Paragraphs from a Paramour

An entry in the Summer Lovin' Story Contest 2022 and the Letters of Love 2022 Story Event.

A letter from my first love, Marla, mentioned in the tale First Lick.

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September 26, 2021

Dear Max,

I have been thinking about you lately. I'm surprised your ears aren't burning, but of course I haven't communicated with you in years, and even then not any more than the annual Christmas card thing. (I still get yours, you're better than me, I stopped doing exchanges for a variety of good and not-so-good reasons maybe five years ago, so I know it has been awhile since you've heard from me.) You probably thought I'd forgotten you, but I haven't.

So why now? Why a real letter?

Well, we were first loves. Each of us for the other. I know you had girlfriends before me (and even spent the night in bed with one, lucky girl) and I had one semi-serious dating relationship in high school, but in effect we were really firsts for each other in almost all the ways that matter. Undeniable. And I think that means something. I think we learned a lot from each other.

We've never emailed so I didn't even have your internet address. I know I could look you up (I actually did, but the only social media you seem to be on is LinkedIn and academia.edu) and so I discovered your professional address, but for reasons that will become clear, I didn't think that would be the best approach, since email seems more and more vulnerable to snooping of all sorts these days, and I wouldn't want any work/personal boundary divisions to cause any trouble. Plus I want to revisit some private ground with you. This letter is just for you, I trust that you will keep it that way.

The other part has to do with the last few years.

I retired early from teaching, coincidentally just before the pandemic. Maybe it was a good thing, I don't know, but of course all the kinds of things I had figured on doing when being finished with work didn't pan out the way I expected.

So, the last couple years, at first at least, meant being a bit cooped up at home (no, a LOT cooped up), lots of time to think. Garth is still working but not here at home, remotely. You can't build new houses with real hammers and real nails by Zoom, so he is away most of the day, comes home with dirt and sawdust on his work jeans.

Time on my hands, a lot of it. And changes to the female body. And thinking makes for trouble sometimes, or at least some restlessness, which you're going to hear about now, I suppose whether you like it or not. But I don't think you'll mind.

I've been teaching in primary schools for over twenty-seven years, twenty-one of them in one school district. I love my fourth graders, just about the perfect kid-age as far as I'm concerned—reading and books just starting to kick in for those who are going to be "readers" but before puberty, junior high, and all the nastiness and competitiveness and social turmoil that comes with that later, confused age. I sure hated that era of my own life, personally.

Florida, believe it or not, has a strong teachers' union, and the district had been offering a chance for those of us with over twenty years in the system to retire early, with a "pension enhancement." It was too good to pass up, and although I just said I love my fourth graders, I had had enough. And we could afford it, the house is paid off, all of that.

Ray and Carla are grown and gone and, as I said, Garth is still working. I am mostly on my own in an empty house. A bit restless, even a bit nostalgic. I have taken up letter writing, real letter writing. You will be my third "pen pal" in the event you feel the desire to write back.

Did you ever have a pen pal? Such an old-fashioned expression. In third grade our teacher thought it would be a good idea to try this as a project. Since she had gotten her teaching credential with a woman who had ended up moving to Dallas Texas and taught the same grade, we were each assigned a "correspondent" from the other class and it was fun for a couple times (the teacher, Mrs. Krammer, got ecstatic if you mentioned you had just sent or received a letter from your "pal" but it actually wasn't all that great. I got a fairly snotty girl who bragged about having a pool in her backyard and what a good swimmer she was, her good grades, the family dog, how important her daddy was, all of that, and after about three exchanges, I was done.)

Anyway, I am writing again, to a few folks, long-form and old-fashioned, and it feels good.

You were a pretty good letter writer, right from our beginning, and I nourish some hope we can maybe begin this part of our life again. Just "this part" please, as it will become clear shortly.

It is easy for my mind to drift back to that first summer. Our first summer together. I had finished my first year at community college on the Cape, planned to transfer to UMass for junior year, the cheapest possible way to get my degree. My summer job at the restaurant that summer was going to be an upgrade from the year before, both money and effort-wise, from cleaning rooms at the Nickerson's motel along Rt. 6 in Eastham.

And of course, I don't have to tell you what happened, that we met at work at the restaurant with you in the kitchen as a cook and me waiting tables for the tourists, and I had been bold enough to ask you if you wanted to go the beach one Monday when both of us had an off-day. What you didn't know was that that was unbelievably daring of me, I had never done anything like that to a guy before.

And naturally we got our signals crossed immediately and you thought me asking you out meant I was "hot to trot" and tried to take things too fast (even on that first date!) and it took a little talking, not comfortably, to sort out that I was interested in you but we would need to take some time. You were embarrassed at the discomfort you caused (which was a good sign, as far as I was concerned) but it ended up having the opposite effect I guess.

Me having put up the "brake-lights" sign, which is how you interpreted it, meant you were skittish enough that the rest of the summer played out too slowly, for me anyway.

My, you were cute back then. I don't have any idea of what you look like now, and actually don't really want to know (any more than I want to send you a picture of my own fifty-five year old self.) You had those kind brown eyes, level English-schoolboy eyebrows, but I think it was the dimple on your left cheek that hooked me. It helped that you smiled a lot.

We were an odd couple, even in small town Eastham. I was taller than you by two inches, older (over a year, so even though you were eighteen you were seeing an "older woman") but worst of all, your chest was bigger than mine. Me and my sisters all were "flat as a board." Not an exaggeration. Cindy maintained that God had given us all "pancake" breasts, just slapped an extra inch of flesh on two places on our ribcages and called it done.

It wasn't because you had flab up top, on the contrary, your pecs were hard and rounded, you said you had wrestled in high school, you were small and muscular and in great shape. But everyone commented about it and one time you were wearing that tight low-cut rose colored shirt you wore sometimes and I had a front-buttoned blouse I'd undone enough to show the valley between my non-boobs and Barbara Eldredge took one look at us standing together at a party and said, "He's got more cleavage than you, Marla!"

Everyone else within hearing cracked up, and then Donna Lewiston told us each to scrunch our shoulders together to make some exaggerated cleavage to see who could make a deeper valley, and then everyone looked down both our shirts, and you won the contest by a mile. I was so embarrassed.

My god, I am rambling. Sorry.

This is one of the features of real letter writing, though. Back then I used to wait for your letters after I'd sent one to you, especially that one semester when I did my student teaching ten states away and we couldn't be together. I would wait, it usually took a week or more before I'd get a response back, then I would rush off another letter to you and wait again until I heard from you. Not the same anymore now, it is all speed, brain dump, write before you think, etc.

And of course I just did my own brain dump just now!

I imagine you remember our first night sleeping together? I will never forget. Our summer had come to an end, we each had gone our separate ways to college, a hundred miles apart (150? I am not sure the distance from Eastham to Amherst.) But you got away the first weekend you could and we met midway, at my sister's apartment in Sandwich so you didn't have to travel so far down the Cape.

Well, we hadn't talked about it, although I think we both were thinking about it, and it was pretty clear that Cindy and her husband wouldn't care whether we slept together (in fact probably thought it was puppy-dog cute) and there was only one extra room in their place anyway.

So you, not knowing what our sleeping arrangements would be like, had come equipped with what you thought would be "presentable" sleepwear. I knew you had said you normally slept in your briefs, that's all, but you came with a set of pajama bottoms, sort of boxer types, probably you had last worn them at home when you were a teen, and when you showed up in the bedroom after washing (I had used the bathroom first, and had settled into bed) and the sight of you in those ridiculous pajamas hanging down to your knees was so absurd I took one look at you and broke out laughing.

This part I cannot remember, whether I said something like "let's get you out of those silly things" or whether I just peeled off my own sleep tee-shirt and undies and you followed suit, but there we were, under the sheets, skin on skin. Naked. This had been my fondest dream for the last month of summer, of course living at home there was no way you could ever stay over with me and your place in your landlord's attic wouldn't have worked either.

Neither of us spoke for the longest time, just kissed and snuggled and it felt so nice to feel your skin completely in contact with mine, top to bottom. I felt that warm damp, center-body glow I now know so well (well, at least in the rear-view mirror) and I remember the first time I let my hand drift down to your groin you were already hard, it hadn't taken much. Arousal was a hair-trigger thing for us back then.

And the rest is a bit blurred, I wish I could recall it all more clearly. I know you fingered me to a climax (we had gotten good at that at least in our illicit night-time fumblings on the beach and elsewhere) and I got you to spurt, most likely just by you rubbing your penis up along my thigh while we kissed, but which order and how we did clean-up I do not remember.

I was not worried about you getting too assertive that first night, by that time you knew that coupling between us wasn't going to be anything happening any time soon, my Catholic parents' views still bounced around my head in those days. Which didn't mean I didn't consider it in the future, something we never ended up doing, I am now regretful for that part, as it would have been a first for both of us.

Anyway, I left that weekend with my head in a dreamy state, and waltzed through the next weeks, and our exchange of letters (you were not careful with your next one, rhapsodizing about our night together, I had to get rid of it since it was so descriptive, and if anyone had come upon it, my parents, my twin sister, it would not have gone well. And now I'm violating that same principle—maybe best if you don't leave this letter on your bedside nightstand!)

But that was just the first time we slept next to each other, and we were able to do it many weekends over the next two years, with increasingly inventive results.

Right. We were both "technical" virgins, I think that is the phrase. Never did penetration, but goodness, did a lot of other things.

Looking back, it must have been frustrating for you, I know you wanted more. Things were sweet the first time I took it in my head to fondle your penis all the way to climax with my fingers, instead of just rubbing your penis on me. I think you had been hoping for that but had no idea of how to ask. Neither of us were very good in the intimacy communication department, we just fumbled along, although it had become plenty enjoyable.

But you had gotten real adept with you fingers, how much I enjoyed kissing you while you had one hand on my chest, rubbing a nipple with one hand and a finger from the other doing lovely things to my quim, as we called it. There is something wonderful about silent exploration of someone's pleasure centers. Silent as in "no talking" not as in "no noise" since sound was certainly one of those clues that each of us was doing the right thing to the other. More rapid breathing, neither of us really very noisy when we climaxed, more just exhalations and repressed throat sounds, which were wonderful for me to hear.

And all the other cues of advancing arousal. Tightening legs, tension extending through your whole body, subtle changes in your erection and then all those frantic hip movements at the end.

And you smelled so good! I liked putting my nose in your armpit after, just smelling the hair on your head, our sweat, unless we had eaten something garlicky or strong, usually nice.

So we had a wonderful learning curve. Not just in sex either, of course, we had to learn how to argue with each other, when to press for our own needs, when to let go, how to adjust to each other while still holding to our own sense of self. It is complicated, and while I had my issues with you (ones that would eventually lead to our parting) I have to say looking back that you were kind and listened, and I cannot say that for every guy I have dated.

But there were serious differences we had trouble bridging. I was a working-class girl, trying my best to get my teaching degree as cheaply as possible, my parents couldn't help out much, so I was doing it mostly myself, and you had come from a much more comfortable economic situation and were enrolled at an elite college and it was going to be easy for you to go on and do things after graduating, and I got less interested in what that might mean for me. There were other things too, but I had gotten to a point where I needed to move on. You took it hard but I don't think you could say you didn't see it coming.

One time I remember you talking about first love in an abstract, academic sense. You were reading Kierkegaard, I think, who had said somewhere that one only truly loves once, that one's first lover (one that develops into a relationship anyway) is the only time in a life that you are completely vulnerable, that you give yourself up only fully that first time. After that first lover, for whoever is next, caution creeps in, and no one will never be that vulnerable again, and it so won't be the same sort of love.

I am not sure I agree with K's diagnosis, I think it is possible to be in love, real love, more than once, but of course I never read him myself, only what you revealed about him, or what you understood. But I do agree that vulnerability comes with a first relationship, no question about that.

Another funny part about a new lover is dealing with the "other" family. I remember meeting your parents, wondering whether I would "measure up" and I ended up feeling like some sort of anthropologist exploring a new culture for the first time, trying to read obscure signs, figure out what everything meant, the various tangles of interaction and communication in your family. That was another possible complication, and I got the feeling, after we had been together long enough to be considered "serious" that your mom was rooting for me, as I was coming from working class roots like herself, your dad less so. All this is speculation now anyway, we have gone and made our decisions much further down the line. I'm happy overall, and it sounds like you are too.

So many firsts get crammed into your first serious love! I guess one of the most nervous ones, although ultimately enjoyable, was the first time I took your penis into my mouth. That certainly was a watershed event. (Please rid your head of any sort of "fluid" jokes, I didn't phrase that very well.)

It turns out you had been reading that book, "Secret Life" or something, I do not remember the exact title, basically Victorian pornography masquerading as "autobiography." Maybe it really was a true narrative, but I have my doubts.

But it had appeared on some class reading-list of yours, and somehow you took a shine to it. You had been reading it for some weeks before you got it into your head to try some of the things that that Victorian rake had been describing.

So one night in bed you descended down my body after some initial kissing and nipple fondling, little kisses to every part of me, which felt attentive and worshipful and wonderful, you hadn't done that with quite the same ardor before. You had reached my navel and I got the sense you were going to keep going. Sure enough, some kisses to my inner thighs, which felt sweet and exciting, and then you started to nuzzle my quim and press your nose into my mons-hair (so dark and thick back then, wish it still was) and your tongue started exploring.

Another blur. It was absolutely disorienting at first, but you were slow and careful, and gradually I got wetter and wetter and more and more excited and you made me climax with your mouth.

The next night was even better, maybe because I was expecting you might do it again, so it didn't catch me so much by surprise, and I then had probably my best ever, to that point, sexual experience.

Parts of that first experience were odd—you were doing these wonderful things to me with your tongue, I wanted to do something nice for you but your face and body were down there, and I couldn't do much more than run my fingers through your hair or caress your shoulders. And of course my legs got stiff and the cliff got closer and closer and then over the edge I went, with a huge explosion of wet, pent-up energy. It was sweet.

Another unnerving part was that when you kissed me afterward, it tasted like me. I knew my scent pretty well, but that's how I tasted? Salty, loamy, oceanic. I got used to it, but the first few times kissing in the aftermath was strange. None of this, of course, did we ever talk about, we just did things to each other unless there were signs not to. Wonder how things would have been different if we had talked more?

And once you start pushing envelopes, all manner of things start to change.

I knew that after that first night of licking me you would have loved me to reciprocate, but I didn't. It took several weekends before I finally got up the courage to lick you.

And the world was never the same after that. Talk about genie out of the bottle!

Another thing I discovered, that I cannot quite explain or understand, even now, is that it felt special when you straddled my chest when I was on my back, and pushed your penis along my sternum. It was fun to see you above me at the same time that your erection was incredibly present and powerful on me, in contact with my body.

I knew you were hard because of me, of who I was and what I had done to you, and it felt both powerful for me, that I was a woman and could do this sort of thing to a guy, to you, and yet at the same time I felt almost submissive, that I was under you and you were the one with the potent penis on top, holding me down but loving me at the same time. It is really the strangest combination of feelings, all at the same time. But I loved it. Loved seeing your penis in front of me, on top of me, loved feeling you slide it along me, up close, intense, aroused. Hard. For me.