Bad Timing: The Response

The movie gets sad at one predictable point, and Lisa goes to the bathroom because she doesn't like to cry in front of anyone- including me. For those unwitnessed three minutes, you lean into my shoulder. Just your head resting against my flannel shirt as you sniffle quietly. I tease you to not use my shirt as a Kleenex and you wipe your little nose with exaggeration, and make me laugh. I glance down to see the glistening tears in your eyes and I think how beautiful you are even as you cry.

If I could be any more of an asshole for teasing you, there is nothing that competes with what I did not say. You are not pretty. You are not simply attractive. You are exquisite. You are rare and lovely in your beauty because it is more than just what appeals on the outside, you are beautiful in every aspect on the inside. I am sorry I never told you this, and that you judged yourself more harshly because of my spineless arrogance. Even now, all these years later, I am sure you are still a thing to behold.

I could go on, but let us get to The Weekend. The day my life falls apart and I ruin everything in epic proportion.

When Lisa insisted on picking you up and driving you out to the farmhouse, I thought she'd finally seen through my lecherous ways and was going to have it out with you. Except she hates confrontation and she's far too sweet to flip out on anyone. I think she understood that you are, even at a younger age, somewhat more worldly than she is, and that maybe she needs your advice for a change. It makes sense that she tells you about how she lost her virginity to me, and how ashamed she feels. I was a fucking idiot, to put it mildly. I didn't know her at all, and yet like any knuckle dragging male I encourage her to do something she'll never get back. Her family is the holy-rolling type, and they hate me, so maybe I propose partly out of spite, to show I can take care of someone else for a change. And I hate myself for putting us in the situation, to make you the other woman.

When you arrive at that farmhouse, the one that will later on become sacred ground, I am relieved by your coded words to me that say Lisa is not savvy to us, or at least not yet. Tim, however, I am unsure of. He and I have ridden together with less than a few words spoken between us. I try to blame his silent mood on the massive hangover he's nursing from the night before. He only grunts about you, something mumbled about your "monthly visitor" and I try to hide my satisfaction about this. I hate thinking about you sleeping with him, or anyone else. For weeks I've had nightmares where suddenly you go missing and I can only hear your voice crying. As if someone is hurting you. Then I awake with the realization that I'm the one hurting you with my duplicity.

Fast forward to that genius plan concocted by our supposed friends. Most of those kids were the type of people who annoyed the shit out of me- fake, phony braggarts. I can tell some of the girls bug you, the type of girls who never turn away from the mirror, the type that expects to get whatever they want at the drop of a finger. You take them for what they are, and you never give them the satisfaction of upsetting you. I enjoy watching you unleash these witty little barbs as we walk up that hill, delivered in that low, sexy voice of yours. Meanwhile, Tim is intentionally ignoring you, and I want to tell him what a goddamn fool he is.

The trip into that old barn was imbecilic, but the otherworldly environment was made for you. Walking through the woods in that dusky twilight, a warm breeze flicking your hair around as you gracefully step along, you have never looked so at home in the midst of those towering oak trees. There is nothing I can do other than give you a guarded smile, and mentally try to say how much I enjoy being in your silent company.

That séance was a heartbeat away from conjuring up Captain Howdy or something worse. I could feel that cold sweep in and I knew it was bad. And somehow it doesn't surprise me that it centers on you- the perfect conduit for a spirit, someone so attuned to the emotional flux of everyone else. The cold is surrounding you and separating you from me, and I have never felt so swift a panic descend. I can hear your breath coming up short, I can feel you trembling. I expect Tim to intervene on your behalf and he's contemptuously looking at me. As if to say, she's already yours.

Skeptic or not, something happened, and if the other kids didn't see it, they sure as hell felt it. When I carry you out, you cling to me in a way that makes my heart ache. You were so cold it felt like you'd been trapped in a walk-in freezer. I kept trying to get you warm, trying to bring you back from that bad place.

So then I take you from one bad place to another. I shouldn't have taken you into that mud room. I should've known better than to seclude us from everyone else. It breaks my heart to see you cry like that, to see you so miserable. And it's all my fault. I don't know how to resolve our situation, I don't know how to possibly make it up to you. All I know is that I don't want to hurt you anymore. Instead, the mythical creature I adore is sobbing on a dirty towel and I can't get her to stop.

I say the most idiotic of things to you, ignoring reality like it's not crushing us both. I know you are right about Lisa. I know that I don't really love her. At that age I'm not sure what love is, but I know that what I feel for you is stronger. But I'm afraid. I'm afraid this is me being compelled by superficial longings and obsession. I'm afraid that you are just some forbidden fruit that I need to consume, only to spit you out once I've gotten a taste.

You say exactly what should be said, and I still don't listen. I try my usual bullshit and tease you and call you jailbait, although in truth it is meant affectionately. I think maybe you know that, as sick as it is, and I hope you are comforted when I hold you because it's at least comforting me (like it always does).

None of it works, and like you, I feel the enormous weight of this unhappiness. I hold you and think I will give you a good-bye kiss. That I will kiss the mythical creature who has briefly made my world shine with happiness, and set her free. But once I look in your eyes, I realize my folly. We are still human beings, and we still want each other.

I've tried to block out the intimate memories of this, not out of spite, but because I was certain that I had unduly influenced you. To read your account of it all was... beyond words. It was a gift, and an even greater one now, to have shared that part of yourself with me. Thanks to your letter, the memories were allowed to be unlocked and finally enjoyed.

When we kissed, I knew I had no intention of leaving. There was simply no way. And this time we are not stopping. This time you don't let me slink away cowardly, you don't let me toy with you. I can see the fire in your eyes, a burning that isn't about to be put out just because I tell you I'm sorry. The more I touch you the more I agree that this won't end, the more I want to explore the madness that is descending. I remember how you nibbled on my lip. The mythical creature is showing her other side, the one that you don't cross unless you want to embark on a midnight adventure. My little sprite is tired of being teased and ignored, and I completely agree with her.

She reveals herself layer by layer, tempting me with her pale skin that glows in the dim light of that small room. She grins at me with every new exposure, making sure that she fully has me under her spell as I watch her lithe and lovely body be revealed. When at last she pauses, beckoning me to touch her, I feel unworthy, but I'm not about to fail to meet her demands.

I can't tell her how long I've thought of this and imagined it. How many nights I've dreamt of her because it seems that my waking brain isn't doing its fair share of obsessing over you. I want to go slowly, I want to savor every single second, and then I want to devour every inch of you.

You are transformed in this nakedness that leaves me without functioning speech. And you are not afraid, even as I deluded myself afterwards when I was wracked by guilt. No, you are alive with eyes filled with smoldering intent. I think I've forgotten how to do any of the things I want, but you are correct when you wrote that my body was moving of its own accord.

I remember that you are on your knees, your hair tossed over a shoulder, beckoning me with your elfish grin. I remember how you blush at my gawking, but how you also sit up proudly, and I can almost imagine a pair of wings hidden behind your smooth shoulders. You are a creature of fable that is about to become real beneath my fingertips.

The first time I touch you, I feel like my hands have touched something beyond the veil of reality. I feel electrified with desire, hearing the subtle sound of your pleasure, brought forth by the touch of my fingers. You keep me close, distracting me with a kiss while your hand is undoing the button on my jeans. You stroke me through the denim fabric, chuckling at my very obvious erection, while I continue to work for the satisfaction of my naughty sprite.

As much as a man wants release, for me, there is something even better in this moment of pleasing you. To give you everything you want, and deserve, all for the delight of seeing how I can affect you. The sound of your voice becoming breathless, your body squirming as the pleasure is almost at its peak... and then you do something that I have never forgotten. You take my free hand that was wrapped around your waist, and bring it up to your mouth. You brush my fingers over your lips, tracing the velvet contours, and then you take my fingers- just two of them, and close your mouth around them. Locking eyes with me, you lick the tips of my fingers with seductive purpose, lapping your tongue across them in a way that mimics another act. I try to maintain focus, working furiously now to make you come because I can't wait for you to practice this technique. I can feel myself ache with need as you squeeze your mouth over my fingers, while my fingertip dips south. I don't want to delve deeper, I just want to test the waters; I want to stoke up the wetness that a woman needs so that I can bathe in it later.

That exploratory pass across your plump lips makes a painful twitch in me that has urged something wicked forth, and it is going to reveal itself to you in good time, but I try to ease it back. For now, it will only speak its wickedness, telling the sprite it will take her dripping nectar and drink it, that it will empty her ripe little fruit and then fill it with himself. And I say I will do this all night, till the sprite is drenched in essence and filled with sticky ecstasy.

Suddenly your voice nearly bellows over my whispers, and we both try to smother the sounds, but fucking hell do I love the sound of your climax. Moan after melodious moan fills the air and I want to just stroke you forever, but carpal tunnel may set in, and you, of course, need a moment of recovery.

I remember the smell of you on my fingers, the taste of you. I swear I knew it already, as if your scent was the primal marker that this was always meant to be. And your memory is correct that we are both thinking that we would like to further explore that oral paradise, but you are again too good to me, and decide that it is my turn to receive.

You give me a downright diabolical look of intent as you bend down to set me free. When you take me in your mouth, I think I am ashamed that you would do this for me; that it feels selfish and yet I can tell you are enjoying this. No, correction- you are absolutely thrilled that you are fucking killing me. Your eyes are gleefully watching me as you crane your head up, while carefully keeping my aching prize in your mouth. This is the payback for all my teasing. I feel that I might black out when I am trying so hard not to come in your mouth, but you know just when to stop.

After all my cocky bravado, I am suddenly nervous when you lay on top of me. I do not want to mess this up, I do not want to hurt you in any way. But the wicked fairy has returned with a gleam in her eyes, tossing her long, nutmeg colored hair back like a goddess that has decided to take this mortal human and treat him to her magical talents. And dear god, do I want her. I want her to unleash her powers and do anything and everything with me. And only me.

The pain is the only thing to ruin the moment. I do not understand how it is both pain and pleasure for a woman, and I can see you fighting through it. I am in awe of the sprite as she refuses to be prisoner to the pain, as she lets me enter her and make us one. I cannot describe the feeling of this, the feeling of being within that sacred space that belongs to you. If I soothed you just a little with my kisses and my words, it still seems woefully inadequate for the gift of being with you.

When I see you take a breath of relief, I am not prepared for the creature who comes next, and the thing that I become to meet it. Somewhere in the dim moonlight, you have changed. Your hair seems longer and more unruly, your eyes become large and your mouth hungrier. Your hands have claws that are scraping at my chest, while your knees dig into my hips.

A wildness comes out that sparks pleasure, but also draws something from the depths of my fears. A horrible memory of pain is mixed with the pleasure, a memory that someone else imprinted on me long ago. The memory that my body is attached to this shame whenever I try to pleasure it. Because someone took this pleasure from me without asking, without acknowledging the crime, without admitting this heinous deed. Someone I loved and trusted, someone who never should have hurt me. The only way to escape this shame, is to escape my body, to evaporate in the moment and forget what is happening.

For the first time, this does not happen. For the first time, I am drawn out from that hiding place. The sprite is fighting for me; she kisses me and she speaks to me. She tells me that she is there with me and she will not lose me. She tells me not to give up. From the depths of my pain, I hear her truth. And I come back. I fight my way back just as she fought through her pain, and together we are finally whole.

The tenderness of her affection is countered by the wildness of her passion, and finally I let loose the animal that is so hungry for this. I want to bark and howl at the moon, I want to sing at the top of my voice and laugh uncontrollably.

She is transforming me into something wild and wonderful, till it builds and builds. My new hands seem too large for her delicate frame, but she rides without fear, plunging me into the depths of her. She laughs and smiles so mischievously, knowing she's transformed me and loving it. She nibbles on my ear, and ruffles her fingers through my hair, she tells me things that I want to hear. Things I've only dreamed of.

I feel my body bucking beneath hers, growing more ferocious with this new appetite by the second. The sprite keeps chuckling, giving my new hands a place to hold onto until I suddenly come to the brink. And oh god, she is good to me. Over and over, drop after drop she takes it from me. I fear I'll hurt her, but she keeps drinking from me until I'm empty. I feel her graceful hands hold me and wipe me clean, and I know deep inside a truth that only the animal inside me can admit, something I feel with every ounce of my being.

It was the first time I'd had sex and truly been present for it. I wasn't rushing through it while hiding from myself, or sating an appetite that left me unfulfilled. In those years, Lisa only knew a vague version of my history and what happened to me, we never really discussed it till we went to counseling. Everything was different with you. Everything was understood.

I should have said the truth. I should have told you how I felt. Until that door rattled, the wind shaking us out of our selfish pleasure to pay attention. I thought that was the sign, just as my lips had opened to say something else. A sign that whatever I said was going to be a bad thing. An omen of ill tidings. So, I kept my mouth shut. And I have always regretted it.

That next day is terrible. Lisa is blithely unaware of my betrayal, while Tim is increasingly in a foul mood. I can see you trying to act normal, trying to pretend and still drawing his ire. Despite being unable to admit my feelings for you, I hate his guts with growing enmity. I get into some dust-up with him because it's all I can lamely do. And then you leave with him because that seems wise at the moment. I'm terrified you are going to confess to him, to expose me, and it's the most selfish I have ever felt.

Instead of telling you not to go, or warning you that Tim could hurt you in retaliation, I say absolutely nothing. Cold like a fucking heartless stone. I can still see you standing beside his car, giving me one last look before you drive off forever. Your eyes full of such grief. I murdered the sprite in that farmhouse, in the place where we shared our love, and I killed it dead with my fucking cowardice. That beautiful, free-spirited sprite has vanished before my eyes, replaced by the gloomy specter of our separation.

I can never say how sorry I am, or say it enough. So I will tell you what punishment I brought on myself. I got completely trashed on my wedding day, a harbinger of unhappiness to come. I went back to using much more heavily, and was fired from the substitute teaching job I'd only been at for a month. When I finally crawl into rehab, Lisa is not ready to leave me because she is now pregnant. We aren't happy, but she has stopped taking birth control without telling me. I get done with rehab just when my son is born. I try to be a good dad. I finally get my shit together and land a job at a school where the kids seem just as fucked up as I was at that age. It feels like I can redeem myself for all the years of self-loathing and drug abuse, and show some poor kid that they deserve better.

My second child is born, entrenching Lisa in her own world of mommying and parenting. She has supplanted me with the love for our children, and we can't take more strain on our already strained relationship. We go into couples counseling, exposing many painful truths about ourselves and our marriage. This excursion into deeply personal analysis lasts almost a year before we throw in the towel.

The divorce was finalized last May. The kids are old enough to understand the change and get twice as many birthday presents. It is mostly amicable, mostly because Lisa would never get as nasty as she could. During counseling, I revealed that I was unfaithful to her before we were married, but I did not say who it was with. It's hard to say if she suspects it was you, but even if she did, I don't think she would confront me, or you, with this truth. I think her disappointment in you would almost be worse than the expected screw-up by her fucked-up Ex.

I knew when you married James that he would be a good man for you. He seems by all accounts from our mutual acquaintances an upstanding man. He seems even-tempered and has a sense of humor from what I can see on social media. You deserve happiness and I'm glad you found it with him. Of all the things I ever prayed for in my life, I prayed that you would get someone far better than me. Someone who could be everything you needed.

So please do not take pity on this middle-aged man. I got exactly what I deserved, and even then I cannot begrudge my two children even if Lisa manipulated fatherhood out of me.

Thank you for writing me, although I know it was not for my benefit, but yours, and you are absolutely owed that catharsis. Please accept the meager offering of my words, and to know those few simple answers that you wanted. I think about you nearly every day. I think that you were indeed as beautiful a woman as I have ever met, in so many ways.