Living in the Moment

We didn't know, but the anticipation was high when we made plans to meet for dinner at The Lobster Tank, a seafood restaurant in Somers Point. We picked them up at their cottage of a hotel in Ocean City. Alisha, slim and Sandra Dee kind of pretty, showed off her perfect butt wearing tight white slacks, her blond hair set in pigtails. Brent loved that sexy "schoolgirl" look, as did I, but Layla's full, thicker body type and patrician kind of beauty held its own special appeal. She wore a turquoise summer dress, embroidered with a dark blue floral pattern and hemmed just above her knees. It was preppy night for us, long khakis, polo shirts, lace-less shoes sans socks.

We drove over the bridge, admiring the sun setting over Great Egg Harbor Bay. Neither of us had ever eaten at this place, but thought it might be good based on reviews culled from the web. We loved the cozy atmosphere, with its subdued lighting and wood veneer walls decorated with nautical icons. As a plus, our table afforded a clear view of the water. Good thing we restrained ourselves from filling up on those sumptuous blueberry muffins, because the seafood combo we ordered was sumptuous as well and worth the hefty price. Bent and I footed the bill, which included a couple carafes of white wine. The girls paid the tip.

Afterward, we walked around a bit, then settled into wood lounge chairs that sat on a dock extending out from the restaurant. The sun's journey across the sky was approaching the horizon—an ideal setting for romance if there ever was one. Brent leaned close to Alisha, while I shared an armrest with Layla, holding her hand. "Such a beautiful night," Layla said. "Thanks for dinner and thanks again for that hug you gave me earlier. It meant a lot."

"Glad I could help. You seem like a very sweet girl, Layla. Makes me wish I was twenty years younger."

She leaned close to me and said, "Well, you might not believe this, but for the last couple hours, I kind of forgot about our age difference. It's like, melted away, and you're just this terrific guy that I'm getting to like. A lot."

"Really?"

"Yes, really. Now kiss me."

I did as best I could, restrained as we were by our dockside furniture. Her ocean scent had faded, but the fresh orange part remained, along with the clean, fresh smell of her shampoo and the perfume she wore. I crept a hand up her meaty thigh, loving the feel of her youthful skin, smooth and tanned. Aching to go further, I exercised all the self-restraint I possessed not to. By her breathing, heavy and getting heavier, I sensed she might have let matters proceed had we not been out in public. Then, when she said this, I was sure of it: "In regard to things wished for, right now I wish we were some place where we could move freely about and do things that might not play well in a public space like this."

I glanced a few yards over to my right, curious how Brent and Alisha were doing. Quite well, I surmised, for the two were all kissy-face, with Alisha on his lap. Layla giggled and said, "When Alisha likes someone, she's not afraid to show it. And, if you can't tell by now, neither am I, though I'm a bit more self-restrained than she is."

*****

It was getting dark by the time we climbed back into my Toyota Camry for the ride back to Ocean City. Brent and Alisha huddled in the backseat, smooching away. What next? Layla's words, "some place where we could move about freely," played in my head. That place, of course, would be our hotel rooms. In all those beach trips with Brent, we never got that far with the girls we met.

Once over the bridge, I turned south on Central Avenue from 9th Street toward the girls' boarding house. Then Alisha spoke up. "I don't know about you guys, but we'd like some privacy."

Brent flicked me on the shoulder. "Know what she's saying, old pal?"

Of course, I did, and dropped them off at the Glen Dolphin Inn, a three-story, early twentieth century cottage four blocks from the beach. We were staying close by at the pricey, beachfront Port-O-Call. Much newer than the Glen Dolphin, it featured a pool and other amenities. "But before you take me back to your place," Layla said, "can we walk along the shore awhile?"

"Would love to," I said. The night was clear, clear enough to see the moon, full and bright and shining just for us, it seemed to me. "I know just the place," I said, then drove about a mile north to where the bay meets the ocean and parked right up to the beach. After alighting from the car, we slipped off our shoes, then walked along the wooden planks, stepped onto the sand and strolled hand in hand to the water's edge. The stiff southerly wind blew Layla's thick, straight hair around her face and lifted her dress. Lights from homes just beyond the beach pierced the darkness. And there was that full moon, lending the sort of presence that incurable romantics dream about.

We stood by the water's edge, holding each other. "This is the way it should be," Layla said, "when you meet a special someone at the beach. It's almost too perfect. Like something out of a romance novel."

"Or a Hollywood ending," I said. "Walking off into the sunset. Or in our case, walking off into the sunset, then into the moonrise."

She nestled her head against my chest. "You mentioned Hollywood endings. Is this an Ocean City ending? I mean, do you think we'll see each other again?"

I was old enough and wise enough to know that moments like this can never to re-lived or duplicated, and that once we left Ocean City, Layla and I would be nothing more than fond memories to one another. We'd all return to our daily lives, and that would be that. In our case, considering the age disparity, it was an even more likely scenario.

I brushed my thumb across her cheek, leaned over and kissed her. "Well, the future's unknown, but you know what normally happens to summer romances. Look, if not for the age thing, I'd say there'd be at least a chance we'd get together afterward. Does that sadden you?"

She brushed back a tear. "Honestly, yes, it kind of does, because, like I said, I really like you."

"And I feel the same, but we hardly know each other."

She stepped back. "The thing is, Bryson, I know enough to want to get to know you more. You seem sensitive and honest and, as I said before, you're a nice looking guy, with a body guys my age might envy. Yes, we live in different states and yes, there's the age thing. But think about it. There's something potentially wonderful here. If not, we wouldn't be standing on this beach in the dark under a full moon. My heart wouldn't be pounding and my panties wouldn't be getting wet and I wouldn't be on the verge of tears with the thought that I might never see you again."

What could I say to that? My only response was to pull her close and kiss her with a passion that I hadn't felt for another woman in many a day. "God, I can't get enough of you," I managed to say between gulps of air and working my lips and tongue in sync with her lips and tongue and confirming with my fingers what she said about her wet panties.

"If you don't make love to me soon, I'm going to jump in the ocean!" she cried.

I didn't need to tell her that I was more than ready—she felt that just as I felt the dampness between her legs. "The Port-O-Call is less than ten minutes away," I said. "Soon enough for you?"

We jogged up the beach to my car and arrived at the Port-O-Call, an eight-story, pink concrete block of a building in just over five minutes. Most of the rooms had balconies, including our sixth-floor ocean view aerie. Briefly, we stood on the balcony to look, before I dimmed the light and took her in my arms once again. Moments later, we were naked under the covers on one of the two queen-sized beds, smooching and exploring each other's anatomy, orally and topically. Ironically, or perhaps not, I didn't have condoms, for I had left the anticipation that something like this would happen back in my youth. "It's okay, I'm protected," she said when I told her.

There was something else I had left back in my youth—a sense of wonder and excitement of new things and wonderful things to come. At least I thought I did before meeting Layla. I couldn't imagine feeling any more excited back then than I was now, making love to this luscious, passionate, millennial girl who didn't see age, who liked me for me, wrinkles, streaks of gray and all. "Oh my, Bryson, you take my breath away," she whispered when I slipped inside her, then kissed her all over, including her tummy and delicious breasts. I never believed in love at first sight, but I do believe that we pass through these bright, shining moments in our lives, however brief, where we at least imagine we're in love, and this was one such moment, airtight and indescribably lovely.

After we climaxed. we held each other for a while, and then did it again, this time with her on top, squatting up and down on my cock, her powerful legs thrusting, her breasts bouncing, her hair falling around her face, her voice a mix of moans, groans, hoots and words peculiar to the vernacular of pleasure and endearment. As for me, I could think of just one word: "wow!"

Later, Alisha called Layla, told her that she and Brent wanted to spend the night together and hoped we were in sync with that. "Totally in sync," Layla giggled, before clicking off her cell to cuddle next to me. By that time, we were sitting up against the headboard, half-watching an old back and white movie, holding each other. "I hope you now see why it makes me sad that when we say goodbye, it might be forever," she said.

"It makes me sad, too," I said, and meant it. However, the last thing I wanted was to give her false hope. How could this ever work long-term? Or even short term once we returned home? "Let's just live in the moment," I said, "enjoy each other while we're together, and then see what happens."

She sighed, looked up at me like a little girl being denied something, innocent and vulnerable. "Don't you want to see me again?"

I hugged her tighter and planted soft kisses on her forehead. "You know I do. How could I not after this? But—″

"There's always that damn but."

I took a deep breath. "Layla, you're going to meet lots of guys at school—nice guys, I mean, not the type that you and Alisha met in those bars in Wildwood, and you'll get involved with one or more of them and before you know it, I'll just be a footnote in your young life, a passing memory." I couldn't express everything I felt, like the fact that I'd miss her terribly, that I was on the verge of tears as well knowing the chances of feeling like this with someone again in my advancing age were slim to none.

She wasn't ready to agree. "Bryson, you might be right," she said, "but can you at least keep open the possibility that there might be something more for us?"

"Sure," I said, trying both to appease her and perhaps leave a glimmer of hope for myself. "Consider it open."

The four of us spent the next day lounging around the pool at the Port-O-Call and shopping on the boardwalk. We repeated the previous night's sleeping arrangements. By morning, Layla and I couldn't let go of one another. Sure, the sex was great, but it was the emotional investment that had deepened, that made for a painful, tearful farewell after we all had breakfast.

"We have one more day here," Layla told me as we stood by my car. "But I'm ready to leave now because you, Bryson Kobin, are an impossible act to follow."

It had been different with Brent and Alisha, he told me on the way back to Maryland. Their connection was heavy on the physical side, light on the emotional. No surprise that the email they exchanged in the weeks that followed came to a halt.

That wasn't the case with Layla and me. We kept in touch through email and phone calls. I missed her but held back from telling her to what extent, both to protect myself and to not stifle her from exploring other relationships. She met some "nice" guys, she told me, but she was too busy with school to have much of a social life. "And besides," she said on the phone one night, "the guys I've met, I guess because they're no older than me, lack the sort of wisdom and depth that made me so crazy about you, that got me thinking about life in ways I'd never done. I miss that deep connection we had. And yes, the sex, too, your six-pack and hairy chest and your generosity in bed, knowing what pleases me and then doing it. I said it in Ocean City and I'll say it now. Bryson Kobin, you're an impossible act to follow."

She pushed me for a weekend where she could come to Baltimore, and I kept putting her off, telling her I worked in the sporting goods store on Saturdays, which was true, except we had enough help to cover if I wanted the day off. "I'm still looking for that road bike," she reminded me.

Still, I put her off. Sure, I ached so much for her that it hurt, that I could hardly sleep some nights. I even tried dating a little, women my age, but none that excited me as much as Layla. Not even close. Talk about impossible acts to follow. As the weeks passed, I felt my resistance weakening, yet I still couldn't bring myself to make arrangements to see her. What I needed—and what I felt she needed—was to tuck away our experience in Ocean City into the dustbin of fond memories, leave it at that and move on.

In fact, on the third Saturday in October, while working at Kobin Sports, I was tempted to call and tell her just that. Then, around noon, I was in the back, working on a bike repair, when Doug, my assistant manager, told me a "young lady's out here looking for a road bike, and she wants you to wait on her." He shrugged, then walked away.

Layla never entered my mind until I walked out into the showroom and there she stood, hands on hips, wearing tight jeans, a short suede jacket and leather boots. "I wasn't kidding about wanting a road bike," she said. She had her hair pulled back, and her face was contorted into a mock scowl. I stood there frozen, momentarily speechless. "Well, are you going to wait on me or what?" Her mock scowl morphed into a grin, warm and genuine, and the next thing I knew, we were standing near the counter, hugging and laughing, oblivious to customers and the staffers on the floor, including my clueless assistant manager, a guy not much older than Layla.

By the time I hustled her out the door, we were both close to tears. "So, I guess you really did miss me," I said.

"Not at all, Bryson. That's why I drove all the way from Penn State." She brushed away a tear. "I was nervous the whole way, not sure how you'd react or if my GPS could find your store. Please don't tell me you have plans this weekend."

I took her hand. "I do now. By the way, I like your suede."

"Thanks. I like your cute mechanic's apron." She giggled. "Have you had lunch?"

"No, and there's a place right across the street serving delicious soups and sandwiches. Wanna go? My treat."

"Sure, but first, sell me a bike." She pointed to her Honda hatchback. "It should fit in there with the front wheel off."

When we went back in, the staffers stared at us, talked among themselves in hushed tones and giggles. Layla waited at the entrance while I went in back to speak with Doug and Greg, my co-wrench on Saturdays. "I'll explain later," I said, slipping off the apron that covered my blue corduroy shirt and a pair of old chinos. "Meanwhile, I'm going to play salesman for a while, then take off the rest of the day."

"Sure boss," Doug said. "Got yourself a hot one out there, it looks like. Can't wait to hear your story." They both smirked in that jocular, locker room way guys do when it comes to women and sex.

The showroom floor was covered with bikes of all kinds, road, hybrids, mountain bikes, even a few fixed-gear track bikes. Close to an hour later, after a fitting and test ride, Layla walked out with a shiny new Cannondale road bike (along with a few accessories, cleated cycling shoes among them), discounted as promised. After shoving it into her hatch, we went across the street to The Falls Deli and took one of the outdoor tables. "I love this setting," Layla said, watching the colorful fall foliage that surrounded the restaurant. The bright sun warmed us in the crisp autumn air.

"Quite a change from Ocean City," I said, still trying to process this whole unlikely scene. "I really never expected to see you again. Not that I didn't want to."

"I know, it's the age thing." She rolled her eyes, then paused when a young female server took our order. Then: "And you're the one who said that age is just a number. Remember?"

"I did say that, didn't I?" I grinned bashfully. "I also said that with age comes wisdom. Except in my case I'm not so sure, because if I was that wise, I'd have made plans to see you weeks ago." I reached across the table and stroked my thumb across her high cheek bones and adorable nose. Her tan had faded, but she still looked great, with her lovely porcelain skin, full lips and those cute freckles. "You're so damn pretty, Layla, you know that?"

"Thanks. You make me feel pretty. And I'm just so happy being with you."

I was feeling ecstatic being with her outside on this beautiful autumn day, munching on lentil soup and sliced turkey/avocado/sliced apple on rye, listening to her talk about her semester at Penn State and her family, particularly her parents; she hadn't yet told them about us. I hadn't told my kids about us either, though after today, they'd know soon enough. They'd be none too pleased, I was sure of that. Not that I'd blame them. Nor could I see Layla's parents jumping for joy over the situation. If my daughter took up with a much older man, I'd have a problem with it also.

But...

I got to thinking about what she said on the beach under a full moon, about something 'potentially wonderful' going on between us. She was right. Since Ocean City, I had listened to my head instead of my heart, and felt miserable in so doing. "Layla, I haven't the slightest idea where this is going," I said, "and right at this moment it really doesn't matter. I'm just thrilled that you're here with me. As I mentioned back at the Port-O-Call, there's much to be said about living in the moment. I was so hung up on the age thing, vis-a'-vis the future, that I failed to grasp that simple fact of life, of being."

She nodded enthusiastically as she took a sip of her iced tea. "Living in the moment...yes! That's what I was trying to get you to understand back in Ocean City, that moments might be all we have. It's something that hit home after my boyfriend was killed by a drunk driver." She took a deep breath. "Finally, we're on the same page."

After lunch, she followed me back to my brick suburban rancher, then lugged her travel bag into the master bedroom. "You really were prepared for this," I said, watching her unpack her bag onto the queen-sized bed. In addition to a change of clothes, she brought cycling gear, helmet, spandex knickers, jerseys.

She looked up and grinned. "I had this vision of buying a bike from you and then the two of us cycling off into the sunset. Or the sunrise, I wasn't sure. But that was my fantasy, not to mention, um, other activities that we indulged in back in August. Speaking of which..." She unsnapped her jeans. "Are you game?"

"For a bike ride, you mean?" I tried but couldn't keep a straight face.

She grinned back. "Yes. You be the pump and I'll be the crank. Show me your top tube, baby."

I showed her more than that, showed her that my desire for her hadn't dimmed since Ocean City and in fact had grown stronger. We made love multiple times during those two days. Perfect weekends, a perfect anything, might not exist, yet that weekend was as close as it gets. What with our love making and cycling through rolling farmland. In between, we laughed a lot and talked about everything from proper bike maintenance and politics, to possible intelligent life elsewhere in the universe. This girl with eclectic tastes in music also pursued varied interests.