Unforgetable

Several years ago, my wife Pam and I went out for a late supper. It was a Thursday night and the local pub in midtown had live music so we went there. We arrived a little after nine in the evening. The entertainment was underway. The musician was a local country singer with a good gravelly voice and an electrified bass guitar. He was dressed in a denim shirt, Levi's, boots and a black Stetson hat. He was covering songs from Johnny Cash to John Denver. We knew him by the name of Buck.

We ordered drinks and our meals and settled in to listen to the music while we waited. When our meals were delivered, we ate slowly. The food was good, the music better and we were in no hurry to finish. The pub closed at eleven and by ten-thirty some customers were drifting out and heading home. At about ten forty-five, Buck strummed his guitar in preparation for his last ballad. A gentleman from the back of the room interrupted him. We recognized the interloper immediately. He was a well know country entertainer with an international reputation. We knew he lived in the area but were surprised he frequented our local establishment. For the purposes of this account, I'll call him Boots.

Boots asked Buck if he could borrow his guitar for a short time. Buck quickly gave up his guitar, his stool and his microphone and took a seat at a nearby table. Boots settled on the stool, fiddled with the tuning of the guitar for a moment and positioned the microphone. "Hi, ya all," he said.

The audience responded with a chorus, "Hi, ya all."

Boots began with an unpublished ditty he said he was working on. As the excitement of Boots' presence spread throughout the pub, diners from other rooms began to congregate in the main room where Boots was performing. Boots began to wander through a series of tunes interspaced with stories about his travels and experiences.

The pub closed at eleven. The proprietor turned out the lights as each of the rooms emptied. He was reluctant to turn out the lights where Boots and approximately fifty paying customers were cramped together and listening. Boots played and talked for most of the next hour. Finally, he introduced his last song with a story about his travels in Europe while he was nineteen or twenty. Here is his story as best as I can remember it.

After high school, I tried working on the ranch over the summer. That lasted about a year. I loved the freedom of the prairie and the great outdoors but I hated the work. I was encouraged to attend college and thought it was a good idea but I wanted to have an adventure before I settled down. I took a break year and decided to backpack through Europe.

I packed some clothing, gathered my cash, a credit card and my spanking new passport. I picked up my guitar, headed for the airport and flew to London. I played country music for tips in a number of pubs and similar establishments throughout Europe. Nine months later, I was in Rome, twenty pounds lighter and almost broke. It was time to head home.

I confirmed my return flight to the States from London and booked a train from Rome to London. The train left the Rome Tiburtina rail station just as the sun was setting. Unfortunately, although I thought I was guaranteed a seat, that was not the case. I settled at the back of the train car for the hour long ride to Milan where I hoped a seat would free up before the fourteen hour trip to Paris. I sat on my back pack with my back against the side wall of the train car. Across from me was a young lady also sitting on her back pack with a sleeping bag, apparently in the same seatless situation as I was.

Things did not improve in Milan and I settled in as best I could in the rear of the train car. Across from me, the young lady was adapting to a similar situation. However, she was better prepared. I watched as she unrolled her sleeping bag, unzipped it and positioned her backpack at the top, apparently for use as a pillow. I watched in the dim light as she sat in the open sleeping bag, covered herself as best she could and began to remove her clothing in preparation for sleep. As she removed each item of clothing, she folded it neatly and put it alongside her backpack. Almost as if she was alone, she didn't hesitate to remove all her clothing. I confirmed her state of undress as she folded her bra and panties and added them to the pile of clothing behind her backpack.

She settled into her sleeping bag and zipped it up. She lay facing me across the train aisle. Her eyes didn't close. Instead, she seemed to be examining me and my similar situation. After several minutes, her hand emerged and she beckoned to me. I moved across the aisle and squatted next to her. "No sleeping bag?" she asked.

"I shook my head. "Mine is larger than I need," she said. "We could share."

"Really?" I asked. "It would be fun," she offered.

I pondered her meaning of fun and the torturous fourteen hour train ride ahead of me and accepted her offer. I moved my backpack across the aisle and put it next to hers as she unzipped her sleeping bag. I removed my shoes and started to enter the sleeping bag. "Whoa," she said. "I'd rather you not foul my sleeping bag with the soil and other things on your clothing."

I understood her meaning and recalled in detail how she was occupying the sleeping bag. I bit the bullet and slowly removed my clothing, carefully folding it and placing it next to hers next to the backpacks. Wearing just my boxers, I, once again, moved to enter the sleeping bag. Her scowling expression was clear. I wasn't done removing my clothing. I slid off my boxers, slid into the sleeping bag and quickly slid into my bag mate.

That last statement brought some "ohs," some "ahs," some gasps, some cheers and significant laughter from the attentive audience until the voice of a middle aged woman in the back of the room shouted, "THAT WAS YOU?"

A mass confusion and a mild pandemonium ensued accompanied by increased laughter. During the uproar, Boots slid off the stool, returned Buck's guitar with thanks and headed for the back of the room or the great outdoors. I searched for the middle aged woman who was asking the question without success. My reaction was that there was more to the story and I wanted to speak to both Boots and the woman but I lost both opportunities in the confusion.

On the way home, I regretted not having the opportunity to speak to either Boots or the woman. I knew there was more to the story and I wanted to hear it. In the void, I imagined how the story might evolve. I made up the rest of the story and wrote it down. Here is what I imagined.

"Why in hell did I shout that out?" I thought as I exited out the rear door of the pub and fast walked through the rain toward my car. I was sitting in my car attempting to understand my outburst and get my breath when someone knocked on my window. I looked up and out the window. I lost my breath again when I realized who was knocking on my window. He made motions indicating that he wanted me to open the window.

I opened the window hesitantly. It was embarrassing to just look at him and he wanted to talk. Boots looked through the open window and asked, "Janice?"

"John?" I asked.

"I was John back then," he said. "Now I go with Boots."

"You weren't a famous country singer back then either," I said.

"True," Boots agreed. "Can I come around and get in the car with you?" he asked. "It's rather wet out here."

"I don't have a sleeping bag," I quipped.

"I don't need a sleeping bag. A towel would be better," Boots responded.

I laughed. "I don't have a towel either," I said as I unlocked the doors and waved him around to get in the car.

Boots got into the car next to me. He took off his hat and shook off the water outside before he closed the door and put his hat in his lap. His hair was a mess but dry. Otherwise, he didn't look too bad considering that he had been standing in the rain for several minutes. He took a long look at me. "It really is you, isn't it?" he said.

"And it's really you," I responded.

"It's been twenty years," he calculated.

"Twenty-four," I corrected his math.

"You haven't changed at all," Boots complemented me.

I laughed. "Right," I said. "I'm twenty-four years older, I've put on weight and my hair is shorter with streaks of gray. Other than that, I'm the same person as I was in Italy."

"I suspect there's more to your story than that," opined Boots.

"After Paris, I went back to school, got married and had two beautiful boys. Now eighteen and nineteen years old and in school themselves," I added.

"You're married?" asked Boots.

"Not anymore," I admitted. "He traded me for a younger model."

"He's a fool," Boots commented. "So single, then?"

"Almost nine months now," I conceded.

"No suitors?" Boots asked.

"I haven't encouraged anyone," I revealed. "I'm still adapting to my new normal. Enough questions. What's your story?"

"I went to London, flew home, went to school and played my guitar," Boots said. "I'm still playing my guitar."

"It seems you've done quite well playing your guitar," I suggested. "It couldn't have been that simple."

"That part really was simple. I managed to be in the right place at the right time. I impressed the right people and they did all the work to get me here," Boots related. "But staying here has been the most difficult thing I've ever done."

"Help me understand," I asked.

"I travel all the time," Boots shared. "Every day a new city, a new venue, a new audience. I'm surrounded by agents, staff and groupies. I really don't have a life outside of performing. I've never had time to develop a relationship with anyone. Sure, young ladies throw their bras and panties at me when I'm on stage but I rush off to my next engagement almost before I can pick them up."

I wasn't expecting that. "You're kidding?" I asked.

"I wish I was," said Boots. "My agent has quite a collection of women's underwear. I can arrange for you to see it if you're interested."

"That won't be necessary," I told him. "So, given your schedule, what are you doing here, at my favorite pub and in my car?"

"Playing hooky. They think I'm sleeping. Alone. Tomorrow I have to be at a recording session in the city," answered Boots. Everything is arranged for me. I go where they take me and do what I'm told. I travel by private plane, limousine or my tour bus. I haven't been in a train since London."

"Or a sleeping bag?" I asked and wondered why.

"Or a sleeping bag," laughed Boots. "Speaking of trains and sleeping bags, I think about that night often."

"So do I," I thought. "But would it be wise to tell him?" I choose a neutral response, "Really?" I asked.

"Really," Boots agreed. "Something happened to me that night. When you got off the train in Paris, I wanted to go with you. I was broke and homesick so I went to London instead and flew home. It was a mistake. I should have stayed. I've agonized over that decision hundreds of times since."

I listened to Boots and tears formed in my eyes. "I should have stayed on the train with you," I confessed. "I've imagined for twenty-four years how my life might have been different if I had."

"Two wrongs," mused Boots. "We were young, naïve and single then."

"We were," I agreed.

"And we're single now," observed Boots.

"We are but not young or naïve," I agreed again hoping he was heading in the same direction as I was ready to go.

"After twenty-four years, we could make two wrongs right," suggested Boots.

That sounded like the invitation I was hoping for. My body thought so but, mentally, I was attempting to remain casual, a balance I secretly hoped would tip in the direction of my body. "What are you suggesting?" I asked.

"Janice," Boots began. "Twenty-four years ago, we were young, uninhibited and hungry for companionship."

"And agile too," I interrupted.

Boots laughed. "Agile too," he agreed. "I think we have the opportunity, tonight, to relive the past and change our futures."

"We don't have a sleeping bag," I reminded him.

"I don't think we could approach the level of agility we had twenty-four years ago even without the sleeping bag," Boots admitted.

"So, you're propositioning me," I suggested.

"In a sense, yes," Boots confessed. "However, I'm suggesting that we could revisit our decisions of twenty-four years ago and correct our errors."

"And that includes sex?" I asked.

"Only if we both want sex to be part of the discussion," Boots insisted.

"There's no point in having the discussion without the sex," I thought. "And where do you think we should have this discussion?" I asked. "I hope you're not thinking in my car."

"I hadn't considered a location," Boots said. "If I had, your car would not have been one of them. If you're up for a discussion, then I suggest either your place or mine."

I thought about the mess at my place. "I'm hoping you're up as well and your place would be fine," I told him.

"My hotel is just a short ride away. You drive and I'll navigate," Boots said.

"How did you get here?" I asked. "Don't you have a ride?"

"If you call Uber a ride," he said. "Drive before one of us changes our mind."

Changing my mind never occurred to me and I was reasonably sure his mind was made up as well. At the hotel, Boots said a few words to the parking valet and told me to leave my keys in the car. We walked, side by side, through empty lobby. By the time we got to the elevators, I was holding his hand.

Boots' room was on the top floor of the hotel and only accessed by sliding his room card key into a slot in the elevator operation panel. His room was immense, even for a suite. It was L-shaped in the corner of the building with windows on two walls. Entrance was into a large dining area with a boardroom sized table with ten chairs, an entrance to a full bathroom on one wall and a kitchenette on another wall. In the corner of the L was a sitting area with sofa, side chairs, assorted tables and lamps and an oversized flat screen television. Around the corner was a king-sized bed, nightstands, closet and another full bathroom with walk-in shower and Jacuzzi soaking tub.

After touring the suite, I commented, "You're certainly not slumming it."

"This isn't the real me," deprecated Boots. "My agent insists on it."

"Who is the real you?" I asked.

"A log cabin in the woods, a crackling fireplace and the love of a beautiful woman," he explained. "I've got the cabin with a natural stone fireplace and I've been looking for that woman for twenty-four years."

Boots walked over to me, put his hands alongside my face and kissed me. I threw my arms around his body and kissed him back. We had done amazing things with each other twenty-four years ago but never a kiss like this kiss. When we came up for air, I leaned back and looked him in his eyes. "Are you still looking for that woman?" I asked.

"No longer," Boots affirmed.

"I'm not beautiful," I insisted.

"Don't believe what you think you see in the mirror," exclaimed Boots. "In my eyes, there's no one more beautiful than you are. I've been searching for twenty-four years for the woman from the train to Paris and, now that you're here, I'm not inclined to let you escape again."

"I'm your prisoner?" I asked.

"Only if you choose to be," Boots said.

I laughed. "This conversation sounds like a really bad romance novel."

"Then no more words," said Boots and he kissed me again.

Hugging and kissing repeatedly, we staggered toward the bed. By the time we got there, my legs were weak with desire. Boots sat on the bed and I stood in front of him. I began to remove my blouse. As I slowly undid each button, I watched his eyes. There was no mistaking the truth of his assertions. His eyes never left my eyes. As I started to pull my open blouse from the waist of my skirt, I hesitated.

I could see the concern in his eyes. "I just realized," I told him. "All those hours we spent in that sleeping bag together, you've never seen me naked before."

He smiled. "Nor you, me," he said.

Boots stood in front of me again and unbuttoned his shirt. He paused, emulating my position, his hands ready to pull his open shirt from the waist of his jeans.

I smiled, pulled my blouse from my skirt, removed it and tossed it on a nearby chair. His eyes never left my eyes as I stood in front of him in my ordinary beige bra. Not a single glance at my breasts. I knew in that moment, that everything he said was real. That he wanted me, not my body. That I wanted him.

His shirt landed on the floor and I struggled not to glance at his body. I knew his body, I remembered his body and I wanted his body tangled with my body and inside me.

Our undressing proceeded without haste until we were both naked. We hugged, kissed again and fell laughing on the bed together. Over the next two hours we relived most of the activities we experienced on the train between Milan and Paris twenty-four years ago without the restrictions imposed by the sleeping bag. We were surprisingly agile.

It was after two in the morning when, during a necessary bathroom break, I suggested I should be heading home.

"Why?" asked Boots. "The train doesn't get to Paris until late in the morning."

We piled back into the bed together. We were engaged in mutually stimulating each other orally when I started to laugh.

Boots pushed me up with his hands on my thighs so he could talk. "What's so funny?" he asked pretending to be offended. "I expected my technique to bring a smile to your face but laughing, that's sending me the wrong message."

"It has nothing to do with your technique," I clarified. "You're beyond any measure of skill. I just realized, twenty-four years ago, when we were in a similar position, that my ass had to have been waving around in the air outside the sleeping bag."

"And you thought that was funny?" Boots commented.

"Visualizing it twenty-four years later, it had to be hysterical. At the time, I'm sure I would have been mortified," I admitted.

Boots pulled me down again. "Wave your ass around for me," he said.

The rest of the night went too quickly. I hadn't had an orgasm in over four years and I had six that night. Boots had three, every one warmed my body to overheating and triggered an orgasm in me.

The room phone rang at six am. "Ignore it," said Boots as he kissed my nipples for the hundredth time.

"It could be important," I suggested.

"Oh, it's important all right," Boots agreed. "That's why we should ignore it."

Ten minutes later, I was straddling his body absorbing the feeling of him inside me again when someone knocked on the room door. We tried to ignore it but whoever it was knocked again, even harder and a woman's voice yelled, "Boots! Get your ass out of bed. We're late. We have to be downtown at seven."

"Excuse me," Boots said to me as he turned us over, slid out of me and walked naked across the bed, around the corner and toward the door. "Go away, Natalie," he shouted. "I'm not going anywhere."

"You have to be there," Natalie shouted. "We can't do the recordings without you."

"Then cancel," yelled Boots.

"Cancel!" shouted Natalie. "Have you any idea how much it will cost if we cancel?"

"I don't need the money," shouted Boots.

Natalie pounded on the door again. "What about the rest of us?"

"Enjoy the day off," said Boots. "And, if you pound on this door again, you can take the rest of the year off."

"Fuck!" yelled Natalie but she didn't knock on the door again.

Back in the bed with me again, Boots asked, "Where were we?"

"Who's Natalie," I asked.

"She's my agent," he told me.

"A woman agent?" I asked.

"She's a great agent. Tougher than any man. And, before you ask, I've never seen her naked."

"I wasn't going to ask, but that's good to know," I told him with a smile.