I Think I'm Gonna Stay with You...

"You outgrew him it sounds like."

"That's one way to put it."

After chewing the last of my burger, I said, "We seem to be making good time."

"We do seem to have a rapport, I agree."

She gave me the warmest smile after she said that. More than warm, it was inviting, as if she was waiting for me to make the first move. But I wasn't sure, and didn't want to risk making a fool out of myself to find out. Lucky for me, I didn't have to. After waiting a few moments, she crushed her food bag and tossed it over the door into a trash receptacle. Then, flashing me a faux annoyed look, she said, "Are you always this shy, Marc?" Not waiting for an answer, she then put her lips to mine. She was so warm and affectionate—I could see why Bobby wouldn't give her up without a fight. When I told her she was a great kisser, she said, "When I like someone, I don't play games. I let him know."

She slipped me her phone number when I dropped her off at her house, a modest brick rancher that sat on at least two acres of land. "I hope you're not one of those guys who takes numbers but doesn't follow up," she said.

Teasingly, I said, "I guess you'll just have to wait by the phone to find out."

"Not this girl," she said. "But I do want to see you again." After a quick goodnight kiss, she went into the house.

She didn't have long to wait, for I called that week and asked her out to an Elton John concert. Elton was coming to the Oakland Mills Music Fair, not far from her area. "Sure, I'd love to go," she said. "But there is something you should know. Bobby's been stalking me. Calls me all hours of the day and night, and cruises by the house. He won't take no for an answer, refuses to accept our break-up. Asks questions about you, wants to know if we had started dating. I knew I hadn't seen the last of him."

The last thing I wanted was to become part of a love triangle. From what I'd heard, they often didn't end well. "So, it looks like he might show up at your house next Saturday," I said.

"My dad won't let him in," she assured me, "but there's a good chance he'll be parked out front."

"With Henry?"

"Probably not. Henry's his good buddy but he's more sensible."

Per what happened at the fire hall, I felt confident I could take care of myself when it came to Bobby. Still, I didn't want the hassle of having to prove it again, just so I could be with Connie. Was this girl worth it? Yes, I decided, thanked her for the head's up and told her I'd see her Saturday.

Sure enough, I spotted Bobby in a battered, early 60s vintage red Chevy Impala when I pulled in front of her house. He glared at me when I alighted from my LeMans but stayed behind the wheel. Connie knew he was there. "Like I told you," she said when I entered the house. This time, I dressed more Powhatan Mills than Dorchester Park, attired in jeans and a glorified T-shirt. She opted for a white mini-dress and halter. Her parents greeted me cordially but with a hint of suspicion, it seemed to me, perhaps because they knew I wasn't one of them.

Still, her dad, a wiry man in his late forties, warned me about Bobby. "He's still in love with her," he said. "Just watch yourself."

My rearview is what I watched after we pulled off; Bobby was following us. "Don't tell me he's going where we're going," I said.

Connie said she didn't know, but wouldn't be surprised. "He's obsessed with me."

He had already showed that at the fire hall, then proved it further by trailing us for the twenty minutes it took to drive to the Oakland Mills Music Fair. We were both relieved when he drove off after we entered the parking lot. Again, I could see why Bobby, or any guy, for that matter, might become obsessed with Connie Boutwell—sexy, pretty, built-like-the-proverbial-brick-shithouse. Insecure guys like Bobby, though, took it to another level. They saw their women as their personal property: look but don't touch, but you'd better not look too long or I'll pop you one.

The concert took my mind off Bobby for the time being. This was early on in Elton's career, and he performed recent hits such as Your Song and Levon, plus rocking numbers that got the fans jumping out of their seats.

Leaving the venue, dark by that time, I drove while also glancing in my rearview, watching out for a certain red Impala. "Relax, there's too many cars leaving this lot for him to spot us," Connie said. "Not that I'd put it past him," she added.

I was having second thoughts about seeing her. Yes, she was special. But was she special enough for me to endure being tailgated every time we went out? This guy could be angry enough to blow me away with a shotgun, for all I knew. In fact, I was about to drive her home, when she suggested we "pick up where we left off at Ameche's." She didn't have to explain what she meant; and I was much too enamored with her to refuse. "But there is one thing you need to tell me beforehand," she said. "Because I've never made out with a guy whose last name I didn't know."

I chuckled, thinking I'd already told her. "Kamins. Marc Sean Kamins. Now you know my middle name as well."

"Well, one good middle name deserves another," she said. "Mine is Erika. And my full first name is Constance."

"Constance Erika Boutwell. Pretty." Now that we "knew" each other, all I needed was to find a cool place to park. I knew a few places in my area, but that would entail driving further than I wanted to. "Know of any places close by?" I asked. "Dark with plenty of privacy preferred."

"Of course," she said, and then proceeded to play navigator through a part of the county that to me was almost foreign territory. We ended up on a woodsy, narrow lane devoid of street lights and as private as one could expect on a Saturday night. I cut the engine, leaving the radio on, tuned to WCAO, one of our region's Top-40 stations.

"I guess you've been here before," I said.

"Yes, but not so soon after I met someone. With Bobby it took a while."

"You trust me, it sounds like."

She slouched lower in the bucket seat a few inches and crossed her legs. "Yes, and then some." When I asked about the 'then some,' she said, "Well, you're a nice-looking guy. I like long hair on guys. Bobby and his friends think it's sissified. And from those muscles, I can see why you got the best of him. Which leads me into what really impressed me that night, and that's the way you stood up to Bobby. That wasn't the first time he threatened other guys that showed interest in me. They had all backed down, slinked away like shrinking violets. Not you. So, that was a huge thing. Also, you're obviously intelligent, a guy I can have an intelligent conversation with. Conversations about space travel, about Mariner nine, for example, and the possible implications of that (earlier in the evening, we had talked about the recently-launched, Mars-bound Mariner 9 space craft). That's another huge thing, because I haven't met many guys who take an interest in stuff like that. But I'm not surprised given where you come from."

I laid on a few kudos of my own, like the way she caught my eye from across the room, her obvious smarts, her ambition to get ahead and the way that SHE stood up to Bobby. The Tigress scent she wore, wafting through the warm, humid June night, and her cute blond sexuality, filled me with an erotic excitement I can still feel to this very day. We traded light kisses between the center console, while the radio played Brown Sugar, Love Her Madly and other hits of the day, including The Bells' Stay Awhile. That one I remember the most because that's when things turned more intimate. "How he makes me quiver, how he makes me smile," she began to sing in the soft, breathy way Jackie Ralph and Cliff Edwards sang it on the record. "With all this love I have to give him, I guess I'm gonna stay with him awhile..."

Stay with me awhile that night, she did, long enough to where we got to know each other better. Much better. My backseat allowed for more room, and her minidress and halter allowed for easy access. The warm, humid air became warmer as the moments passed. "You have kisses sweeter than wine," I told her, and she laughed at my corny reference to that old song of the same name. She had skin sweeter than honey, too, and my tongue slid along its smooth surface, from her legs to her breasts to her adorable face. In our semi-nakedness, we perspired in the sticky sultry heat of that June night, trading sweat while keeping more private bodily fluids in check. She thanked me for not "attacking" her, for being "respectful" of the limitations she set. That was fine with me. She claimed to be a virgin and I had no protection. As to the former, she said, "But I have a feeling that I might not be by the end of the summer."

*****

We adopted Stay Awhile as "our song." Not our favorite Top 40 hit by any means, but it seemed to fit our situation. Awhile implied that we'd be together for a relatively short time, presumably through the summer. Come fall, I had planned to attend college out of state. Connie's less fortunate financial situation meant she'd be going to a state school. So long-term, as in possible "serious" commitment down the road, wasn't on our radar. Still, this was more than just a summer fling. Our feelings deepened as the summer wore on. Bobby, apparently bored with stalking, faded from view. We did what most teen couples did on dates, including watching movies. Forget the convenience of Netflix, VCRs and Blockbuster; those things were yet to be. The Big Screen was our only option for viewing new releases.

Which brings me to the Summer of '42, one of the most memorable flicks we watched that summer. Like me, Connie had a soft spot for romantic, coming of age movies, and Summer of '42 was among the most affecting of that genre. She had tears in her eyes by the time the credits rolled. "That movie made me want to get closer to you," she said as we walked through the theater lobby and then out to the parking lot. We kissed long and passionately in the car. Then she said, "Let's not wait until the end of summer. Let's do it now. Tonight. I'll be Dorothy to your Hermie."

I didn't have to guess the IT she was referring to. Hermie was quite a bit younger than Dorothy, his love interest, while we were just a year apart (Connie being older). No matter, the movie had put her in the mood to go where she had not gone before. By then, I kept condoms in my glove compartment, just in case. Neither of us wanted to do it in the car. We both lived with our parents, a drawback for getting naked. That said, we had a club basement that afforded a good measure of privacy. I'd entertained other young ladies down there. My parents had left me alone, with the provision that I "act responsibly." I'm not sure what that meant, nor did I ask. Arnie, my high school age brother, could be an annoyance, though, sometimes barging in without knocking.

"This will be a first for me, in more ways than one," Connie said. She referred not just to what we planned, but the fact that she had not yet been over my house. She knew Dorchester Park by reputation, a neighborhood of "smart, well-educated professionals," as she put it.

I told her not to be intimidated. "You're plenty smart yourself," I said.

When we arrived, there was no one home except Arnie, lounging on the sofa, stuffing his face with popcorn and watching some old flick on NBC's Saturday Night At The Movies. He glanced behind him when we walked in, then stood, barefoot in his PJs to get a better look at this girl he had heard so much about. By his expression, wide-eyed and grinning, it was obvious he was duly impressed. We shared similar tastes in women when it came to looks, body types specifically. Firm, curvy, compact - Connie was a prime example of all that. Her shag framed a face that most would call cute, seductively cute as opposed to saccharine-sweet and innocent.

After I introduced them, Connie looked over at the big Zenith TV. "Love With The Proper Stranger?" Arnie nodded. "I saw it years ago," she said. "Good movie."

Arnie stood there and shrugged, hands in the pockets of his long PJs. "It's okay, not much else is on."

"He's watching it because he's got the hots for Natalie Wood," I said. "Not that I blame him."

Connie pouted. "What's Natalie got that I don't?"

"Well, Steve McQueen for starters," I said. "At least in that movie."

"Now there's a hottie," she said.

"He was cool in Bullitt," Arnie said.

Time to make time, I thought. We had a smaller TV downstairs, plus a pool table and stereo. "Okay, Arnie," I said, "we're headed for the basement. So, if you need anything down there—″

"I know, knock first," Arnie said, shooting me this wry, I-know-why sort of look.

We entered the basement through the kitchen and then descended the stairs. This wouldn't have been my first choice for a venue for a First Time, but it's the best we could do then. We had a day bed at our disposal and our stereo (my dad's pride and joy) was the envy of the neighborhood. My dad had put down a few scatter rugs atop the Linoleum floor to absorb the sound of those huge Klipschorn speakers placed in the corners against a wall. "Your dad let's you use it?" Connie asked in surprise. "If my parents had a rig like that, there's no way me and my brother could touch it." She looked at a bookshelf filled with LPs, both mine and my parents'. "Can you play something?"

"Sure. You call it."

"Got any Beatles?"

"Abbey Road coming right up. You'll be amazed how it sounds on these speakers."

Moments later, I had side two of what some consider the group's best album (sorry Sergeant Pepper fans) on the Dual 1218 turntable. Sitting next to me on the day bed, Connie marveled at the big wall of sound that filled the room. Like many, she hadn't heard true high fidelity before. "It almost feels like George Harrison is in the room," she said during Here Comes The Sun. Abbey Road wasn't exactly "mood" music, so I let the record play out. Then, I switched the Marantz receiver to tuner mode, turned the dial to an "easy listening" station and dimmed the lights. "There, that should put us in the mood," I said, joining Connie on the day bed.

She put her hand in mine and said, "I've been in the mood ever since we came down here."

Our lips met and that was that. Just kidding; it was hardly that simple or that quick. She was a virgin, remember, and therefore somewhat anxious. I did my best to put her at ease. We began with the familiar, those long¸ passionate kisses played out on all those warm nights in my car. We stripped down to our underwear and I threw a blanket over us; the AC made it colder in the basement than the rest of the house. There was touching, lots of touching, with hands, fingers and tongues. Of course, it was a lot more comfortable here than in my backseat. We could stretch out, rub against each other. By then, we were quasi-experts in the art of foreplay. We knew each other's bodies fairly well, what worked, what didn't work. Connie's tummy was particularly sensitive. She loved when I ran my tongue over it. Me too, because she smelled so good, like a bouquet of marigolds. I felt I loved her but I didn't say it, afraid she might not feel the same or afraid...I wasn't sure. Too early, perhaps. Anyway, my passion, the way I kissed and touched her, expressed more than words ever could.

There was no drum roll, no blaring of horns like in the intro to Strauss' Also Sprach Zarathustra. "Make love to me, Marc," she said. Already, her panties were off and my lambskin condom was in securely place. Slowly and incrementally, she slipped me inside her. She didn't bleed. She didn't cry out in pain. She did moan and said nice things: "You feel so good inside me...I love you, Marc." Naturally, I felt it was "safe" to say those three timeless words back. We were crying and laughing at the same time, sounds that mingled with the easy listening music, barely heard inside the protective bubble we had ensconced ourselves in.

Later, when I was older and wiser, I described that experience as a singularity of being. If that sounds intellectually pretentious, try this: a bright, shining moment Actually, it was a series of moments, the foreplay as described, the carnal/emotional love making and then the "cool down," holding each other while expressing how we felt, this time in actual words as well as actions. I was starting to doze off, when Connie shook me. "The door, Marc, the door!" she said excitedly. "Someone's knocking!"

I figured it was Arnie until I heard my dad's voice. "We're home." He cracked the basement door to announce this, respecting the privacy he and my mom knew I wanted. We dressed as quickly as we could. Connie, a little flushed in the face, primped in front of the small oval mirror hanging on one of the knotty pine walls, applying pink lipstick and messing with her hair. She looked so cute, trying to appear her best for my parents on such short notice. She wore shorts and a tight-fitting blouse and sandals on her feet.

I laughed when she asked, "Do I look like I've just gone all the way for the first time?"

"I'd have never guessed," I said.

We met my parents and Arnie in the living room, my mom in her blue and white cocktail dress and my dentist dad in his light summer suit sans tie. They knew about Connie, and had encouraged me to bring her over. "She must be very special for you to be involved with a girl from Powhatan Mills," my mom had said. My parents were class conscious, a tad snobbish, but not so snobbish that they wouldn't give people a chance to "prove" their "worth" as individuals, regardless of socio-economic class.

Connie shook hands with them both. "Love your sound system," she said.

"You actually listened?" Arnie cracked.

Connie giggled. Dad grinned. Mom rolled her eyes.

"Yes, wise guy, we actually listened," I said emphatically. "The Beatles. Abbey Road." I could feel the condom I had rolled into a tissue and then stuffed into the pocket of my jeans.

Soon, we were out the door, headed for Powhatan Mills. Connie slouched back in her seat. Normally talkative, she was unusually quiet on the drive back. "You okay?" I asked.

"Just thinking," she said, gazing out the front window.

"About?"

"About what we did. And your parents; they seem nice. And my hope that you meant what you said when you told me you loved me."

"Every word." I reached out and gave her arm a love tap. "Why? Do you doubt me?"

"No, it's just that, well, that you said it after I did."

"Yes, because I wasn't sure you felt the same way. I didn't want to..." I fished for the right words. "I didn't want you to feel pressured, feel that I was coming on too strong."

She sat up, leaned over and gave me a quick kiss on the side of my head. "I don't think I could ever feel pressured by you. I meant what I said, and I'll say it again. I love you." She laughed. "Now who's feeling pressured?"

We kissed like mad after I pulled in front of her house. "I don't want to say goodnight to you," I said.

She teared up. "No, me either. One of these nights, before the summer ends, I hope we can fall asleep in each other's arms."

"That can be easily arranged. Ever been to Wildwood?"

"Not since I was a little girl, with my parents. Since then, we've confined family beach trips to Ocean City. Wildwood...yes, I'd love to go there with you. Can't wait!"

She didn't have to wait too long, because in early August we took off for Wildwood, New Jersey. A week before, I had a cassette deck installed in my LeMans. Cassettes were still a relatively new audio technology, and an improvement over the older 8-track format. What young guy (or old guy for that matter) doesn't dream of cruising to the beach with a boss chick sitting beside him, rock music blaring from the car speakers? The experience was something out of every surfing/teen summer romance movie ever made, a cultural cliché but one in my case writ large and real and wonderful. And that was just for starters. We got a room at the beachfront Star Burst, one of those glass and concrete piles built after World War Two. It had four floors, rooms with balconies and a decent sized pool.