Hello Stranger

Copyright © 2019 - This is an original work by Michael Fitzgerald and is protected under copyright by U.S. copyright law. It is only submitted at Literotica.Com. Any submission to another site has not been authorized by the Author and is an infringement of copyright. Such other site is requested to remove this story. All persons depicted in this work are fictional and at least 18 years of age.

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HELLO, STRANGER,

... it seems so good to see you back again.
How long has it been?
It seems like a mighty long time.

I'm so glad ...
you stopped by to say "hello" to me.
Remember that's the way it used to be.
Ooh, it seems like a mighty long time.

I'm so glad you're here again

If you're not gonna stay, ...
please don't treat me like you did before
because I still love you so. Ooh, ...
it seems like a mighty long time.
I'm so happy that you're here again.

© Barbara Lewis

Walton High School was tiny. In 1967, we had 500 students from seventh to twelfth grade, which was amazing. I could see the big city's City Hall from my bedroom. Our tiny town was just outside the city limits and we were an island amid urban sprawl. We had our own school district and the town had equal numbers of brown and white families. We all knew each other. In a town that small, it was unavoidable. The teachers who taught you taught your older brother, your cousin, would teach your little sister, your next-door neighbor, maybe even your parents. I knew almost everybody in everybody else's family, and they knew my people too. In school, we mingled back and forth as we wanted. In the cafeteria, the cheerleaders, football players, debaters, science nerds and art students sat with each other. In most things, race was not much of an issue although we all knew about it.

For as long as I can remember, my mother was sickly. Depressed, hobbled with arthritis, she spent most of her time in bed. Her medicines made it hard for her to pay much attention to me, but she made sure I knew how much she loved me.

Trying to cope, my father hired Della and later Ida as home-help ladies to get through my mother through her day. When I was about 15 years old, Jackie came to us. Younger than the ones before her, Jackie was taking classes to become a nurse. I suspect you already guessed; all of them were brown. When my mother was in pain, Jackie took me under her wing. Over time, my relationship with her grew until she became my "every day" mother. She taught me the kind of things that mothers teach their sons - how really to clean a room, iron a shirt, sew a button, wash clothes, go get groceries, cook a meal, get (and keep) a summer job, heed my father and tell the truth, even (and especially) in the small things. She explained how to ask a girl out in a way that might persuade her to say yes. We talked about how a young man acts on date and how to be respectful when it came to sex. And yes, we talked about how to have safe fun. When I "did it" for the first time, Jackie asked a few gentle questions and, with a proud smile, told me I had done good. All I can say is this. I loved my always mother and my every day mother dearly, equally and always.

Is it me or does my generation exist for Facebook? My high school class went years without ever holding a reunion. After Facebook, reunions became a constant thing. Our class was small, just 72 people, and we're at the point where you notice the loss more when the someone you counted on seeing won't be coming anymore. While I could, I wanted to connect with one special person. I had a reason that I'd been carrying for years; I had never told a soul. I would argue with myself. Was it a good idea? What would she think? After 50 years, what was the point? As much as it might matter to me, would it matter at all to her? Or would she think me a foolish old man? I still hadn't made up my mind when I got in the car to go.

Reunions are a little boring; at least, the one we have are. No one dances (the DJ read a book). No one gets seriously drunk. We all weigh too much. Our feet/ankles/knees/back hurt and we would rather sit and talk. I make it a point to move around. I get to every table and chat everyone up. There's no plan. I just keep moving and by the time the party ends, I've talked to everybody.

This time, I kept putting off one table. Mostly, women sat there. They'd come and go, the cast of characters constantly changing. I was waiting for a specific seat to open. Did you ever decide to do something without deciding to do it? When Mimi got up to freshen her drink, I slipped into her now-open seat and said hello to Nicole, who married Leroy 47 years ago. He's been gone now for almost three years.

Here's my dark secret. I was in senior year math class, in the back, standing by the windows. Nicole was standing in the front by the blackboards, wearing a pink oxford cloth, button down shirt over a plaid skirt. Her hair was pulled back into a ponytail. Her bangs reached her eyebrows. I thought she was the most beautiful girl I had ever seen. We were friendly but nothing more than that. I wanted to say something, but I didn't know what and I didn't have the nerve. What I wanted to do that day more than anything was to ask her to go to the Prom with me. Nicole is brown; I am not.

Nicole told me about her children and how her son, the doctor, was moving to California. I told her my daughter was having her first and my son was happy working in IT. I felt like a schoolboy as I started to speak. Nicole noticed that I was getting tongue-tied, smiled and gave me a little hand wave to go on.

"Nicole, I've always wanted to tell you something. Not bad or anything, just something you might not have expected."

"We've known each other for more than 50 years, Jason. Just say it. It'll be okay." She had turned my head around as a teenager and, my God, Nicole surely was all that and more now. Life can give you a quiet power and inner peace; that's how she was.

"I wanted to ask you to go with me to the Senior Prom." Out it popped, no going back now. I was both relieved and politely terrified at how she might react.

Nicole has big, expressive eyes that have a touch of hazel in them. When you meet her for the first time, her eyes are part of what you remember. Well, I certainly made Nicole's eyes pop that night. She sat back a moment and looked at me -- just looked. Then, she broke into an easy laugh, taking me off the hook.

"Oh my! Oh My Lord! Really ... did you really want to do that?" I nodded yes.

"Praise Jesus, you didn't. My father would have killed me." Mr. Green had been an attorney and both times I met him, he seemed formidable.

"Mine too." I replied, now both of us laughing. She was so shy then, Nicole told me. She had wanted to stay home and not go. Her mother had to get her a date and then push her out the door. Her father had the young man on the porch for what must have seemed a very long time to make clear how Nicole would be treated (perhaps explaining why the young man never called on Nicole again). I admitted that I took a cousin. I hadn't worked up the nerve to ask anyone either. More gentle laughter, we were two old and dear friends, sharing something that had mattered long ago and now not so much but bringing us closer.

"Did you ask your mother's nurse what she thought about all that?" Remember, we all knew everything about each other; Nicole knew about Jackie. I told Nicole that I had. The times weren't "right" for such a thing, Jackie had said, but it was beautiful to think about things like that happening one day. She said she proud of me. I found myself getting emotional to remember all that. I still do.

"She was right," Nicole said. "It was beautiful. You, ... even just thinking of doing that, was beautiful." She pulled her chair closer. "Can I ask? Why me? Why did you want to take me?"

"I really liked talking with you. You were smart, and you listened. You had your own mind about things, and you told me how you felt. You made me feel like you were interested in what I said. You were the first girl who did that. I wondered what it would be like to be with you at the prom, to talk and share what happened."

The moment passed, and I was beginning to feel awkward. I said way too much, and Nicole had to be getting uncomfortable. I made excuses and headed down a long corridor to the Men's Room.

I was walking back when I saw Nicole coming towards me. She gave me a little wave. The DJ put on a slow oldie, Barbara Lewis singing Hello Stranger. The hallway was quietly lit, and we were alone. I reached out and Nicole came into my arms to dance. We held each other. Our bodies found their fit. I could feel her cheek against mine. If we danced more gently with our years, it was oh so sweet.

Nicole leaned back and asked me to kiss her. I thought of my beloved wife Ann and asked her with all my heart to allow me this moment. Her chemo had made her too sick to attend. I kissed Nicole and she kissed me back. A second slow song came on and we danced that one too. We danced and held each other but didn't say a thing. When the song ended, Nicole stepped away, still holding my hand. "See, we did go to the prom, just had to wait a little."

For a moment, I was that teenage boy again, at the prom, Nicole in a long yellow gown. Her hair was up, and she was beautiful. I'd ask her if she wanted to go out on the terrace and look at the moon. She'd nod and I'd take her hand to go.

"You're thinking about it, about what if we had gone to the prom, aren't you," Nicole whispered in my ear.

"Yes, I am." Nicole started dancing to the next song and I followed. "Tell me how you imagine it would be."

"We'd be there and you're so beautiful and I'd ask you to walk in the moonlight with me. You'd say yes and we wind up by a fountain. There's a bench and we sit. I kiss you and you kiss me back. Then I'd kiss your neck. I run my fingertips across your nipples and ask you if you like that."

"Of course, I'd like that." Nicole took my hand and put it on her breast. "Then what?" I touched her lightly at first, feeling her nipples harden and then teased them.

"I'm so hard, and you can see that right through my pants. I'm embarrassed but you aren't? You want to see. I ask if you ever saw one before, but you say no, only little ones on kids. You have one hand, and then two hands, finding out what my erection feels like."

"You mean, like this?" Nicole finds my erection and her hands slowly begin to massage me even harder. She tugs my fly down and has my cock out of my pants.

"I pull your dress up and slip my hand in your panties. I find your vagina and run my hand against it, then I slide a finger into your slit and rub as you get wet. Your clit is getting big."

"Just like you are now. Get hard for me, baby. Show me how big you can get." Her hands kept working. I had her sundress up and my hands moved over her hips and down. I could feel her wetness and see arousal in her face. Nicole would build me up and then slow it down. I followed her rhythm and did the same. We watched each other getting more excited as we teased and played with each other. I was jacking my hips forward trying to maximize how good this hand job felt. Nicole kept grinding her hips into my hand, her lips on mine. She came first and I was right behind her. I could hear her stifle a cry as she did. Oh shit, we were going to get caught. Nicole was ahead of me. She used a handkerchief to catch my cum as I exploded, and then wipe her juices clean.

We laughed so hard that people came to see what was going on. Later, we walked back to our seats, arm in arm. Nicole thanked me for a lovely evening and our walk in the moonlight. I told her that I had a very good time too and that I had gotten her home before curfew, which drew a smile.

I know that when we parted, as wonderful as the evening had been, I felt a pang for what might have been and wondered if Nicole did too. In 1967, there were so many forces arrayed against an awkward, skinny white boy and a shy, pretty, brown-skinned girl in 1967 to keep them from doing what is now commonplace. Nicole admitted to me later in a letter that she had made a asked the DJ to play a "lotta slow songs," hoping something good would happen. I wondered what a life lived with Nicole might have been like, and how it might have differed from the one I've lived.

Jackie passed away not long ago as did my wife of many years, Ann. It was a blessing; she had been so sick. Nicole is still going strong and now we're both alone. I have asked me her to come with me to Old Quebec for a week in June, and she's thinking about it. I think we're both trying to give each other a second chance at what might become a new romance.