Every April

Every April

by

Trigudis

Every April, at the "official" opening of cycling season, Hannah Sullivan and I connected by phone. We belonged to a cycling club that rode on weekends and in the evening after work during daylight savings time. When daylight savings time ended, we rode on weekends, weather willing. Unlike me, Hannah wasn't a cold weather rider. Come late fall, she'd spin indoors until at least late March.

We'd known each other for over twenty years. She'd refused to give her exact age. However, she'd drop enough hints to tell me that she was born during the Nixon presidency. Which made her around fifty-three, a few years younger than me. Unlike me, she never married. "My only regret," she told me a few times, "is not having found someone to spend the rest of my life with. I'm tired of being single, of living alone."

She hadn't lacked for boyfriends. One relationship lasted about a dozen years, a 'friends with benefits' deal where her friend--Perry was his name--was close to twenty years younger. The sex was "wonderful," she had told me. Realistically, however, they both knew that it couldn't go any further. She'd dated guys with more potential, age-wise for commitment. But, for various reasons, those relationships ran their course, stopping short of marriage.

Why, she couldn't say, but it wasn't for lack of looks on her part. She didn't just look good for her age. In fact, she didn't look all that different from when we met two decades ago. She could've been a poster girl for what hiking, cycling and other exercise could do to keep one's body in good shape and working order. Not to mention the "right" DNA.

Hannah was no skinny Minnie, nor was she the kind of super-jacked chick you might see in a hardcore fitness gym. She stood around five-foot-three, with curves galore. That included full, solid thighs, shapely calves and a slender waist. If there was another middle-aged gal (or younger gal for that matter) that looked sexier in tight jeans and a low-cut blouse, I had never seen her. And don't get me started on how great she looked in spandex, how the male riders in our group enjoyed riding behind her for a delicious view of her sexy butt and shapely quads, flexing gloriously with every pedal turn. As the summer rolled on, her smooth skin took on a glowing, tawny hue. She was also pretty--her green eyes and pouty lips, as well as her killer bod, got her noticed wherever she went.

Being in sales for most of her working life, she developed a commanding, sometimes pushy personality. I guessed that those personality traits were intact even before she got out of school--ideal for a career in sales. Ideal also for rubbing people the wrong way. It took me a while after joining the cycling group to find my way around it. I saw her snap at people also for things that seemed to me, ridiculously petty. That said, she was a loyal friend, charitable as well. For over twenty years, she volunteered at the Special Olympics. And her keen sense of humor made her a blast with whom to party.

We'd never socialize one on one; it was always with the rest of our group. But, on the phone, and sometimes after a group ride, we'd have heart to heart talks, mostly about her and her distaste for living alone for so long.

Which leads me back to those April phone calls. Sometimes she called me. Other times, I took the initiative, as was the case this past April. Hannah had recently returned from one of her trips. She travels a lot, goes to Europe on cycling and hiking tours. Last fall, she emailed our cycling group a pic of her floating in the Dead Sea in Israel. We talked about her time overseas and then got into more personal matters. She again talked about wanting to meet that special guy to "spend the rest of my life with."

"Marriage can be quite difficult," I said. "It ebbs and flows. One day you're in a bed of roses, the next day in a bed of thorns. Being divorced, I speak from personal experience."

"Yes, Jacob, but at least you got there," she countered. "I never have." When I asked why she thought that was, she drew a blank. "Haven't a clue," she said. "Maybe it's just not in the cards for me."

She referred to a male rider in the club who had died of a massive heart attack. He was in his sixties and had been married to another bike club member (Millie) for twelve years. "A terrible thing to happen," Hannah told me. "But, if I had to choose, I'd choose to be in Millie's position rather than mine. At least she got to spend twelve years with someone she loved and shared her life with. So far, I've never known what that's like."

I sometimes thought of telling her that she might be difficult to live with, but never have. The fact is, everybody in their own way is difficult to live with. Not in the cards? Well, perhaps, though I've never been sure what that meant.

I continued: "The rides that our bike club offers are male-heavy. I'd guess that in a typical weekend group ride, about eighty percent are guys. All to your advantage."

"Yes, but it seems that they're either too young, too old or married," she complained.

She had tight age parameters. Too young was below forty-five, too old above fifty-six. Being fifty-six myself, I just made her cut. We both knew club riders that fit into her age requirements. When I began to name names, she rejected one after the other for one reason or another. Then she said, "Maybe I'm just too picky."

"Maybe you are," I said. "I mean, nobody's perfect."

"You're right, nobody is," she said, "but there are people who approach perfect, at least perfect for me."

"Anyone I know?"

She laughed. "I sure as hell hope so. I'm referring to you, Jacob Anders."

"All this time and you're just letting me know?" Thinking this had to be a goof, I began to laugh.

"Jacob, you were married for a good part of the time I've known you. Which is a good reason that we've remained just friends. As I've said before, barring my brothers, you're my longest male relationship."

Hannah has said that many times. She's fond of announcing it to others in our group, usually during one of our post-ride tailgate parties. Her 'longest male relationship'...It was one of her staple themes of party conversation. Being divorced for close to ten years, I figured just friends we'd always be.

"So what makes me approach your idea of perfection?" I asked.

"Well, besides the obvious, your commitment to cycling, your jacked physique and all that, I can talk to you about stuff, personal stuff that I haven't revealed to too many people. Not anyone in the bike club, that's for sure. You're a good listener and you don't judge me. Plus, you've told me things that I doubt you've told anyone else in the club. True?"

"True," I admitted. She's the only one in the club with whom I felt comfortable enough to reveal some of the drama that went on growing up and later in my marriage. And maybe that's because of our quid pro quo, opening our lives to each other in a way that other group members can't or won't.

"Yeah, so we have a nice rapport," she continued. "There's mutual trust and we share personal information, not just trade notes on bike-related stuff. That's meant a lot to me through the years."

I wasn't sure where to go with this. Through the years, I had thought about what it might be like being more than just friends. The physical attraction was there in spades. She also had a wonderful dry sense of humor, made me laugh hard at those tailgate parties. But I didn't think I could get past her dominating personality. I'm more laidback, less confrontational. I would never even think to lecture people who smoke like I've seen her do on the evils of smoking. "Live and let live," I told her the last time she did it.

She shrugged it off. "I was just trying to help."

The closest we had come to acting more than just friends happened on an evening ride. It was just her and I, and it had started to rain. We then parked our bikes against a house, then stood under the back-porch roof to wait out the storm. Not as inured to colder weather as me, Hannah hugged herself and shivered. Goosebumps rose from her bare arms. "Can I help?" I asked.

"You can hold me for starters," she said.

So I did, wrapping my arms tightly around her. The rain kept coming and I kept hugging, wondering if 'starters' meant that something more intimate might follow. Nothing did. She was an assertive person, so I figured she'd make the first move if she wanted more. Apparently, she didn't. When the rain tapered off, we resumed riding back to the ride start.

I brought up that rainy ride during our latest phone chat. "Of course, I remember," she said. "How could I forget? I was freezing until you shared your body heat."

"Did you want me to kiss you?"

She chuckled. "Yes, Jacob, I sure did. But I wasn't going to make the first move. Guess I'm more traditional when it comes to that. So why didn't you?"

"Honestly, I wasn't sure you wanted me to. I figured that you'd make the first move. You know, being the assertive type."

"Assertive only about some things," she revealed. "When it comes to affairs of the heart, not so much, at least until the guy makes the first move."

Suddenly feeling assertive myself, I said, "Hannah, if you were with me right now, and I did make that first move, how would you react?"

"It depends on what you were wearing. Just kidding. Seriously, I'd kiss you back."

"Really?"

"Yes, really. You're that surprised?"

"Well, kind of. Hannah, we've known each other for over twenty years and haven't kissed once. Okay, I was married during some of that time. But I've been divorced for years."

"Which means you could make up for lost time. If you want to, that is. Do you?"

I didn't answer right away because I wasn't sure myself what I wanted. She still held out hope, even in middle-age, to one day marry. Or, at the very least, to get serious enough to keep house with some guy. I wasn't that guy. One marriage had been enough for me. Yet even if I did want to take the plunge again, Hannah wouldn't be on my A-list of prospects. She had some great qualities. But live with her? I'd enjoyed the independence of living alone for too long to be bossed around in my living space, which I could picture the bossy Hannah doing. Talk about not in the cards.

Finally, I said, "Hannah, I'm not sure where I'm going with this. I've always found you attractive and still do. But so do lots of guys. Old news to you, I'm sure."

"Thanks. Look, I've done okay with guys in some ways, not so okay when it comes to finding the proverbial thee-one. Otherwise, my life's been pretty good. I like my work and get paid well for doing it. I'm in good health and travel to places not many people get to see. So, no complaints, just an emotional void that waits to be filled. Now, as far as you and me..."

She hesitated with a sigh. Then she continued: "Jacob, if you'd like to have something more with me, something beyond cycling, I'm willing to give it a go. And maybe we can start with me making dinner for you at my house. In the twenty-some years we've known each other, you've never been to my house, unlike some of the people we ride with that I'm not even as close to. How's that sound?"

A great way to start, I told her, and made good on that by making a date for the following Saturday.

Hannah lived in an upscale suburban townhouse community north of Baltimore. I'd cycled through the area many times, so I had no trouble finding her place. The day before, I had picked up a bottle of Berringer Cabernet, her wine of choice at those tailgate parties.

She appeared touched after I stepped into her living room and held up the bottle. "Oh, you remembered. Thanks so much. I'll put it in the fridge and then give you a tour."

This was a large-sized, three-bedroom, two-bath, split-level town house. I didn't ask, but it looked to me like she had at least two-thousand square feet, plus a basement. She took me on a brief tour, room to room, including the upstairs. Admittedly, my eyes were more on her than the rooms' appointments. She wore tight, charcoal-colored jeans and a low-cut blue blouse. A simple outfit, not particularly sexy in itself, but sexy on her because of her voluptuous form. Her hair style hadn't changed in years, frosted, barely shoulder-length and parted on the side.

"Excuse the mess," she said, when she showed me her bedroom. "I haven't had much time to put things away."

It wasn't that messy, just some clothing strewn on the half-made double bed. She showed me her walk-in clothes closet, "just to prove I'm the fashionista I say I am."

I'd heard her say that a few times, and her many stylish outfits, with shoes to match, told me it was no false claim. I spotted a pair of leather pants that I'd seen her wear at a recent club social at a local restaurant. "I have no husband or children to spend my money on," she once said, "so I might as well spend it on myself." And she did, at least materially. Besides overseas trips and clothes, she bought a new BMW every few years.

She fixed a super-healthy Chinese meal cooked in a pan that included, chicken, snow peas, broccoli, water chestnuts and walnuts, served with brown rice on the side. She put the pan between us on her dining room table, then raised her glass of Cabernet for a toast: "To continued good health and many years of riding for both of us."

We clinked glasses, then forked into our meal. "Delicious," I said. "Is this from a recipe?"

"Thank you. No, my concoction. I like to cook but seldom have company to cook for. It's been a while."

Hannah never told me directly that she was lonely, but that's the impression I got. She and her three siblings, two brothers and a sister, weren't close, she had revealed to me. In fact, they were often at odds. She said she "envied" the close relationship my sister and I enjoyed. Still, she never appeared depressed, nor was she a chronic complainer. She was far from content, but then how many of us are fully content with our lives? Seen from the "other side," Hannah's life looked envious, if not glamorous to those stuck in a dull and/or rocky marriage.

She looked so pretty, almost glamorous in the flickering candlelight of her spacious dining room, furnished with table and four chairs and a heavy antique china cabinet. She said she ate in the kitchen most of the time, the dining room being reserved for company.

"So glad you're here," she said between bites.

"Glad to be here," I said, unable to come up with anything wittier than that.

She smiled in a flirty kind of way. Her beautiful green eyes sparkled. You're so pretty, I thought of saying but didn't because I had never talked to her that way. Allegedly, we were on different time now, but it still didn't feel like it. Nor did it feel like we were on a bike ride or just chatting at one of our group socials either. A strange dynamic, at least it was for me.

Some of our dinner conversation revolved around the war in Ukraine. Like me, she was well-read when it came to history, knew the background of this unusually brutal war. She approved the Biden administration's foreign policy direction; thought the billions of dollars we were pouring into Ukraine was the right thing to do. Our opinions differed on that issue. We had a lively debate, but it never got mean or personal.

The personal part came after dinner, when we sat on her sofa, lingering over a vanilla-mint liqueur. Our shoes were off and our fully clothed bodies were not quite touching. We'd been this close before, to hug, but that's about it, save for the time I held her during that rainy bike ride. I kept in mind what she had said about leaving it up to the guy to make the first move. So, if there was a move to be made, it was up to me to make it. Except something was holding me back, and I was pretty sure I knew what--our platonic friendship. How do you go from being friends for the better part of two decades and then suddenly shift into romance mode? It just didn't feel right.

It appeared that she harbored no such inhibitions. She slid a bit closer, sipping her liqueur, while locking her eyes onto mine, her mouth drawn up into a smile, warm and inviting and waiting, presumably, for me to make that first move. Then she said, "Jacob, you seem a bit uptight. I hope I'm not making you nervous."

She wasn't making me nervous; it was the idea of going further. I wanted to but felt stuck in some sort of emotional dilemma. "Not at all," I said. "I'm just trying to get used to the idea that we might be more than just friends from now on."

She nodded and took another sip. "I understand. But no rush. It's not something we have to dive right into." She began rubbing my shoulder. "I mean, these things take time to develop." She then stretched her leg out and began rubbing her bare foot against mine. "Feel good?"

It did feel good--sensuous, erotic. Her bright-red toenails did something for me also. Her feet were on the small side, with strong arches. No, I don't have a foot fetish; it's just something I noticed, along with her thighs, firm and curvy in that deliciously feminine way. I always wanted to rub my hands over them, but never had the nerve to try. More accurate, it hadn't been appropriate to do so under the circumstances. Yet circumstances had changed, and I got the feeling that I could do all the thigh rubbing I wanted and perhaps then some.

Meanwhile, her foot-to-foot massage was producing a new sort of arousal, one I had not known previously, and from the gratified, devilish look on her face, I knew that she sensed it. "Not to be presumptuous" she said, "but I get the feeling that this is turning you on."

"No presumption there, you're right," I admitted, thinking that it was my accelerating breathing that clued her in, not my hardening cock which I knew she couldn't see through my faded Levi's. "Maybe transitioning from friends to this isn't so difficult after all."

"It's a process, Jacob, a step-by-step process. And by the way, this is turning me on also."

Drinks still in hand, we both leaned forward for some light kissing. Nothing heavy, just testing the waters, so to speak, like wading into the shallow end of a pool.

When we decoupled, she said, "Well, that was a start. I hope you're more relaxed."

I did feel more relaxed, enough to move the "process" further along. We placed our drinks on the coffee table, then got into it--it being hugging and more serious smooching. Even though I had known Hannah for twenty years, doing this with her felt as if I was with someone I barely knew. I smelled, literally, sides of her that I was experiencing for the first time--the musky scent she wore and the scent that was part of her unique biological essence, and I enjoyed both enough to begin kissing her neck and the top of her low-cut blouse.

"You're sensitive there, aren't you?" I asked when she began to moan.

"Yes, I should have warned you," she said, giggling. "But then it's nice that you found out on your own." She then lay back, pulling me on top of her. "My clothes suddenly feel very hot, Jacob. Like I'm about to burst out of them."

"I can relate," I said, feeling the heat trapped beneath the confinement of my jeans and pull-over jersey, not to mention my hardening cock, straining to break free of my underwear. I thought of trying to undress her, then decided it would be best if she made that kind of call. Besides, I figured she'd much rather make love in her bedroom than on her plush teal sofa.

She confirmed as much when she rubbed her hand over my crotch and said, "Jacob, from what I feel down there, I think it might be time we go upstairs. If that's okay with you."

Of course, it was more than okay--it was a must, considering the aroused state the sofa make-out put me in, which included dry-humping between Hannah's sexy thighs. "I'm with you on that," I said, and then followed her up to the bedroom, where she wasted little time in clearing the bed of clothes and then proceeded to undress.