This is a story of two attempts at sexual healing. One failed, but the other succeeded. And in the end, it was the healer who was healed.
In 1975, my wife Gloria told me she wanted a divorce after two years of a childless marriage. An old high-school flame of hers had returned from a stint in the Army and come back to town the previous year. It didn't take long before she told me that she'd fallen in love with him again, that she had begun an affair, and that she wanted to marry him.
When Gloria asked for the separation, I was devastated. As fate would have it, I'd lost my job as an electronics salesman about two months before, so the blow hit doubly hard. I no longer had a family or a job in New Haven, only bitter memories. Wishing to make a new start in my life, I moved to North Granby, a smaller town to the north, where I got a room in a big old farmhouse out in the countryside that some hippie-types were renovating. The rent was cheap, which was good because I was supporting myself on minimum-wage jobs at the time.
It was there that I received a letter from a woman I had known ten years before. Lynette had heard about my separation, and told me that if there was anything she could do, all I had to do was ask.
I'd been known Lynette since she was a teenager, but she'd really shown no romantic interest in me, despite a friendship that was warm and deep. So we kept our relationship light. She was one of those girls with a twenty-five-year-old mind in a fifteen-year-old body, with an intellect and range of interests that she did not share with any of the girls in her age group. So she had gone through high school always feeling left out, ostracized by her classmates. She confessed this loneliness to me, and I remember many evenings when I would hold her in my arms as she wept in anger and frustration.
I finally got to see her sensual side when we went to a science-fiction convention together, the summer after she graduated from high school. She was staying in a hotel room she was sharing with some girlfriends, and I was the houseguest of a high-school classmate who was attending college in that city. Despite our separate sleeping arrangements, the freewheeling nature of sci-fi conventions allowed us to get some serious necking in, at one of the hotel's lobbies. It wasn't able to go much farther than my opening the front of her blouse and sliding her bra up to expose her beautiful little titties, and gently fondling and kissing them. Given the public nature of our trysting, even this activity proved to be too far outside her comfort zone, so we broke it off, buttoned up, and re-joined the party.
That was as far as we'd ever gotten at that point, but I wondered afterward what might have developed had we had more privacy. I was convinced that she had deeper feelings for me than she was able to admit, and lacked only the proper circumstances to make them known. Certainly, I meant a lot to her, because she wrote me a long letter plainly expressing the emotional storms of her teenage years and praising the safe harbor she'd found in my arms. She'd taken considerable trouble, not only in the writing but in the calligraphy she inscribed it with. She used an intricate, spidery style with long extenders, giving it the sort of elegance you see in eighteenth-century documents. The border consisted of flowers hand-drawn with a fine-tipped pen. I saved that letter, and have it to this day.
She had a quality that I'd seen in very few other women, then or afterward. She seemed extraordinarily graceful to me. Every move she made seemed like a dance. She seemed to flow from place to place; I could swear she trailed fire behind her, radiating warmth everywhere she went. She was petite in every way. Even at twenty, she could have passed for a thirteen-year-old. She had dark brown hair that went down to the small of her back. An inch or two over five feet tall, she was a full head shorter than I was, and I loved to rest my chin on her head as we stood and hugged each other. She wore glasses, but they couldn't hide the beauty of her eyes, a light hazel framed by long dark lashes that needed no mascara. I thought she was the perfect woman. Even after we'd parted ways and I eventually married Gloria (who, it turned out, bore a striking physical similarity to Lynette), she was always in the back of my mind, and we had kept in touch. So, now that my marriage was crumbling, it seemed natural that I would turn to her for help.
She was a graduate student at a divinity school in the Boston area, and she invited me up the following Saturday. It would be a good time, because her roommate would be gone that evening, and we'd have the place to ourselves. I drove to Boston and was at her door by three o'clock. We hugged and she invited me up to her dorm room, where we chatted and "caught up" on each other's lives. When we got hungry, we went out to a local restaurant for dinner.
After we returned, the conversation naturally turned to the reasons for my visit. I described the problems with the marriage, the reasons why it might have failed, and my loneliness since the break-up. At some point, I began to cry, and she got up, sat on my lap, and hugged me. It was a curious reversal of the way our relationship started. Now it was I who was doing the weeping, and she the consoling.
At this point, it must have entered her mind that the best thing she could do for my bruised masculinity was to reassure me that I was still desirable to women. Perhaps she had also wondered what it would be like to bed me, after the many years of unrequited love. At any rate, I found myself being disrobed and led to her bed.
She stripped naked herself, and I could at last see the full beauty of the body I'd dreamed of for years. Her small breasts, with light pink areolas the size of nickels and nubbins of nipples, were at that moment the most beautiful things I'd seen, and I could not keep my lips off them. Her arms and legs were slender, her hips narrow, and her skin as soft as satin. I kissed her breasts, and then her belly, and then her pussy with its wisps of fine dark hair. She stroked my cock to hardness, and invited me in. I remember her reassuring me that it wouldn't hurt, since she was no longer a virgin, and that she was on the pill, so that I needn't worry about her getting pregnant. She also said that she was having trouble lubricating, and found some Vaseline to cover my cock with. Then she let me enter her, and all my virility seemed to come flooding back to me. I wept again, this time for joy, and she held me as I wept.
I cannot say that I was much of a lover that night. I was half out of my mind with grief and loneliness, and it was she who was guiding me, and not I guiding her. I can only remember cumming with alarming speed, without taking much cognizance of what her state of arousal was. I was not making love as a sane man should, but as a man drowning in turbulent waters, desperate for a helping hand. She didn't climax, but she said that it was all right, that it was my state of mind that was important that night, not hers.
The next morning, we made love again, a little more relaxed this time, and then went out for some breakfast. At a nearby variety store, she bought me a pair of thick knee-length socks, saying that she'd found them comfortable. "Your feet were cold last night," she said. "Think of these as me, keeping you warm." I kissed her and then drove home, happier than I'd been in months.
But any fantasies I'd had about continuing the relationship were destroyed when we next met. It was at her parents' house, where she would be staying over the Christmas holidays. I would drive over just after New Year's Day, stay overnight there, and drive her back to Boston. When I got there, I found out that she'd just had a huge argument with her parents, who were dead set against her decision to become a minister. Her nerves still on edge, she took me aside and explained that what had happened the last time we met was something that was never going to be repeated. It had all been a big mistake, she said. She saw no future in our becoming lovers. Yes, I could remain a friend, but it would never go further than that. We had reached the point where our lives would diverge forever, because our destinies were not the same.
I was heartbroken. With these few words, Lynette had taken me back to that awful night when Gloria asked me for a divorce, and the blackness had descended for the first time.
I didn't tell her how shocked I was, since I wasn't at that point even ready to admit it to myself, and I didn't want to add to her level of stress. I mumbled something to the effect that it was all right, that I understood, that I was perfectly happy to let it happen the way she wanted. I stayed the night in the guest bedroom, and then drove her back to Boston the next day. I dropped her off at her dorm, drove back to North Granby, and had a nervous breakdown.
I went to bed, and didn't get up for two days. The phone would ring, but it seemed to have no importance to me, so I did not answer it. I watched the morning sun come through the shades of my bedroom, turn into afternoon sun, then fade to dark, while I lay there motionless. For the first time in my life, I felt absolutely alone.
.... There is more of this story ...