The End of the World

"Which happens because you always know exactly what to do."

"And because you move so quickly, doing most of the actual work, Greg. I think we make a good team," I said courageously, but as I did, I chickened out and seamlessly added "...in the lab."

"That we do."

We said our goodbyes shortly after that, but I was on cloud nine.

Greg called me again after midterms, quite excited to share that he'd managed a B plus on the exam. I congratulated him, and he even asked me what I'd gotten. (An A of course). This started us on another long conversation that had nothing to do with chemistry. That one went on until my mom knocked on my bedroom door, reminding me that it was after bedtime. I hadn't realized that Greg and I had talked for two hours straight.

The week after that, Greg got the call from Coach Z, offering him a football scholarship, and I was the first person he called. He thanked me profusely for giving him the courage to wait it out, rather than take a lesser offer. I was thrilled for him, but sad to be reminded that he would be leaving soon.

Thereafter, he called two or three times a week, still with Chemistry questions, but seemingly just as eager to move onto other subjects as I was. We quickly found that we liked the same kind of music, shared political and spiritual views, had the same basic ideas regarding money and finances, and even wanted the same number of kids (five!). Inwardly, I took it as a sign, but it didn't seem to spark anything romantic in him at all. Our conversations always ended with him thanking me for my help with his chemistry questions.

At school, it was like our telephone conversations never happened. He was strictly business in the lab, and if we passed in the halls, I might get a quick "Hey Lana" in passing, but no more.

Being the non-confrontational sort, I didn't have the courage to ask him, even on the phone, why he was treating me that way, but of course my suspicion was that he didn't want to get in any trouble with Courtney. I endeavored to be patient, trusting that I would eventually win him over.

By the end of the school year, and many hours on the phone with him, I was convinced that Greg and I had been put on this earth for the express purpose of being together, yet he was still dating Courtney. Worse, she had announced that she was going off to the same school as him. To top it off, he would be leaving for summer football camp the day after graduation, then straight to college after that.

The only times I felt like I could talk to Greg face-to-face were while we were in the lab, and by the time there was only one session left, I was desperate enough to take action. Not much action, but something at least. I bought a small gift, putting it in a nice little box and wrapping it in fancy paper. I decided I would present it to him (discretely) as soon as our assignment was done.

I don't know precisely what I was expecting. Greg was leaving, and it wasn't like he could ask me to go with him. Perhaps I thought he would break up with Courtney, then publicly declare his love for me. Then we could have an intense, long distance relationship that would end with him coming to marry me after I graduated high school, then sweep me off to college with him. After we graduated (me with an English degree perhaps, and him with a Masters in whatever) we would settle into a romantic life that would put Cinderella and Prince Charming to shame.

Looking back on it, I was clearly delusional. After everything that had and hadn't happened between us, I should have had no expectations, but when we started in on our lab that Thursday, Greg surprised me. "Lana," he said, in a clinical tone that would have been appropriate for asking me to hand him a beaker, "I'd like to talk with you after class -- in private."

I think I managed a nod, and it was a good thing that Greg had gotten much better at chemistry, because I wasn't of much use for the rest of the lab.

At long last, class was over, and Greg led the way to the empty band room next door. I sat my backpack down on a chair, amazing myself by having the wherewithal to slip the little gift out of the back pocket and sit it on the music stand next to the chair. I turned to him.

Greg had set his own backpack down on another chair and was standing about five feet away. "Lana," he said with uncharacteristic nervousness, "I didn't want to leave without telling you how I feel. You've been a lot more than a lab partner to me. You've been a good friend when I really needed one. Things were crazy this semester, but you were always so calm and steady. It really helped."

It was a nice thing for him to have said, but it wasn't exactly the declaration of passion that I'd hoped for. "I've really liked having you as a friend, too," I managed.

"Look Lana," he said, his voice suddenly husky, "there's something important you need to know about us. It's that..." He trailed off, looking straight into my eyes. His words may have said friends, but the expression on his face was saying something else entirely. Even with my total lack of experience, I could see his desire. And the use of the word "us"? That changed everything.

For a long moment, we just stood there. I had a hard time believing that someone like Greg, so cool, popular and handsome, could ever be awkward, but in that moment, he was. That gave me just enough confidence to take that one step toward him.

My move seemed to spur him to action, and he quickly closed the rest of the distance between us and took me in his arms. I nestled my head against his broad, muscled shoulder. A feeling of rightness and security washed over me. I knew in that moment that this had always been where I was meant to be. Then I felt his warm breath in my hair. His face was so close to mine. I knew what I wanted, what I needed, and I began to lean my face up toward him...

"Wait," he suddenly murmured, "this just isn't right." He put his hands on my shoulders and gently pulled away, taking a step back. I was bewildered at this sudden change in his attitude.

"What's wrong?" I stammered.

"Look, Lana, it's just that--"

"Holy shit!" came an outraged gasp from the doorway behind him. I cringed. I knew Courtney's contralto from many pep rallies and football games.

In that moment, I was awash in conflicting emotions. There was confusion from the way Greg had swept me into his arms and held me so close, only to push me away. There was also guilt at having been caught with the boyfriend of the biggest queen bee in the school. But those two were about to be completely swept away by a third, and much more powerful, emotion.

Greg turned his head toward Courtney while still holding me out at arm's length by the shoulders. "You got here just in time, babe."

"I thought I saw you sneak in here. What the hell's going on," she demanded.

"Lana's been my lab partner all semester," Greg said, his voice somehow calm and reasonable. "During today's session she told me she brought a gift and wanted to give it to me in private. I was a little leery about that because she's been coming on to me all semester, but I figured it couldn't do any harm. Then she threw herself at me and I had to hold her at bay." He nodded at his hands on my shoulders, then over at the box on the music stand, as if to show the truth of his words. He let go of me, evidently feeling that he was safe now.

For a long moment, I was dumbfounded. I might have expected Greg to be embarrassed, and maybe ashamed, to have had his girlfriend catch us together like this, but to make up horrible lies about me? I hadn't done anything to deserve that. This was a side of him I'd never suspected, and I didn't like it at all.

Courtney walked up to me in the swaying, feminine way that only women with more hip than I'll ever have can manage. She looked me over coldly. "You know, I was lab partners with Kurt Jorgenson last semester, but I just said, 'thanks' and 'goodbye' after our last class -- the way you should have. I'll say one thing for you, though, you do dream big."

It was like I was watching this scene play out from a mile away. This couldn't really be happening to me, could it?

"So what's in the box?" Courtney asked. "Condoms maybe? You got your hopes up?" She reached for the little package, but I grabbed it and held it behind my back. "Not that you'll ever need to know," she continued smoothly, "but he likes the ribbed, reservoir-tip kind."

"Don't let her fool you," Greg said. "She's the one who really likes the ribs."

I finally found my voice. "Greg," I stammered, still not quite ready to believe that he was really betraying me this badly, "I thought we had something."

"Come on, Lana," he said. "It's time to get real. Have you ever seriously looked at yourself in a mirror? Big nose, dirt brown hair, braces and no tits. What makes you think you could ever compete with Courtney?"

That cut me to the very soul, because as cruel and hurtful as it was, it was true.

"You know what I think?" Courtney said, looking at Greg. "She knows the two of us have been going out all year. Everyone knows that. I think she's a slut, coming onto you like this, don't you?"

Surely Greg wouldn't go along with that, I told myself. Denying any feelings for me, and even lying to accuse me of stalking him, was one thing, but using that word on me was another. I knew there was no way he would let it go unchallenged. In this, I was mistaken.

"I suspect you're right," he told Courtney, nodding sadly. "I've heard stories about her trying this kind of shit before. She's a wannabe slut."

That finally did it. I was no longer bewildered, embarrassed or ashamed -- I was outraged. I took a step toward Greg, wound up, and slapped him full across the face. The blow echoed in the cinderblock room, but he at least took it like a man.

"You're pathetic," I spat, any inclination to be non-confrontational now gone like a fart in a hurricane. "I thought you were so amazing, but I've seen the real Greg now and I think you're disgusting." I stuck my finger in his chest and looked him in the eye to make sure he was giving me his full attention. "Don't you ever speak to me or come near me again for the rest of your miserable life. No texts, no phone calls, no letters. Try it, and I will file a fucking restraining order against you. And I'll make sure Coach Z gets a copy of it!"

I'd never seriously threatened another human being in my whole life, but I meant every word. And I could tell by his fearful expression that Greg believed I'd do it. I grabbed my backpack and strode toward the door.

"You're nothing," Courtney snarled from behind me, "and you'll always be nothing."

That hit a little too close to home, and it shattered any last sense of decorum I had left. I turned and hurled the box at her as hard as I could. It wasn't heavy enough to have hurt her in any case, but it didn't matter, as my throw sailed high. Greg reached way up and snagged it one-handed, then nonchalantly tossed it into the corner trash can. His expression was unreadable.

I turned and rushed out the door, then down the hall until I reached the janitor's closet. I shut myself into the dark, then curled up into a ball and wept bitter tears.

In the years since then, I've thought about that encounter almost every day. But for now, in the shower, the conflict and betrayal have faded in my memory. What consumes me is The Hug. The memory of how it felt for that one glorious moment to press up against Greg and to experience the sensation of his strong hands on me.

I savor the memory of how it felt to nestle against his chest, to feel the strong muscles of his back under my hands, the sensuality of inhaling his amazing scent, and, best of all, the intense feeling of security I'd felt when I'd had his arms around me and my head on his shoulder.

Just thinking about that moment has taken me to a three out of ten on the Oh God, Oh God scale. I can't help giving in to temptation. I begin to run my hands all over my body, ostensibly washing, but truthfully enmeshing myself in the fantasy that this is Greg, caressing, massaging and exploring.

I take my time, moving slick, soapy hands all over my tingling skin, from head to toe. My breasts get special attention as I imagine Greg caressing them, letting my hard nipples bend over, then spring back, as each of his fingers slides over them. My breasts are exquisitely sensitive, enough so that I can feel the level of my arousal climb ever higher.

Finally, I can resist no longer and drop a hand to my center. I'm almost taken aback at how engorged my lips are. I gently stroke them with one hand while I rinse off with the other. Then, clean and soap-free, I get down to business.

I turn the showerhead so the water is just running down the wall, but the mist keeps everything warm and moist. I slide a long finger down between my puffy outer lips, surprised at how slippery everything already is. I've got it bad this time.

I hold myself open with one hand and slowly stroke my delicate inner lips with the fingertips of the other. My breath hitches as powerful sensations surge through my body. I imagine Greg's mouth there, his tongue flicking across my labia, teasing and delighting. Then he's slipping a finger inside me. I'm tight and slippery around his single digit.

Slowly, he begins to stroke in and out of me as his tongue presses down harder. He's mashing down on me now in a circular movement, making all my sensitive places rub slickly against each other. The sensation takes me ever higher.

His finger inside me becomes his hard cock, pounding me unmercifully, driving me insane with my need for him to go deeper and touch me all the way up in there, but he never does when we're together like this.

I'm ready, but he makes me wait just a little bit longer as he somehow services me simultaneously with tongue and cock. I'm desperate, but he tests my patience just a little longer.

Finally, gloriously, I feel him move just a little bit higher. I scream out loud as his tongue laves my incredibly stiff clit. My nerves send jagged pulses through my body as my level goes to a nine. Any self-control is now lost as my body demands its release.

Greg feels my need and his tongue grips my clit, pulling on it and gently twisting it while he thrusts his hard cock deep inside my body, insistent and demanding. Then I'm there.

My body shudders as I come. I brace myself against the shower wall as my body loses the ability to balance unaided, but then my legs begin to give way entirely and I'm forced to my knees. My climax is shattering, but in more than one way.

As I come down from my mountaintop experience, reality returns, as it always does. I'm all alone in my shower, wracked with guilt for masturbating to my selective memory of a boy who turned out to be a complete asshole. Because of this unhealthy, ongoing obsession, my love life -- whatever little of it there has been -- is an unmitigated disaster.

Call me psychotic, but that memory has ruined me for anyone else. Other guys don't look like Greg, don't sound like Greg, and don't smell like Greg. When I'm approached by an interested young man now, the poor schmuck is unknowingly entered into a contest with that idealized memory. Invariably, he comes up wanting.

For instance, Darrel Watney, an honest, hardworking, and objectively handsome boy from a good ranching family, pursued me for six months. He'd shown me the patience of Job until I finally convinced him I would never go out with him. It would have been a good match, but he wasn't Greg, so it was doomed from the start. And he hadn't been the first suitor I'd shot down in flames. The word had gotten out, and I haven't been asked on a date in better than a year.

I fear that the longer I go on like this, the harder it's going to be for me to break free and find a way to make the dreams I told Greg about come true. If I keep this up, there will be no loving husband, no amazing kids, no busy ranch, and no life. I can already feel myself slipping down that long path to becoming a bitter old woman, shut off from the world and lamenting the loss of everything that might have been.

Eventually I pull myself together, as I always do. I stifle the impulse to swear that I'll never get myself off to Greg's memory again. I've known for a long time that I'm incapable of keeping that particular oath. In any case, I've got to get rolling.

I'm a minimalist when it comes to clothing, not holding on to anything I don't wear regularly, but it means that I need to keep up with my laundry. This solar project has distracted me from that over the last week, though, and sure enough, my underwear drawer is completely devoid of bras. At least I ran a load through the washer when I got up. Now they're on the clothesline in the backyard, along with assorted other items. They should be dry by now.

To celebrate the first warm day of the year, I head out the back door wearing just flip flops, my heart pendant, and a naughty smile. The late-morning sun feels wonderful on my bare skin and I luxuriate a little as I work. I'm well practiced in the art of clothes folding, so as my hands bend to the task, I've got plenty of attention left to think about a conundrum I'm facing.

Over the last year, Walter and Cathy have become almost surrogate parents to me. I know that Cathy thinks of me as the daughter she never had. The problem, of course, is that they're also his parents. I've never told them anything about what happened between Greg and me, and I'm pretty sure he hasn't either. When they asked, I told them that Greg and I never hung out at all outside of lab class, which is technically true.

I never ask, but I'm always attentive when they tell me about what Greg's been up to. He graduated near the top of his college class and has been working for a big electronics company in Chicago for the last year. He's a junior engineer who travels the world installing and repairing big, complicated electronic stuff, though Walter and Cathy aren't exactly sure what kind of equipment that is. The traveling gig is the way the company breaks in their most promising new engineers, and Greg has been told that he'll be moving up into the prestigious design staff at the home office in about six months. His career is a rocket-ride upwards at this point.

Cathy is an incorrigible matchmaker and always says that Greg and I should get together sometime. She even invited me over for Christmas when he was home last year. I'd begged off, saying that Crystal and I wanted to spend a quiet Christmas at home, since this was going to be our first holiday season when it was just the two of us. I felt like a bit of a turd using that as an excuse, especially since Crystal only flew in for a day.

I'm not sure how long I can go on without at least telling them that Greg and I aren't speaking to each other. I know they'll want to try and fix whatever problem there is between us, but I don't want to do anything that will bring me face-to-face with their jerk son again. I know the time is coming when I'll need to tell them something. I just have no idea of how I'm going to do that.

Even on autopilot, I've made quick work of folding my laundry, so I carry the basket back into the house. I'm padding through the kitchen, about to walk across the living room, when the doorbell rings. Yikes! I jump back, unnerved at how close that was.

What the hell? Despite my invitations to just come on over, Walter always calls first. Now, unfortunately, I can't get upstairs to my bedroom (and my clothes) without walking naked past the front door with its big, glass panel. He's an extremely conservative man, and the sight of me without my clothes on might just give him a heart attack. Maybe I should stay right where I am.