the background. She wouldn't let my hand up her shirt.

"I'm going to sleep now," she announced when she realized it was two in the morning. "Do you want to spoon?"

I had never heard the word used like that before and didn't know what she meant, so she showed me. She rolled over and backed up against me, her ample, skin-tight-clad bottom nuzzling against my boxer-clad loins. I thought I was going to faint from the rush of blood to my nether parts. I put an arm over the top over her and she took my hand in hers and held it against her soft bosom.

"Good night," she whispered with a sigh.

Good night? Good Lord, I thought; my hand was resting between her breasts and she had to feel the swell of my erection pressing against her bum. Was she just teasing me in some bizarre, sadistic ritual?

A few moments passed, and I decided that when I knew she was asleep I was going to slip into the bathroom and pathetically relieve myself. Suddenly she spoke up.

"I'm sorry, Charlie, but you have to understand," she started.

She proceeded to tell me, with my encouragement and sympathy, about how she felt men treated her differently because of her "humongous haunches" (her term, with a slap to the hip). Strangers would pat and even grab her ass in a bar, or say rude sexual things to her as she walked down the street. "'Ooh baby, shake that big ass for me,'" she provided as an example, "and even cruder."

"But worst of all," she paused like she wasn't sure she should continue. She rolled over to face me. "Okay, I'm going to tell you the truth. I have only slept with two men in my life, and both of them were really nice to me, just like you have been, and I really liked both of them, and after I slept with them, well, neither one of them ever asked me out again. Not even a phone call."

There was an awkward pause. "What do you make of that?" she finally asked.

"Boy, you must be lousy in bed," I said in a way she could be sure I was teasing her.

She hit my shoulder and called me a jerk, but she laughed.

I knew exactly what she was getting at, and I felt sorry for her, and grateful that she was willing to share. I suppose I could see those other men in me. I was so lit up with arousal for her "humongous haunches" that I probably wouldn't have cared about her personality. I probably would have still been angling to get into her pants even if I hadn't liked her, or hadn't paid attention enough to know that I liked her. But I did like her, and I knew I was going to ask her out again no matter what happened, or didn't happen, that night.

"I understand. I am okay with cuddling," I offered. "We'll take it slow."

"Thank you," she said touching the tip of my nose.

We returned to our spoon position and my erection resumed its achingly cruel position between us. I tried to fall asleep, but couldn't. I sensed she was still awake.

"Do you want to play naked spoons?" she said to my wonder and joy. I had to cough.

"Are you okay?" she asked.

"Sure, okay, naked spoons," I said out of breath.

She started to push down her black tights, but I gently pushed her hands away and slowly, carefully, I slid her tights down. I was so aroused I was audibly mouth breathing. When Eva's tights were around her thighs I pressed into her flesh, spooning again, running my hands over her bare hips, breathing into the back of her neck. I ran my hands over her flat tummy and I cupped her remarkably thin waist between my hands. I was taking my time. Again I drew my hands down over her hips until they were at her widest part, and I squeezed. She was so gloriously, womanly wide.

I managed, artfully I must say, to get a toe into the beltline of her descending tights and panties and push them off by extending my leg. When I backed away from her momentarily to slip off my boxers, she pulled off her big T-shirt. I snuggled in behind her again, this time naked, and I adjusted my hips so that my now stinging cock settled in between her pillow-soft mounds of flesh. It felt natural as rain, like we done this a hundred times before.

"Oooh," I cooed as my hands wandered over her plump, pliant breasts.

We were still for a moment. "This is nice she said."