We'll Always Have Paris

Twenty years ago. The turn of the current century. Setting: The United States of America. Place: The Deep South.

No broadband internet connections. No text messages. No Amazon empire. No pandemic. No smartphones. No iPhones. No 5G. No Kayne West or Beyonce. No Metoo Movement or Black Lives Matter. No Barack Obama. No Trump Administration. No Capitol riot. No cancel culture. No emphasis on white supremacy. No removal of Confederate statues.

For a time, a brief time in hindsight, young adults met each other inside AOL chatrooms. America Online had an almost-monopoly over the-then nascent Internet. Because it had no competition, it could charge whatever it wanted, and many people, including myself, ran up huge bills that, as poor college students, our parents had no choice but to pay. It was also an excellent way for lonely older teenagers like me to find fast friends and develop long distance relationships. Some were purely romantic, some both romantic and sexual, and some merely platonic.

We met each other at the age of eighteen. We were both in college, living at home at the time. She was six months older than me. We were both very intelligent but cursed with bipolar disorder. Our attraction was immediate and heavily passionate. We would spend hours talking on the phone or online to each other, which quickly morphed to phone sex. She lived on the West Coast, and me a full 3,000 miles due East. But what we felt for each other was very real, no matter what the nay-sayers said.

She'd never had a boyfriend before. Her body image was not especially supple and secure, because she was several pounds overweight and hated herself for it. The fact never bothered me, but it tormented her. Though we confided everything to ourselves, her defenses were always higher than perhaps they needed to be. We should have slept together long before we did. She made me wait three long years before we met in person. Distance was always stated as the reason why, but we'd both had plenty of money, more than enough to make it happen.

I will always remember seeing her walk off of the plane, clumsily bumping into the next person to follow her down the stairs, apologizing gracefully to him, then in the next breath identifying me as her lover, and embracing me with great force, whereupon we kissed for several moments. She knew who I was instantaneously, as I was deeply in love with her, and my eyes followed every move she made. I have rarely felt such joy as I did in that moment.

We chatted energetically, as we made our way from the inside of the airport to the outside parking garage. It was a typically humid, hell-hot August day, and the two of us couldn't wait to escape the high heat by means of the car's air conditioning. On my person, I had a small amount of pot for us to enjoy once we checked into the hotel room for which she had made reservations some weeks before. I'd made sure to tell her to get a room where smoking was allowed.

Neither of us could keep our hands off of each other. There had been so much build-up, so many fantasies unfulfilled. We were headed straight for the bedroom and might well have spent days making love. We entered our hotel room and began making out. We hastily began dry humping and feeling each up through our clothing. Seeing and sensing my erection, she cupped my cock and balls in her hands as I vigorously pushed the palms of my hands against her C-cup breasts.

We didn't want to wear each other out too quickly, so we took a quick smoke break. I realized, to my dismay, that the pot I'd been sold wasn't terrible strong. But it was the only disappointing thing about the whole day. I got a little paranoid that we might be detected, but she told me, gently, that I had nothing to worry about. Her attitude removed my fears, and we resumed making love.

As we made out, she had a piece of hard candy. She thought she would try to be smooth and slide it sensuously into my mouth. Not anticipating it, it entered my mouth, whereupon I almost choked. We both couldn't help but laugh at the ridiculousness of the situation.

I sucked gently, expertly on her tongue. impressed, she said, "How did you know how to do that?"

Nonplussed, I replied. "I don't know. I guess I made it up on my own."

We continued to disrobe. She removed my fitted shirt, button by button. She slid her blouse off, then unclasp her bra, revealing her naked breasts. Next, I removed her pants and slid down a pair of white cotton panties.

I'd mentioned that I liked women who shaved their pubic area, and it was evident that she'd tried to honor that request, though I noted with some discomfort that it had produced a few razor burns, some reddened places. I wished I hadn't made the request in the first place. Nowadays, I prefer women to stay natural, but I recognize I may be in the minority.

She'd made a lot of concessions and sacrificed quite a bit for my benefit, including starving herself so that she might make the perfect candidate for my affections. None of this was necessary, but that's what one does during the honeymoon period of any relationship. As for myself, I'd tried to make her aware as best I could, that despite not being a Size 3, her body type was more than acceptable to me.

Knowing I was bisexual and enjoyed being anally penetrated, she took out a tube of lubricant, coated two fingers on her right hand with it, and proceeded to shove them aggressively up my anus. I immediately grew very loud and fancied the sensation quite a lot. She kept at it for quite some time.

I got so loud, in fact, that the two of us were a little concerned that occupants of other rooms might have heard me. But this was, in fact, a motel, and I doubt anyone would have been terribly shocked to hear noises like those.

I'd been lying on my back the whole time, at which point she took me in her mouth. She was good at lots of things. I lay back and enjoyed the experience. It was evident she was a giver and found pleasing her partner a turn on for me and for her. I did, however, have to tell her that she needed to stop, because I was growing dangerous close to climaxing, and wanted to fuck her desperately.

I remember the way she closed her eyes and audibly sighed when I first entered her. Some of those memories have faded with time, but not this one. In those days, I was only familiar with missionary, but it was enough to drive her over the edge. I felt accomplished. I felt pleased with myself.

And as we both slowly returned to Earth, she noted, "You're the first man who has ever made me come." Quite a compliment from someone so easily conflicted about attraction and sexuality, someone who built boundaries so high to prevent herself from being emotionally wounded that it took her three solid years to work up the courage to meet the love of her life.

This is certainly not the end of the story. We kept going, volley after volley. I practiced the art of cunnilingus, much to her delight. She sucked me off again. We fucked for whole minutes of time, orgasmed simultaneously, rested, and went back to work once more. There's something sacred with making love to someone with whom you are head over heels in love. Sex by itself would never be anything I would turn down, certainly, but this experience was special.

Three days we spent together, rarely leaving each other's company for more than a few moments at a time. Then I decided to make an impromptu trip to Atlanta, two and half hours east. Impulsively, during the journey, she unzipped the fly of my jeans, leaned down, and gave me a ten minute blowjob. This was highly risky and we both knew we were playing with fire, but that only drove us forward. I'm amazed I didn't steer off the road.

And to reciprocate, steering with my left hand only, I took my right hand and began to finger fuck and fist her. Appreciative of the gesture, she began to moan, and curled up on the passenger side seat, her feet and legs extended upwards, pushed hard against the corner of the windshield. We could have kept this going, but a truck driver, passing us on the right-hand side line, noticed what we were up to. He flashed her a knowing leer, at which point, she told me that we had to stop. I did, reluctantly.

We reached Atlanta and spent a few hours hitting the high points. One of our stops along the way was a sex shop, at which point she selected a new dildo. Once we got back home, she intended to pleasure herself with it for my benefit. Sex between two bipolar people is one of the most powerful experiences a person can have. We experienced a sort of manic hypersexuality: a willingness to try everything, to cast no idea asunder, and to challenge each other to pleasure him or her with great creativity.

I enjoyed my private sex show that night, after which we resumed our lovemaking. One problem: with our school schedules and work schedules the way they were, we could only take four days off to be spent in each other's exclusive companies. But we packed those days full to the brim.

I will never forget the day I had to drive her back to the airport. She woke up, cold and distant, obviously dreading the fact that we had to part. She wasn't willing to speak about her true feelings and insisted that I take her back to the airport hours before her boarding call. We did not hug, kiss, or exchange physical affection in parting. I drove away feeling confused and hurt.

As the story goes, she called her mother back on the West Coast in tears. Her mother was concerned that things had not gone well. This was not the truth. They had gone exceptionally well, but now her vacation and time with me was over. She was openly sobbing when she reached the boarding gate, and a sympathetic airline worker put her on an earlier flight, so that she didn't have to further agonize about missing me.

We still talked to each other for many years following that, but we never met again in person. Once was enough for her. The experience had been exceptionally pleasurable and, in equal terms, exceptionally painful. She doubted whether she could continue to maintain a long-distance relationship. And furthermore, she had been faced with what so many of are confronting now—how well virtual relationships translate to their face-to-face, in real life, in person counterparts.

Last I heard she got married, late in life. I wasn't invited. She canceled her Facebook page and stopped returning my e-mails. A couple of years before, she sent me a sexy e-mail recounting how much she'd enjoyed sharing my bed, but then backed off of it dramatically. Her new husband was a swinger, and before the pandemic, I'd proposed we have another round of sexual contact.

In deference to his wishes, she'd swapped partners with someone else. It made her husband quite happy, but it made her feel uncomfortable. Though I knew I'd always be an important person in her life, maybe she found it impossible to love two men simultaneously, much less be sexually intimate with them. In that instance, I had to go.

But I'd be lying to you if I said I don't often think of her and the short time we spent together. We'll always have Paris.