Kiss Me as if There's No Tomorrow

She flashed me a look of happy exasperation. "People find each other in the strangest places, don't they? I mean, if somebody told me I'd meet a guy in a hotel coffee shop thousands of miles from home, a guy I'd grow very fond of very quickly, I'd have laughed. Yet here you are." She paused. "And maybe I shouldn't tell you this...well, okay, you're one of the few guys I've met that I've felt comfortable enough to get naked with." Bereft of a comeback for that revelation, I simply grinned and dreamed.

It was almost dark when we left the park, two hours before we were due back and enough time for a trip atop the observation deck of the Empire State Building, something my parents had failed to make time for when I came here with them. Thus, it was a first for both of us, looking out over this great metropolis, with its thousands of lights twinkling in the distance, snuggled together against the wind-chilled air. I told Denise what I knew about the history of this island—from its formation by glaciers thousands of years ago to its emergence as one of the greatest cities in the world, arguably THEE greatest.

"A great place to visit but I'm not sure I'd want to live here," she said. "Too crowded, too much hustle and bustle. Now, Seattle, where I'm from, is a great city with a small town feel. We have just over a half-million people. You'll have to visit me sometime. Our Space Needle, though not nearly as high as this, offers a great view as well and there's a revolving restaurant on top, Eye of the Needle. Cool name, huh? I'd love to take you to dinner there sometime."

"Do you mean that?"

"Of course I mean that."

"Okay, it's a date," I said, without the slightest idea of how I'd get out there or when. I glanced at my watch. "Damn it, our curfew is drawing near."

She wrapped her arms around me. "Then you'll just have to hug and kiss me like, like it's our last time, like there's no tomorrow." Her voice got dark and sensuous, like what you might hear in a Film Noir movie. "Kiss me, kiss me, Brendan. Kiss me as if there's no tomorrow."

We found some space among the few tourists still there and then smothered each other in kisses. Had we been in a hotel room, I had little doubt we'd be disrobed. That got my wheels spinning with visions of returning to the Stadium View and somehow distracting our parents long enough to give us the time and privacy we'd need.

Denise laughed when I shared my vision with her. "Sounds like what you're planning is something out of a Marx Brothers comedy," she said. Then she assured me that deception wouldn't be necessary. "First off, my parents trust me," she explained, "because I've never given them reason not to, never embarrassed them or done anything to make them ashamed. Second, I've got my own room in the hotel, and if we leave now, we might just make it back in time to get intimate, to press our naked bodies together."

When we returned to the hotel, just under our deadline, we found our parents and my sister chatting in the lobby. They obviously wanted to make sure we got in on time. We joined them, sharing information about our day. It was not even nine-thirty, much too early to sleep. Meanwhile, Denise's room was empty and available, a classic case of so near and yet so far. Even though we were eighteen, the so-called age of consent, I remained skeptical of what Denise had told me, didn't think for a second that her parents would accommodate our wish to be alone. Then Denise did something that proved what she said about her parents trusting her: she simply asked them if we could watch TV in her room. "We're all leaving tomorrow, so it's my last chance to spend some quality time with Brendan," she explained.

Evy snickered while my parents sat there in surprise. Unfazed, Denise's dad said, "Okay, but don't stay up too late. We've got an early plane to catch." That's all it took.

"Don't look so shocked," Denise said as we rode the elevator up to her fourth-floor room. "Like I said, my parents trust me, they're cool with my decisions." Smiling coyly, she said, "I'm a choir girl, remember."

I had taken the lead in Manhattan; now the dynamic was reversed. At this point, she had but a very general idea of my short resume of sexual experience. I didn't tell her that I considered myself a quasi-virgin; that is, I had lost my virginity a few months ago to a prostitute procured by one of my uncle's business associates, a salesman well acquainted with the seamier side of our city. Yes, I'd been "laid," but paying for it somehow didn't fully count. The experience left me cold, nowhere near satisfied—no more prostitutes, I vowed. What I needed was the total package, sexual intimacy wedded to emotional intimacy, sex with someone I grooved with on several levels. Denise appeared to be that special someone. Was tonight the night?

Denise cut all lights, turned on the TV and cut the sound. Then, after kicking off her shoes, she began unbuttoning my shirt, slow, and deliberate, one button at a time, kissing my chest as she went. Bare-chested, I watched her fling off her blouse and then unsnap her bra, leaving only her skirt and panties. She looked so radiant in that shaded room, her hair forming a thick halo around her lightly freckled face, smiling up at me with love in her eyes. "Not yet," she whispered when I bent down to nibble on her nipples. She then unbuckled my pants and pulled them down around my knees. "Oh my," she gasped, rubbing her hand over my crotch, feeling my erection. "We'll have to take care of that."

How "we" were going to "take care" of my throbbing hard-on, I wasn't sure, and didn't really care. I was more than thrilled that things had progressed this far, scarcely believing that I was engaged in the kind of intimacy that up until then had eluded me. After we peeled off the rest of our clothes and then climbed into one of the twin-sized beds, I melted into her embrace. Her skin felt so soft and smooth, satin-smooth, the way a thick, soft comforter might feel on a chilly winter night. She smelled great, too, almost intoxicating, owing to just a dash of perfume mixed with her sweet natural freshness. As I kissed her, the day's events played in my head, our time at the Fair and in Manhattan and now back at the hotel with my tongue roaming along the curvatures of her lovely body and then on and into her erogenous zones, her hard nipples and cunt, wet and juicy and throbbing when she climaxed. She lay flat on her back, her legs spread, with me between them. Lacking condoms and not knowing what birth control, if any, Denise was on, I hesitated. Then, as I inched closer to her pussy, she put up her hand, giving me the halt sign, and proceeded to answer my question plus one more. "Believe me when I tell you that if we were in Seattle, with the luxury of time, and if I was on the pill, I'd let you make love to me. Just for the record, it would be my first time."

She sure wasn't a virgin when it came to pleasing in ways other than full intercourse. Smooth and facile with her hands and mouth, she knew just what to do when it came to taking care of my erection. After we finished dressing, she said, "You're the consummate gentleman, Brendan Doyle. Not many guys in your situation would have been so restrained or considerate."

Less than an hour after leaving the lobby, we were back. Only Denise's parents were there (my family had returned to their rooms). Remarkably, they acted as if their daughter had just returned from an ordinary date, not one that could have included a romp in the sack in a New York hotel room with a boy she barely knew. Could have—they didn't know for sure what we did, nor did they ask. All her mom said was, "Okay, Denise, say your goodbyes to Brendan."

After exchanging contact information, we stepped outside on the hotel's front porch. In response to my wonder over her parents' casual affect, Denise again mentioned the trust between herself and her family. Then we dropped the subject and held each other in a tight embrace. "Please come to see me in Seattle," she said. "I'll miss you." Her eyes misted up.

I told her I'd miss her too, told her I'd do my best to get out there. Those last few moments with her were incredibly passionate and intense, bodies and lips locked together, unable to say goodbye.

*****

For days, I felt the way many of us feel returning to routine after a great vacation, depressed. Concentrating in class was damn near impossible. Homework? Forget it. Damn, I missed her, missed her so bad it hurt. She was all I could think about, dream about. The feel and smell of her, the unique sound of her voice—they were all still so vivid and immediate. A friend of mine, experienced to the ways of romance, tried to counsel me out of my funk. "Brendan, there are two things that will make you feel better," he said, "time and another chick." Fine advice, except that Denise was the chick I wanted. He also advised me to contain my expectations if I ever do make the trip to Seattle. "These long distance things are like summer romances," he said, "they don't last. Absence makes the heart grow weaker, not fonder."

Somebody forgot to tell us that, because in the weeks that followed, we exchanged weekend phone calls and letters filled with endearing phrases. I wrote her once a week, my words spilling onto the page in a torrent of emotion. It appeared she felt the same. Come December, as Christmas gifts, we sent each other new record albums—Dylan's Highway 61 Revisited from her, the Beatles' Rubber Soul from me. We made plans for me to fly out there between Christmas and New Year's. "My folks are okay with you staying at our house," she wrote. "Also, I meant what I said about having dinner in the Space Needle and picking up where we left off in New York."

So, with money saved through part-time jobs and largesse from dad, I boarded a TWA flight from Baltimore to Seattle the day after Christmas. Denise met me at the airport driving one of her parents' three cars, a grey VW. There were hugs and kisses in the terminal and a few tears. "I can't believe you're actually here," she gushed when we got in the car.

"See, there is a tomorrow for us," I said, hugging her as best I could in the bug's confined space. Her face got sullen and she again began to cry. This time, it didn't look like tears of joy. "Something I said?"

She shook her head and forced a smile. "No, it's just that I'm so glad to see you."

It didn't ring true. Still, I let it go. "That's what I want to hear," I said. "By the way, how's the album?"

She chuckled. "So good that even mom is now a Beatles fan. Michelle is her favorite."

We started to sing in unison: "Michelle, my belle, these are words that go together well..."

*****

She lived in Ravenna, an old, leafy, upscale neighborhood in northeast Seattle. A grass median lined with thick trees bisected her street of spacious Cotswold and Tutor designed homes dating from the 1920s. Hers, like many of them, had front porches and lawns planted with topiary and flowerbeds. I wasn't sure what her dad did, but apparently it paid well, I thought as Denise parked the car and then took me inside. The interior reinforced that notion with its fine hardwood flooring, a working fireplace and quality furniture. Expensive but tasteful with just the right amount of understatement is the way I'd describe it.

Mrs. Montgomery greeted me warmly at the door. "Welcome to Seattle," she said, and then asked about my flight, school, my parents, the stuff of small talk. "Seems like yesterday we were all at the World's Fair," she sighed.

Denise gave me a tour of the house, which included the guest room where I deposited my luggage. She then took me to the club basement. Not atypical, it featured wood paneling, linoleum floor of red and black squares, bar, lime-green sofa, brown La-Z-Boy lounger, pool table and stereo. After she put Rubber Soul on the turntable, we cuddled and kissed on the sofa. This all seemed so surreal, staying with a girl and her family three-thousand miles from home, people I barely knew and had just met. They were strangers and yet they weren't. It was a lesson in serendipity for my young life, what can happen when you least expect it and then the myriad of events that can follow. While listening to the music, I couldn't help but wonder where we'd find the privacy to get intimate, to pick up where we left off per what she said in her letter. In response to bringing it up, she said, "Oh, don't worry, we'll find the privacy all right. No curfews here."

It was only later, while having dinner with her parents, that I sensed something wasn't quite right. A dark pall seemed to hover over their dining room as the four of us ate her mom's delicious pot roast. Conversation, much of it strained, mixed with furtive, tight-lipped glances exchanged between Denise and her parents, and abrupt silences that brought certain topics to a crashing halt. I thought: They know something I don't, apparently something that's none of my business.

Following a rice pudding dessert, I felt relieved when she suggested we take a stroll around her neighborhood. Even with night temperatures in the forties, it felt warm compared with the cold snap that persisted back East. We held hands as we walked, chatting and looking at the Christmas lights that adorned many of the houses. We made light conversation until she said this: "Life takes such unexpected turns." After telling her that I'd been thinking the same thing earlier vis-à-vis our situation, she threw me off guard with this: "Just when you think you have all the time in the world, you find out you might not have that much time."

Before I asked what she meant, she stopped walking, held me and looked me straight in the eye. "I agonized over calling to tell you not to bother to fly out here. But I wanted to see you so bad, I couldn't. And then, at the airport, when you said 'see, there is a tomorrow for us,' it's all I could do to keep from breaking down." She shook her head, looked away and began to cry.

I pulled her to me. "What's going on?"

She took a deep breath. "Okay, here goes. When I was fourteen, I was diagnosed with a rare form of brain cancer, inoperable brain cancer because of its size and location. Radiation and chemo shrunk the tumor to the point where the doctors thought it might have gone into remission. Well, around the beginning of December, I started getting headaches and dizzy spells. Once, I even passed out. Shortly after that, doctors confirmed my worst fear. Medication has helped me cope with the symptoms. But, well, to be frank, I'm probably terminal. It's only a matter of time before..."

We both broke down, holding each other in the dark, the only light coming from porch lamps and the bulbs strung together over the houses. To most, their colorful glow served as a reminder of the season, one that was supposed to be festive and joyful. To me—and I supposed to Denise, though she didn't say—they appeared as some kind of cruel joke. Suddenly it all made sense, her line about kissing her as if there was no tomorrow, the gloomy vibe at the dinner table and even her parents' permissiveness.

She stopped crying before I did, and then did her best to comfort ME. "Brendan, we all live on borrowed time, a fact most people don't face until they're old. For me, that realization came a lot sooner. So far, I've had a great life, better than so many people in this crazy world. I have so much to be grateful for."

"But life can be so fucking unfair," I said, wiping my eyes.

"Yes, something that took me years to accept, from the time my cancer appeared when I was barely into my teens. But I've come to accept it, grudgingly, angrily at times, but I do." When I turned away, close to breaking down again, she grabbed and shook me. "Look, I don't want you feeling sorry for me, okay? There will be no pity party here. Everything happens for a reason, a reason for my illness, a reason that we met and got on so well that we're now once again in each other's arms even though we live thousands of miles apart. Call if fate, call it providence, call it God's will. Call it anything you want."

"Shitty is what I call it. The cancer, I mean."

She grinned. "Okay, shitty it is. I just hope you're not mad at me for not telling you sooner, for not calling off your visit."

I disabused her of that notion as best I could, holding her and kissing her, telling her I would have flown out sooner had she told me sooner. "You wouldn't have got rid of me that easy," I said. "Recall how I waited for you at the Carousel of Progress, annoying my parents in the process."

"And how I annoyed MY parents, dragging them around, looking all over the damn place for you after the show ended."

"And the shocked expressions on my parents' faces when you told your dad we'd be going up to your room for privacy and all he said was, 'Don't stay up too late'. Pretty hilarious when you think about it." We managed to laugh about that on the way back.

"He knows," is all she said to her parents upon our return. Then, after closeting our coats, she led me up to her bedroom, the decor dressed in a color motif of lemon yellow: curtains, bedspread and carpet. Stuffed animals and dolls sat atop her bed, and posters of the admired—Steve McQueen, Sean Connery, the Beatles, the Supremes, et al—hung on the white walls above her desk and bookshelf. "Don't worry," she said, after shutting the door and sensing my inhibition, "my parents, as you well know by now, respect my privacy." After cutting the light, she said, "So, I believe we have some unfinished business, Mr. Doyle, business we left off at the Stadium View. That is, if you're up for it," she added, running her hand over my crotch and then telling me she was on the pill.

We embraced and then undressed each other, tossing our winter clothes on the floor and then crawling under the covers. I wanted so much to tell her I loved her, this incredibly courageous girl, but wasn't sure how she'd take it, afraid she'd dismiss it as an aberration born out of pity. Would I still feel the same not knowing the awful news? Honestly, I didn't know, but then did it really matter? What mattered was what I felt then, inhaling her fresh linen-like scent, running my tongue along her smooth, lovely body, my fingers through her hair, my soul, whatever that was, trying to connect to some deep place inside her. Then, just before we consummated, she said, "I do love you, Brendan, you know that?" When I told her I felt likewise but had been afraid to express it, she said she understood, even made light of it. "From now on, guy, feel free to say anything you'd like. The worst that'll happen is I'll slap you."

I almost slapped myself, nestled between her legs, finding my rhythm, scarcely believing this was happening. As expected, she was tight, though she didn't bleed and she was wet enough to accommodate my no so experienced penis in her virgin pussy. I took it slow, sinking into her incrementally. "You're not hurting me," she said reassuringly. "So, a little deeper, a little faster, please."

"Are you always this demanding?" I teased.

"Only with a guy I love."

My initial awkwardness gave way to a cautious confidence. Clearly, she was enjoying this, saying nice things when she wasn't moaning in delight. "Back in New York, I thought your tongue was amazing. But your cock...wow!" I followed her climax with my own, and then snuggled, holding her, telling her once again I loved her.

After lazing in bed for a while, Denise got up and threw on a robe. When I asked where she was going, she said, "To tell mom and dad that you won't be using the guest room, cause' you'll be sleeping with me. Don't worry, I'll tell them it's my idea. Which of course it is."

"You sure they won't say we're going too far?"

"There ARE fringe benefits to being seriously sick, you know." She looked back and winked.