To My Special Valentine with LovebySusanJillParker©
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Combat duty during the Viet Nam conflict separates two lovers prematurely.
"Come to me Michael," she said in the darkness.
As if they were the words of an angel, those four words haunted me for the next forty years of my life. Later, whenever I thought of her and in all the years that I couldn't find her, her voice resonated in my head as if she was a ghost.
"Come to me Michael," played on and on as if an endless echo in my mind.
As if she was calling me from afar and as if she wanted me to come to her now in the way that I came to her so long ago before, I so wanted to come to her but I couldn't. I so wanted to find her but I couldn't. I didn't know where she was, who she was with, or even if she was alive or dead.
Psychically calling to me, maybe she was hurt? Maybe she was in trouble? Maybe she was thinking of me as much as I thought of her every day? Maybe she was dead. I hoped she wasn't dead. I want and I need to see her for one last time to tell her that I love her, I always loved her, and have never stopped loving her.
* * * * *
Although not physically her lover yet, nonetheless I loved her. I've always loved her and will always love her. With no other woman in my life, she was my one and only. I couldn't imagine loving anyone else but her. A memory that only she could make, being that she was my first love, my one, true love, I was glad that she'd be my first lover too.
Perhaps because I had imagined her naked so often, I noticed her state of undress as soon as I entered her bedroom. With the light in the hallway behind me extinguished and with the rest of the house so dark, I stood in her bedroom doorway paralyzed by the eroticism of the moment and by her nakedness. Afraid to take another step forward, precariously perched upon the point of no return and teetering in place, I was unable to take a step back. I was about to do something that would change my life forever.
Once my eyes adjusted to the darkness of her unlit room, I could tell by the dim moonlight that peeked through the venetian blinds that, indeed, she was naked. Naked, naked, naked, the woman of my dreams and the woman of my sexual fantasies was naked, naked, naked. She sat up in bed without the modesty of a sheet and with her legs parted enough for me to see all of her. Brazen in showing me her nude form, neither embarrassed nor ashamed, she didn't make a move to cover her nudity from my leering eyes.
As if I was an artist about to paint her, I memorized every naked detail of her beautiful body. She gave me a memory that I never forgot and have masturbated over a countless number of times. Obviously for her to be sitting up like that in her bed, she wanted me to see all of her nude body. Obviously for her to be sitting up in bed like that, she wanted me as much as I wanted her.
As if she was a freak of nature instead of merely a naked woman, all I could do was to stare at her. More beautiful than I had imagined her to be without her clothes, her large, full breasts, the womanly curve of her shapely hips that swelled out from her slim waist, and her bushy, dark brown pussy were a work of feminine art. A masterpiece created by a God who obviously loved women more than he did men, I wished I looked as good as she did naked. My first time seeing a naked woman, not knowing what to do other than to stare, I was as afraid as I was sexually excited.
A masturbation machine back then, admittedly, guilty of lusting over her and sexually wanting her, every night I dreamt about seeing her naked. Even when I wasn't dreaming about seeing her naked, always imagining seeing her naked, I sexually fantasized seeing her naked while she gave me hot sex. Not ashamed to admit, especially if anyone saw her naked in the way that I was seeing her naked now, admittedly, I've masturbated over the thoughts of her naked all the time. Admittedly, whenever I saw her in her sheer nightgown, able to pinpoint the impressions her nipples made in the thin material and the dark shadow of her pubic hair, even the dark, vertical line that separated her round, firm ass cheeks, I've endlessly masturbated over those images too.
Other than seeing topless women in Playboy, she was like no woman I ever saw in any men's magazine. She was real instead of one dimensional, flat paper. Instead of smelling like magazine print, she smelled of Chanel perfume and baby powder, mixed with the musky aroma of sex. In the way that I routinely masturbated over topless, Playboy Playmates, as soon as I entered her room and saw her sitting up nude on her bed, I had an erection. Controlling the immediate urge to take things in my own hand, I wanted to pull down my fly, pull out my cock, and masturbate over the sexy nude sight of her. Only, afraid I'd offend her and ruin everything and eliminate my chances at anything, instead, I followed her lead and I was glad that I did.
With her inviting me in her bedroom to sleep with her, tonight was my special night. Tonight she'd make me a man. Tonight, for the first time, I'd be making love to a woman. Tonight was a night that I'd always remember and a night that I'd never forget for as long as I lived.
"Happy Valentine's Day Michael," she said.
"Happy Birthday," I said. "I have gifts for you in the living room."
No better day for her to be born, it's appropriate that my angel's birthday would be on Valentine's Day, the day of love.
"We'll exchange gifts later," she said while giving me a sexy look that I could discern even in the dark.
She looked at me staring at her before looking down at herself as if to see all that I could see of her.
"I leave tomorrow," I said.
Unable to remove my eyes from her nakedness, I didn't know what else to do other than to stare at this naked beauty.
"I know," she said. "Come to me Michael," she said holding out her arms as if we had already made love and as if I was already her lover.
A soothing, calming effect, her voice was sweetly soft and comforting and I remember, afraid to go to war before, I was no longer afraid when with her now. Prominently displayed and my place of honor, I kept her picture in my wallet. Wherever I was, even 9,000 miles away, nearly half way around the Earth, she'd always be there with me as witness to the horror that was about to befall me and the fear that would take hold of me long enough for me to nearly lose my mind.
"I ship out at zero eight hundred hours," I said.
Unable to take my eyes off of her, she was the most beautiful woman I've ever seen in my life.
"I know that too," she said with a little laugh. "Don't be so nervous. I don't bite. Come to me," she said again. "Take off your clothes. I want to see what you look like naked. I need to hold you against my naked bosom and feel you between my legs before you leave me to go to war."
I wanted to finish her sentence. In case I don't return, you want to hold me for one last time. In case I die, she was willing to give me hot sex before I leave. No harm done, if I didn't return, no one would know we had sex but for her, my long survivor. If I don't return in a body bag, we'll deal with what we did now, later. Yet, for right now, we were just a man and a woman. We were just soon to be lovers naked and in bed together while making love and having hot sex.
Still reveling over the thoughts of being naked with her, she wanted me to get naked. If it wasn't unbelievable enough that she was naked, I couldn't believe that she wanted me to get naked too. My sexual fantasy come true, she wanted me to get naked with her. She wanted to hold me against her naked bosom and feel me between her shapely legs. Even in my naiveté, if I was to hazard a guess, I'd guess that we'd be having sex soon and I'd be right. I couldn't believe that it took me to go to war to finally make love to a woman. Hoping I'd come back, when I returned from war, even though I haven't made love to her yet, I couldn't wait to make love to her again.
"Okay," I said ready to salute her for making me a man.
* * * * *
Against all the traditions of being a Marine, there's something wrong about a 20-year-old, United States Marine going off to war while still being a virgin. I didn't want to go off to war without being intimate with a woman first. I didn't want to die without knowing what it's like to be naked and sweating with a woman in the throes of sex. If I was going to die, I needed to know what it was like to make love to a woman first.
Giving me something to dream about and to return home to, I wouldn't want to die without knowing what it feels like to love a woman and what it feels like for a woman to love me. In both regards I was lucky. I already had a woman in my life. I knew she loved me as much as I loved her. For that one moment in time, while we were in bed naked together, she was my woman and I was her man.
That night we made love. Kissing and kissing me while showing me where and how to touch her, never have I been as happy. Being the breast man that I am, I couldn't get enough of her big tits. Touching them, feeling them, fondling them, and caressing them, I sucked her nipples while nibbling them, turning them, twisting them, and pulling them. Following her lead, she showed me what she liked and I showed her what I wanted.
Without her having to say a word, with a gentle nudge and a subtle push to my shoulder, I knew she wanted me to go down on her. Fingering her while licking her, my first sexual experience and my first time seeing a pussy never mind fingering and licking a pussy, I was glad that I read about such things in a men's magazine. Licking her while fingering, she showed me where and how to move my fingers to pleasure her. Unable to give her an orgasm with my fingers and tongue but encouraged by her moans, I was definitely doing something right. Then, obviously having enough of my fiddling and diddling, as soon as I pleasured her, she pleasured me.
Wrapping her hand around me while staring up at me, she stroked me before taking me in her mouth. My first time in a woman's hand as well as in a woman's mouth, when she looked up at me with her big, brown eyes and I felt her tongue sliding over the head of my cock while sucking me and stroking me, I exploded nearly immediately. Swallowing all that I gave her, removing all evidence, as if I had never ejaculated, she sucked and licked me dry. Fearing that I had ruined everything by cumming too soon, my prick didn't disappoint either of us.
"It's okay," she said. "Relax. Think good thoughts. Feel my tits and finger my nipples while I stroke your cock. I know you like my big tits. Suck my nipples. I like that too. Don't worry. I'll make you hard again," she said with a smile.
Within just a few strokes from her hand and with her cupping my balls, I was hard again. This time, she invited me to mount her. I felt her fingers guide my cock inside of her. A place I was always curious to go and now never wanted to leave, she was so warm and so wet inside. Feeling so tight, her pussy muscles grabbed my cock as if my cock was wearing a custom made glove.
Slowly she humped me. With me returning her humps, I felt myself exploring her deeper. We made love before we started fucking. Fucking her harder and fucking her deeper, I couldn't believe I was fucking her until I felt her go so stiffly quiet with just a little whimper of a moan. As if afraid to yell out to awaken the neighbors, she was having an orgasm. In the way that I was unable to get her off with my fingers and tongue, obviously too inexperienced to do that, I got her off with my cock buried deep inside of her pussy.
"Cum inside of me," she said.
Not waiting for her to say that twice, as soon as she invited me to cum inside of her, I did. I never knew I had so much cum until I exploded a bucketful in her mouth and a second bucketful in her pussy. Able to cum on command back then, I was filled to the brim with cum. Only, now that I experienced a woman, I finally felt that I was a man. Now able to better serve my country with a smile and a lighter foot, that night, Valentine's Day 1970, was the best night of my life.
* * * * *
'Twas the winter of 1970, my last day stateside, I'd be shipping out tomorrow morning. A gung-ho, Marine leaving behind the love of a good woman, too excited about the adventure, it didn't occur to me all that I'd be missing until leaving everything behind. So young, so dumb, so filled with cum, I was always so horny. Yet, now that I had someone to return home to, I had something more to live for than just my dog, Buster.
The first year of the 1969 draft lottery, not very lucky ordinarily, until that night, born September 14th, that was the only lottery I ever won with my birthday coming up as number one. Had I not been drafted, I had other options. Preferably attending college or learning a trade, anything would be better than fighting Vietnamese in a jungle. Yet, not thinking about dying, not even considering that I wouldn't return, I liked the idea of being a Marine, that is, until the heat of the jungle and the bug bites, so very many bugs, took its toll on my battered, bloodied, and broken body.
Wounded, beaten, tortured, and held prisoner, I was officially deemed and MIA. Nearly dying from jungle rot after losing my mind from fever and not remembering where I was or who I was, Afraid to be captured, I wandered the hills at night for food and water. The missionaries who found me brought me home from the jungle five years after the war was over.
"Who am I? Where am I? Who won the war? Did we win? Who won the World Series and the Super Bowl? Who's the President?"
With the United States Congress never declaring war on Vietnam, did anyone win this stupid conflict that wasn't even deemed important enough to call a war? 'Twas a conflict that went on long enough to kill more than 58,000 Americans, wound more than 153,000 Americans, and that killed one million Vietnamese, nearly half of which were innocent civilians. Glad that I survived. Glad that it was over and I was home safe and sound and in one peace, I wished that part of my life had never happened.
Obviously with the head injury that I suffered, doctors didn't think that I'd ever regain my full memory. Bits and pieces slowly emerged over the years to tell me that I had a life. Only, when I looked at the photo in my wallet, not even remembering her name, all that I could remember was her words. Clearly, as if it never left my head and abandoned me, I could hear her voice.
"Come to me Michael," she said.
Aside from the World Series, Super Bowl, and our current President, no one could answer those questions, even my questions regarding the war. I needed answers but the answers that I needed to unravel my identity wouldn't come for years later and after finally awakening from my fog in a VA hospital. Finally, healthy enough to leave the hospital and with my mind intact enough to know who I was and where I lived, I went in search for the love of my life.
"Come to me Michael," she beckoned.
Never giving up hope of finding her, forty years later, now still searching for the woman still haunting my dreams, no doubt, with her figuring that I was dead, I figured that she may be dead too. Having never said those three words to her, I needed to say those three words to her now. I needed to tell her that I loved her and, because of the love that I had for her and that she had for me, I'm alive. Always thinking about her, that is, whenever my thoughts were cohesive enough for me to think clearly, I needed to tell her that I always loved her. I needed to tell her that I never stopped loving her. I needed to tell her that all of my life, I loved no one else but her.
Searching the Internet, checking with family, friends, Facebook pages and her last known address, I finally found her in a nursing home. Alone in a nursing home with no one to love her in the way that I loved her, she had no one to care for her in the way that I could care for her. Thinking that time stood still and I was still that inexperienced, 20-year-old Marine standing in her bedroom doorway, have I aged too?
Now sixty-years-old, what happened to my life that I don't remember so much of it? Yet, what I remember now is what is of importance. I remember her voice. I remember her face. I remember that one, wonderful night that she invited me to sleep with her and we made love on Valentine's Day, her thirty-ninth birthday.
What I do remember of my life is her. Even in my darkest hours when I had that fever that seared my skin and that fear that carried me to continue fighting in a darkened jungle where I couldn't see my hand in front of my face, I thought of her. After having spent years being so scared and so sad, before being so angry, what I do remember of my life is how she made me feel so very happy, safe, and comforted by making love to me that one last night that I was home.
I remember her holding me so tightly as if she never wanted to let me go. I remember her telling me that she loved me. Even though I did love her and even though I wanted to tell her that I loved her, I remember being unable to tell her that I loved her too.
"I love you Michael," she said filling me with warmth but unable to return the sentiment then, I wanted to tell her now that I love her and have always loved her.
* * * * *
Always checking the obituaries online in different states, I never would have found her had I not seen her name in an old Boston newspaper celebrating her sixtieth birthday and her retirement with friends. Boston? What the Hell is she doing in Boston when she was born in Pennsylvania and swore she'd never leave there for anywhere?
I bought a dozen, long stemmed, yellow roses, her favorite, a box of dark chocolate covered cherries, her favorite too, that is, if yellow roses and dark chocolate covered cherries were still her favorites after forty years of not seeing her. Along with the flowers and candy, I bought her a hearts and flowers, romantic, Valentine Day card and drove the four hundred miles to see her.
In the way that I saw her in her bedroom when she was naked forty years ago, I saw her in her hospital bed in her nightgown forty years later. Even though her hair was snow white instead of dark brown and her skin was wrinkled instead of smooth, she still looked just as beautiful now as she looked then. Surrounded by cards and flowers, Valentine's Day was her birthday. One so beautiful shouldn't be cheated out of celebrating her birthday on Valentine's Day. Yet, one so beautiful shouldn't be born on any day other than on Valentine's Day, the day of love, and I truly loved her.
As if her voice was amplified by plugging in stereo speakers at real time, she said those three magic words that never left my brain, even when I couldn't remember my own name.
"Come to me," she said holding out her arms and immediately recognizing me after all these years.
"Happy Valentine's Day and Happy 79th Birthday Mom," I said.
After some man impregnated her with me sixty years ago after her high school prom, and not coming forward to take responsibility of me, I wasn't about to do that to her again. Eighteen-years-old and afraid, she could have ended her pregnancy but she didn't. She could have put me up for adoption, but she didn't do that either. Instead she did the right thing by me and it was time that I returned the favor. She was coming home with me and I'll be taking care of her in the way that she took care of me.
This is a Valentine's Day contest entry. Please vote for my story.