Mary Beth Collins aka Purple Iron

Allow me to tell you a little about myself. My name is Mary Beth Collins, most friends and family call me PI, short for Purple Iron. I was born in northeastern Pennsylvania. I have jet-black hair that hits my shoulders and sometimes covers my left eye, especially when my nerves get the best of me. I have been told that my blue eyes are darker than the most expensive sapphire stones in the world. I say they are somewhere between soft and steel, mood depending. Lastly, I can hold my own, mom and dad taught me correctly.

My last girlfriend, though we weren’t too far along in our physical relationship, told me I had beauty that’s quiet, smoldering rather than loud. She told me one day that I don’t even see my beauty, but others do. Whatever that means, I am just a normal girl who happens to ride a motorcycle.

My dad tells me that I have “a bashful confidence” and “it’s my armor, with a crooked smile” when I don’t know how to take a compliment.

My mom, Deborah and dad, Tom, yes Tom, just like the drink, Tom Collins, works in finance. Mom is a senior analyst for a mid-size firm and dad is retired from the Army and now works as the CFO for a small hospital up here. I have one Uncle, my mom’s younger brother, Uncle Mike, he lives in Tallahassee Fl. That’s important and I will explain in a second. 😉

The year I was born, 1994, one of the most popular names for girls who were born that year was Mary Beth. When I graduated high school, there were five of us in my class alone. A few of us became close friends, each earning a nickname. Mine was “Purple Iron”, or just PI, thanks to my beloved purple Iron 883 SuperLow motorcycle, a birthday present from my parents.

Here’s why my Uncle Mike and living in Tallahassee is so important.

In the fall of 2012, my parents and I made the journey to Tallahassee, where I was set to begin college at Florida State University, FSU for short. Yes we made the journey. Instead of cramming my belongings into a car or van, we shipped most of my stuff to the dorms via UPS and took a six-day road trip to cover the 1,100 miles from northeastern Pennsylvania to Tallahassee.

We were quite a sight, the three of us on our Harley-Davidsons, roaring down highways and through small towns. My dad’s bike, jet black, mom is a bold cherry red, and of course, mine unmistakably purple. We even had matching helmets. But the real spectacle was when we rolled into my Uncle Mike and Aunt Laura’s quiet neighborhood. The deep rumble of three hogs cruising down the street turned more than a few heads.

My parents only agreed to let me attend FSU because of Uncle Mike living in Tallahassee with his wife, Laura, in a house not far from campus on Osprey Pointe Drive. They both graduated from FSU and both worked for the state, he is a budget analyst, and she is a park ranger for the Department of Forestry.

I chose FSU for their dual Mathematics and Accounting major and Business minor.

I would be living in the dorms but their place would quickly become my weekend refuge, a spot where I could crash, do laundry, and soak up the Florida sun. Their backyard backed up to a sprawling empty lot and in the short distance a tree line. No one could see into their backyard. As long as Mike wasn’t home sunbathing topless, and yes fully naked was fair game.

I fell in love with the sun and so did my tanning, when possible, totally naked.

At FSU, I ended up befriending two other Mary Beths during my first year, one from my Principles of Microeconomics class, the other from Business Communications.

But then there was the beautiful Mary Beth Cabral. MBC, as I teasingly called her that but she was stunningly different. A magnificently beautiful Hispanic woman, she was in my Intro to Managerial Accounting class. But more than that, she was my roommate.

From the moment we met when dorm rooms were assigned I knew she was someone special. The more time we spent together our first year, the more undeniable my attraction to her became. We were study partners, shared an intense love for rock and roll, and best of all, she adored my Harley. So yeah, it’s safe to say I was and am head over heels, caught somewhere between admiration and sheer, undeniable lust.

I ask you to understand that MBC walked into my life with that slow, effortless confidence like she didn’t need to impress anyone, because she already knew she owned the room but not in a domineering manner. From day one, I couldn’t stop watching her. She is stunning, with striking dark eyes that seem to hide more than they reveal. She has flawless golden-brown skin, long dark curls, and a hypnotic voice with a lilting Puerto Rican accent.

And her eyes ... those deep, dark eyes weren’t just pretty. They were dangerous. Velvet one second, razor wire the next. You could drown in them and never even realize you were slipping under. She is always impeccably dressed, casual or formal, it never felt accidental. She moves like someone who knows the room is already watching her.

The way her hips moved when she danced around our dorm room. The way her gold hoop ear rings caught the light when she tossed her head back to laugh. God, that laugh. It was reckless and warm and made you want to follow it, no matter where it led.

She smelled like citrus or at times a soft musk, and when she leaned in close, I swear I lost track of whatever I was doing. Her lips, full, soft, always a soft shade of red that felt intentional, like a warning label you couldn’t stop staring at.

She didn’t dress to show off, but everything she wore somehow made her look like a walking secret. Tight jeans, cropped tees, gold chains that disappeared under her neckline, she wasn’t trying, she just was ... breathtakingly gorgeous.

But the thing that really got me the thing that still messes with my head was how she looked at me. Like I wasn’t just someone she noticed. Like I was someone she chose. That gaze could set off fire alarms.

I didn’t know it back then, but loving MBC would be like riding a beautiful, burning machine at full speed, knowing damn well there were no brakes.

MBC and I made it through our first year of college, and we were thrilled to start our sophomore year together. However, I missed her terribly when she went home for the summer to be with her family in Salinas, a small fishing town on the Caribbean coast of Puerto Rico.

That summer, mom and dad came down and we rode from Tallahassee to Santa Rosa Island and then along the panhandle to Gulf Shores and turned around and headed back once we hit Mobile. My dad’s old friend lives in Mobile. And let me tell you if I wasn’t gay, WOW! He’s attractive.

A few times I caught mom looking at him just an extra second the night we stayed at his house. I couldn’t blame her.

The morning we left, he rode his Softail with us as far as Santa Rosa. We had a coffee and relaxed on the way back, taking our time to Tallahassee. I watched as he and dad had a sidebar conversation. I had a feeling it was about me.

I’d never been so excited as when she, MBC, stumbled back into our dorm room that stifling August day. I hugged her like there was no tomorrow, but when she kissed me, I fell even harder.

That’s right, she kissed me wrapping me in her arms telling me this summer was the loneliest summer of her life. It wasn’t just lust anymore. I was in love and she professed she was as well. Still, we took our time. We focused on school and waited to sleep together. We knew it would happen eventually. But the great part about “dating” was when she rode on the back of Purple Iron, her hands never left my body. Even at traffic lights, she might ease her grip, but her touch never left me.

All my feelings for MBC, everything I’d been holding in, came rushing to the front of my life on the Thursday a week before Thanksgiving of our sophomore year. We were cramming for exams when Uncle Mike and Aunt Laura texted, inviting me over for the long holiday weekend. Aunt Laura was making her amazing pork roast with black beans and rice on Wednesday night. They wanted me to come relax and get away, the Seminoles had an away game. I said I’d be there and asked if I could bring a friend. They didn’t hesitate replying, “of course.”

The excitement wasn’t just palpable, it was groundbreaking. We were going to have a blast. She already knew all about my aunt and uncle, but when she realized there’d be a chance to sunbathe together, even though it was cold, I think her mind, and mine, went into overdrive, honestly so did mine.

We calmed ourselves and went back to studying.

By the time Thanksgiving rolled around, I was running on caffeine, stress, and the last thread of sanity that three group projects and five exams hadn’t already shredded. MBC and I had been living like zombies late nights at Strozier, cold leftovers, and highlighter ink on our hands like war paint. Semester finals were still two weeks away, but it already felt like the end of days.

So yes, two weeks ago when Uncle Mike texted me to invite me to his place for the long Thanksgiving weekend, and I asked if I could bring a friend, I didn’t even ask MBC, I just looked at her across the dorm room and said, “You’re coming, bring your bikini.” She smiled, slow and lazy, and said, “Only if I get to tan in peace.” That was her way of saying yes.

The second my Harley rolled into their quiet little neighborhood, the stress cracked off our shoulders like old armor from an exhausted soldier. When I parked in the driveway of their cul-de-cas home, Aunt Laura met us at the door with open arms, and a pitcher of sangria. The air smelled like real food, her infamous roasted pork with black beans. And MBC? She was already glowing.

Aunt Laura was starting the second pitcher of sangria when Uncle Mike came home from work. It was then he asked about sleeping arrangements in their two bedroom house. Aunt Laura saved us from a super embarrassing moment when I blushed a deep red. Aunt Laura could already see what was unspoken.

Laura had grabbed him by the arm and walked him down the hall of their ranch style house. I heard the bedroom door close. That’s when I walked over to MBC and kissed her softly. “I am sorry but he doesn’t ... well he is finding out now.”

I fell deeper in love with MBC when she pulled me tighter, she whispered in my ear “Lo entiendo, y te amo como eres. Pero sobre todo, estoy contigo. Siempre. Mi dulce.” She kissed my lips softly, “it means, I understand, and I love you as you are. But above all, I’m with you. Always. My sweet.”

I swear I started crying, I swear tears fell from my eyes but she wiped them away. We quickly separated when we heard them coming down the hallway.

Uncle Mike walked over to MBC and offered. “I am sorry for my stupid comment Mary Beth, please as a guest in my house, accept my apology.” MBC stood and hugged him. She whispered something in his ear I didn’t hear but he nodded and smiled.

Then the silly old man walked to me. He opened his arms to hug me.”I am sorry kiddo. Laura set me straight ... no pun intended.”

I hugged him and whispered in his ear. “No peeking outside when we sunbathe naked okay?”

He pulled back and went to say something but I heard Laura start laughing, “Michael, let them be young and free like we once were.”

I pulled from his hug and grabbed MBC by the hand, “Let’s go change and hurry. The sunshine is wasting away.”

We spent most of that Wednesday afternoon in the backyard, stretched out in the late November sun. Laura had strung up a hammock on a metal frame but I was fine in the grass on a towel. We just laid there, melting away. She brought out another pitcher of sangria and teased us about “being too pretty to be stressed.”

MBC wore this tiny burnt-orange bikini that didn’t even pretend to hide anything. She knew exactly what she was doing. I wore my standard black two-piece, the one that felt safe, until she looked at me like I was the one turning up the heat.

It felt safe because the bottoms covered almost all of my tattoo. The one no one, well MBC saw some of it, but no one has seen it all.

What is it you ask? Well outsidemof my mom and the tattoo artist who finished it, my lover will see, on my inner thigh, very near my center, a hot chili pepper, sharp red with a green stem and three tiny black drops trailing down like falling heat. It’s playful, bold, intimate. It’s me in a nutshell: spice, danger, and something only my lover will understand.

Wednesday night over dinner we chatted about life, love, music and of course, family. I was surprised to hear how absolutely close MBC was with her father and nearly cried my eyes dry when she shared her mother’s passing when she was twelve.

When it was finally time for bed, Aunt Laura had already prepared the queen size bed for us. I whispered a word of thanks, never telling her we hadn’t slept together, that tonight was that first time.

We brushed our teeth side by side in the hall bathroom, trying not to meet each other’s eyes in the mirror. I kept telling myself: it’s just a bed. Then as we moved under the covers, we faced opposite directions at first. But after a few seconds, I felt her shift, her now surprisingly naked chest pressing lightly against back.

I could feel the warmth of her skin through the thin cotton of my sleep shirt. I could hear her breathing, slow, steady, impossible to ignore. She wrapped me in her arms.

The tension between us was thick and charged, like lightning was waiting just under the sheets. I wanted to roll over. I wanted to kiss her. I wanted to fall for her. But I didn’t. Not yet.

Instead, I whispered, “You warm enough?”

She said, “Hmm yes. You?”

I nodded, even though she couldn’t see me. “Yeah.”

That’s when I felt her hand slip under my shirt and rest on my stomach, comforting, loving, and filled with the desire for more, but not yet. I pressed softly back against her and MBC welcomed my body melting into hers.

That was the night I knew it was real. That whatever this was between us, it wasn’t just tension. It wasn’t just an attraction. It was gravity. We didn’t cross the line that night. But we stood on it, eyes closed, leaning forward.

Thursday morning when the sun was up high enough we ran outside then stripped naked to bask in the sun. Uncle Mike covered his eyes and laughed. We didn’t talk about finals. We talked about music. About how I wanted to learn to play the guitar. About her grandmother’s house in Salinas and how mango trees grew wild along the road.

She told me she’d never seen snow. I told her she hadn’t lived. We laughed so hard at one point, Aunt Laura yelled at us from the kitchen window to keep it down or she’d start handing out chores.