Charlotte at the Track

"...that frail and precious kiss which Mamma always used to leave upon my lips..."

- Marcel Proust

I like to believe that, in the end, I was able to win her over because I was a track and field star. I was sensationally fast. Although I did hate to run, my long limbs and my light weight made me exceptional at the pole-vault. My coach said that there was no hurdle I couldn't surmount, (being the motivational type, he meant this in a sense both academic and physical) but I loathed this event more than any other. I always thought of it this way: At least when I threw that disc it was my brute strength that I brought into play; even that my toss wasn't the best—even though I would barely place fifth—I could go back to the boys in the locker room and hold my head up high, because they knew that my strength, along with my speed, meant that if they ever stepped to me, they would lose the fight. They knew this—or at least, I figured they knew this—so they would never talked any shit at all.

However, it is possible that I might just have been well liked: I could never quite grasp which concept it was...duality, and such. (Even still, through studying AP Philosophy, I learned it could have been both of these concepts at play at the very same time—I think Kierkegaard said: "Either/Or.")

Anyway, whereas my strong-suit might have been the pole-vault, I always needed so much finesse when doing it and such perfect timing. I liked to be fierce, which meant I liked to sometimes "drink before the game," which was something I learned from a couple of my linebacker friends. Also, pole-vaulting reminded me of something intrinsically sexual: Digging my pole into the earth filled me with a violent exhilaration that only reinforced the frustration I felt as a virgin.

My closest friend was a tight end on our high school's football team (at least, I think that was his position—I was never really into the game, personally, honestly). I met him before I tried out for track and field. In freshman P.E. I was beyond apathetic. Every single day we were made to run two laps around the track—mind you, this came before the other subsequent activities, such as soccer, basketball, weight-room or whatever tickled our instructor at that particular time. I think it was about two weeks into our physical education when the instructor (and all of my fellow classmates) noticed that I had no desire to run. I would walk the course and hold up the whole class—the instructor would not move onto his "lesson" until each student had circled the course for their second time. On this day, Greg ran beside me:

"Hey, man. Just jog a little—like this." He turned around and started to jog backward: "See, it's easy. Just keep up with me."

I began to jog along side him. Eventually, he turned around:

"Cool. You ready to run?" I nodded my head. He began to speed up. I said:

"Alright, alright." I started to run astride him, then I began to lead: "So, are we really gonna run now?"

"Let's do it, dude."

This was our first lap. Apparently, I began to run at an ungodly speed—I bolted forward as he was cheering me on, (he maintained a jogger's pace) and then, the legend goes, I over-lapped him within literal seconds. They say that when I was finishing the second lap I was a type of blur, like a roadrunner with a dust trail behind, like a hot rod, like a jet plane, like a Japanese bullet train (they were just making shit up).

By senior year—around the time the surrounding authorities were beginning to fill my ears with Olympic pretensions/aspirations—I took up motocross. I made it a point to stay out all night riding. I would show up to practice the next morning with scars and bruises, with little energy and with a large smile on my face. My goal had already been accomplished: Throughout the three years of my rise to the top of the Track circuit I had made it with five people: Two muscular runners whose turgid legs cutoff my circulation as I was inside of them; a nimble cheerleader with freckles and a sunshiny disposition who I got drunk after an evening pep rally—then fucked and left alone on a bench in the girl's locker room (she left the school shortly after that, following the rumors of what her one lifetime's error had forced upon her and caused her parents to compromise in the process). I did it with a pretty boy just to see what it was like; and a carried on a short fling with a future Duke valedictorian. The latter I really liked and I couldn't have been more surprised when one day she approached me in the hall and told me that it was over—that she had made "a huge mistake" that might jeopardize everything which was out laid before her (I laughed, of course, and didn't even think of calling her again, but I still think about her—just in general).

I always excelled as a student, so when my prowess on the track began to flag, it was only the parents and coaches who appeared to be affected. All of my teachers said: "You did really well...and no matter what, you're definitely going to be able to get into any college you want." I knew this. I knew that I did well "while it lasted." At this point, my academic scholarships surpassed my athletic ones.

I never went to college, though, and I am thinking about all of these things, partly, to justify why.

My senior year I was competing every weekend on the race-track. I had become a small fish there, but I didn't care. It was enough that I could place high enough to make a little cash (something Track never got me—and god forbid I would take a job). I would still go to the gym, where I had become a has-been. During this time I was ingratiating myself further with my teachers; I had a circle around me of non-jocks, theater-kids and upcoming intellectuals, all of whom enjoyed my presence because of what I had accomplished in track and field.

So, from what is still in my mind in this current haze of drinking—recollecting my glory days—from what I can recall, from this place back to where I once was, from what I can remember the greatest of my moments were as an underachiever, how a overachieved, passed my AP philosophy's expression of being, passed my AP literature's articulation of inflated diction—passed the phases, into a point to be held like a centrifugal axis, always there, what is my immortality, no doubt, my accompaniments of virility, acceptance, and a sense of my most perfect actions—it was around this time, I'm pretty sure, I can acutely say, that I remember I met Charlotte.

She was a newly appointed Art teacher: 30-something, with black hair, who (even as we grew more intimate, I could never fully establish if she dyed it or not) had a self-effacing fashion style and a constant smile on her face. She painted her toe-nails black (I noticed this). Every boy was in love with her; however, reflecting upon all of the news stories I had heard throughout the years involving student-teacher liaisons, I knew that if there was any chance at experiencing copulation and corruption, I was the one who would win her heart.

The last day of class she told us about an art collective that she was apart of:

"We will have musicians, visual artists, poets," and she gave us a web-link.

I went home and discovered that her collective had a show that upcoming weekend taking place a couple hours up north. I could drive, mind you, unlike most my of peers, and I had a considerable amount of money from my races, so I decided to go.

There were very few times in my young life when I can remember being nervous: Standing in the back of that giant, rented ballroom, looking at the art, listening to the music, seeing confident adults rushing around—or standing in place—this was one of those times. Eventually my awkwardness paid off and our eyes met, then we waved at each other.

As she started to walk toward me, I started to walk toward her: She stopped for a moment to address a word to some random grown-up and I followed her lead—stopping in anticipation of the continuance of her movements (I felt like a kid)—looking at some piece of art I didn't care about (dare I say, that I could even understand?).

I knew that this was "one of those moments'" when everything becomes clear in the confusion and the environment (albeit so visually stimulating) begins to melt away.

Nearly every morning of my senior year I would start my day by imagining her and I alone behind the locked doors of the classroom in between periods, and after some unintelligible words, her panties were off and my pants were down around my ankles; I veraciously kissed her neck, as the hardest erection I had ever experienced was inside of her—then, for emphasis, I would come on a pile of graded papers:

"Well, I guess, she's not gonna get that one back," she would say, laughing, as I would wipe my dripping penis against her inner thigh—

Then we both became aware of where we were: I watched her put her dress or pants back on, (depending, arbitrarily, on the morning and my amount, or lack, of sleep) pulling my own pants back up. I would slap her ass just before the flesh was completely removed from my sight. We would kiss one last time and I would shove my hand down her bra, only for a second, squeezing whatever it was I seized in there.

Driving to the event I thought of how it was unfortunate that nothing of this nature would become actualized, because it would be something too legendary to become a real treasure.

However, and nonetheless, I knew that there would have to be some kind of consummation similar to the ones of my fantasies, or else I was going to have to re-evaluate my whole masculine existence: After all, I had been an Olympic-level track and field star at my high school.

My realization of our unrealized lust was far less dangerous than what I had envisioned, but not necessarily less dramatic: We ended up fucking that night in her car; then we went back inside, avoiding each other, until we went back out into the parking lot again and fucking inside my car.

I remember that during our first real conversation—one that wasn't simply a prelude to sex—she told me that she started her career as a kindergarten teacher. She told me of having to potty-train kids all day; she would, literally, (she made a gesture on the word) be smeared with piss and shit and get vomit in her shoes and snot in her hair. I laughed and said something about how it was great that she "didn't have to do that anymore." She went on that this frustration was increased by the fact that she would have to come home and suffer a similar treatment by her son, Apple.

"I'm being figurative, of course. I love him. He is so gifted." she said.

This was our second day of laying in bed at a local motel (she had to go back to school the next day and was in fear of showing up too late at home, so she stayed there with me).

***

This is how it began: I guess one could say it was "a whirlwind." Sometime after this weekend, after the succeeding months and after the years of visiting art galleries, of going to my motocross competitions, attending her art collective's events, after meeting her parents and getting to know Apple—everything became common. It took a long time, for the age differential was slim and the background that brought us together was close; however, a rift did become apparent. Happiness, intellect and lust held us in thrall for longer than I can remember, but like most lovers, eventually, we came to persist in mediocrity. And like most lovers, I still loved her for a long time after I despised her.

***

"Oh my god" she said, toughing my head, "how can you ride like that?"

"I don't know. I've never had any practical experience, I guess. I'm just kinda fearless." I mustered a look of pride, straightening my shoulders and setting my helmet down on my bike, all in one deft maneuver.

"My man," she whispered in my ear. "That was so good. Really, really great."

When she would touch my head, running her fingers through my sweating hair, it wasn't as a lover's caress, it was more like the touch of a mother. I had to stop smoking weed shortly after we started dating, because every time I saw her naked I would remember being five-years-old and walking in on my mother taking a shower. I mentioned this to her, but she consoled me:

"Life is weird like that—or emotions are weird like that."

Anyway, she bought me a dirt bike on my 25th birthday, so I was able to eventually repress everything.

"Your runs are so well done. I can really feel your motions, like I'm out there with you. It's exhilarating."

"Thank you." I sounded like an embarrassed boy, just having received an unexpected complement. "You made this all possible." I looked away and nearly blushed: "I love you."

"The sun is coming up. It's time to get up, baby."

I yawned and looked through the cabin window. The sun was an inflamed pimple in yellow water above the horizon. "What are we going to do today?" I asked, wiping my eyes, flicking a spot of gunk to the floor—she acted like she didn't notice, but said:

"I have a surprise for you."

Two hours later I was racing up and down dunes, kicking the back end of my bike into the blue sky, showing off my ass in the most dangerous way. "Watch this," I said and preformed some deft maneuver. She clasped her hand to her mouth, issuing a squeak through her clenched fingers; she removed her hand and began to clap manically when I landed my trick.

"Woo!" she screamed.

I blew her a kiss from the mouth of my new Scorpion helmet.

"I'm so proud of you," she smiled. I smiled back at her.

"The suspension is so much better than my Yamaha. Thanks again. Haha. And this helmet makes me look hot."

Everything we did that summer was fragmented. Dining, sleeping, making love, rising in the morning, going to the track in the late morning. In the evenings we would take hikes in the nearby mountains.

"What do you think the chances are of us seeing a bear?" I asked.

"Probably none. I remember seeing one when I was growing up and my family and me would come up here, but I haven't seen one since then." She was holding my hand and looking at me in the face as we walked together. She looked ahead of us and a dreamy grin came over her face: "I remember, us girls were sleeping—it was the afternoon—and then, suddenly, I saw my uncle fly from out of his tent with an arm full of pots and pans. I looked over and saw my mom standing upright, petrified, screaming. She looked really scared, but it was one of those things, giving the situation and how young I was, that also made her look kind of funny. My uncle starts throwing the pots at the bear, screaming too—just screaming at the top of his lungs—banging the pans and running after the bear (which you're not supposed to do, remember that) and then I remember the bear high-tailing it away."

"So, we're not gonna to see one, even though it's a bear on the California flag?" I smiled at her.

"Get up, baby," she nuzzled her nose into my armpit and tried to Eskimo-tickle me. I never was ticklish. Only my actual mother knew the right spots when I was a kid, which made this moment strange for me, so I arose with a sense of depersonalization.

"Charlotte, I just wanna sleep in today. Go make some coffee for yourself. I'll be up in a couple of hours." I could command her like one can command their mother.

"Okay, sleepy-head: I'll let the prince sleep." She raised her ass into the bright sun of the eastern mountaintop. Her back was full, her hair was fluid. She was relatively young; I was just much younger. All amidst her thighs I could count pockmarks; above her hips I could see the stretches that indicated the child she had borne. Unlike with the remembrance of my mother's nudity, I was turned on at this moment.

"Hold on," I said. Her capacity for surrender was amazing. No other woman I had been with gave herself up so completely. I loved that I could come inside of her and there were no repercussions.

When I woke up she was gone; I felt a pain of anxiety— I wanted to go to the store, but I had no money.

"Of course," I thought, looking at the kitchen counter where a 20-dollar bill was laying in the sun—she left a little post-it-note:

"Baby, this is for you. Get what you need. Try to get some milk."

At the store I bought a six-pack and a pack of cigarettes. I pocketed the rest of the money and asked her for some more when I got back to the cabin. I told her that I ate some food on the way home.

She often wanted to drink, but I would always create some pretext—say some soothing words to distract her—and she allowed me to drink all the beers. When she got drunk her face became red, her make-up dripped and her eyes drooped: I couldn't stand it—I would have to close my eyes just so that I could come inside of her. I would leave her there on the couch, on the porch, in the bed, or wherever we were. I'd take a long shower then. Sometimes she would come in the bathroom—that was the only time my tone ever became harsh. I wanted to be alone.

I hated her and I hated myself whenever she began to look old.

"It's Apple, Char," I said. The tone of her son was exceedingly deep when he would call the cabin— he hated me. I could understand, of course. It was funny to me; we would match baritone for baritone, like some chorus of spite. Sometimes when the phone would ring I would say, "I'll get it," defiantly. I wanted to answer and I would run to the receiver.

"Hello," I went as deep as my voice could go.

"Lemme talk to my mom," Apple said.

"Yeah...hold on...I think she's in the shower," I would say; or, "she's asleep," (even if she wasn't).

Sometimes I would smile as Charlotte appeared and I would hand her the receiver, patting her ass as I walked into the other room (that would be either the spite, or the moment to seize upon her in the playful way that all lovers do—I wasn't sure which).

After her mother-bird cooing, she would come into the living room of the cabin.

"How is Apple?" I would ask, feigning interest.

"He was asking me..." My listening trailed off and I began to think of how I was going to fuck her. I would either interrupt her, bending her over the couch, or I would listen and gradually take my place beside her, insinuating myself on the couch, touching my thigh to hers, trying to make her wet, causing her to trail off in mid sentence and kiss my lips, then I would push her head downward toward my crotch.

When I would talk to my friends they all said that I was trapped. They said: "Dude, you just love getting an allowance" and as soon as I was ready to get a job this would all end. However, I had been riding professionally for months now. I never got first place, mostly it was third or forth, but I placed high enough to get a purse of a couple hundred a race. So, I didn't think that was quite it.

I never tried to tell them that it had something to do with the morning sunlight; how that sun penetrated her experienced body, how it flooded her pores and illuminated her skin; how she would lay next to me, nearly a ball of total light. I didn't even try to explain how I would have to throw the covers over her figure as she was giving me head, because I was so blinded that I felt like I would instantly come if I didn't do that: It was like when you squint your eyes as far as they can close, without fully closing them, and orgasm is always greater. I didn't talk about that either. I kept it cool.

However, it was always like this. Charlotte. I remembered my art teacher. I looked at her wrinkles, I thought about how she had no gray hairs yet, how her feet were perfect, how her hands always knew what to do, that she moaned when I put it in her ass, that she loved to swallow—I made her a perfect object.

"Yeah, the money doesn't hurt," I would say, sipping my beer.

One afternoon we went walking by one of the many lakes within the bastion of the mountains, it was the largest one—called Prisoner's Cove or something—I sat down on a rock and looked into the lake, where the sun was oscillating on its surface. The throbbing reflection infected my mind somehow—maybe because I had been drinking liquor and it made me horny. I got up without saying anything and went into a bush and started to jack-off. I called her over and Charlotte started to watch me. I was staring at her, letting her know what I wanted. She came over and we both looked across the lake at a family that was walking by, not noticing us. I told her what to do and she touched herself through her jeans.