Chapter 2

I went to college, got a master’s degree, and became a history professor. My wife was a music professor at State also. We bought an old home right near the college and were well-liked by our students and often visited by many of them when they became alumni. When we retired, we would often sit on our front porch and watch students go by, inviting some in to have dinner and became friends. Two couples met and married as a result.

In our 39th year of marriage, Doris was diagnosed with cancer. I lost her just before our 40th anniversary. Though I never had anything but happiness in my marriage, including an adventurous sex life, the memory of two other women never faded in my heart. The first was Chantelle Saunders who I knew for just one day in high school. I always wished I could have at least dated her and gotten an idea of why I felt so strongly about her. The second was Ruby—I never knew her last name. Both were black. Both were Christian, but one was a prostitute.

As a teacher, I felt friendly toward some of my Black students who never became friends. In retirement though, a few years before Doris died, we met two students on separate occasions. The first was a young woman by the name of Sharon Sowell. Both of us were attracted to this most by the imperial way she walked by that evening as we were sitting on our porch. I called out “Hello.” She stopped and a lengthy conversation followed. Her smile held a world of happiness. I couldn’t get the feeling out of my mind that she was the representation of Chantelle Saunders, the girl I met in high school. We invited her in for dinner, and she accepted. We became friends. Along the way, She met Ash Balfour another such student friend. They married and had children, both of which received full scholarships at Stanford.

The year after Doris’ passed was a difficult period of mourning for me. About three months into my second year without Doris I met an art professor who was at least twenty years my junior. Kelly was a free spirit who convinced me to sit for a nude portrait. Her artistic fetish was male sexual organs. She showed me numerous pen and ink drawings on the subject. She also told me that I possessed a helmeted glans which she considered “gorgeous.” Like any man, I’ve always adored my penis. I loved how she complimented mine which reminded me of Ruby, the prostitute in Louisville who said, “WOO WEE white boy, yoah manhood is stupefyin ole Ruby.” Kelly reactivated my libido and we cohabitated for over six months. When she accepted the post of Department Head at a large Florida University our relationship ended. I missed Kelly and missed the sex, which was the best I had since Doris.

One night when I was just finishing the dishes the phone rang. “Peter?” the voice on the phone said, “This is Sharon Balfour.” The image of my former student and friend flooded my mind. She was a stunning Black girl from Kenya who had a regal bearing. In my mind if ever there was a model for an African queen Sharon Sowell Balfour would have been it. As a child, she had been displaced during the devastating tribal wars in her country. Rescued by a Methodist minister and his wife by the name of Balfour, she was adopted by them and taken back to Baltimore where she grew up. At 5’8”, Sharon was slender and beautiful. The last time I had seen her, twenty-two years earlier she had a gorgeous, wasp-like figure. But her most stunning asset was her clear hazel eyes. A bit on the yellow side she reminded me of a lioness. Her slender proportions were normal for her size, but she moved like a primal being elegantly like she might have been primitive royalty.

“SHARON,” I said in shocked surprise. We had been close when she was in college. Doris had stood up for her as matron of honor at her hastily planned wedding –she was four months pregnant. “I’m thrilled to hear from you.” We had corresponded for a while but as life has a way of doing, we grew apart. “How’s Ash?”

“I lost Ash two years ago Peter; four years ago, he was diagnosed with ALS (Lou Gehrig’s Disease).” Her voice became sadly weak as she said, “He just withered away and died Peter ... just withered away. I’m still sad. He was such a great man and a wonderful father to Enoch. But I don’t want to whine about it. I did that for a year. I have finally grown to accept it. How’s Doris?”

“I’m not going to whine either Sharon. Doris died of cancer eighteen months ago.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry Peter.” I could tell she was by the sound of her quavering voice. “I loved Doris. She was like a mother to me.”

A fine daughter I thought, you haven’t kept in touch very well which made me feel bad for my thoughts. Doris and I had let the friendship lapse as well. Apparently, we had not thought enough of it to keep it alive.

“I’m shocked to hear of your loss, Peter. I’m ashamed to say that Ash and I haven’t been very good friends to you and Doris.”

“Don’t beat yourself up, Sharon. We wanted to keep the friendship alive but are guilty of being out-of-sight and out-of-mind friends as well. But we let two important people slip through our fingers. What has it been now, twenty-two years?”

“Yes Peter, exactly. I’m forty-three and you’re what, sixty-two?”

“Yep.”

“Here we are two lonely people—at least I’m lonely—who have lost the most important people in our lives and ... I have to tell you Peter, though you were older, and you were my professor, I had such a crush on you while I was in school. It was a serious crush. Had you not been married to Doris I think I might have embarrassed myself over you. But she was such a good friend to me”

When a person is stunned by a startling compliment a good “AHEM” comes in handy and I gave her one. I remembered Sharon in class. She was a distraction for me. With her, in the room, I always spoke from my desk rather than standing in front of the class where a beautiful African queen attended. I was never without a tell-tale bulge in my pants when she was in the room.

“Well Sharon, I suppose you might have inkled that my feelings for you might have made me a little shy about standing up in front of the class. You were the only student who ever affected me that way so intensely.” I laughed. She and Doris had become such good friends that Doris told her about it at the time.

With a devilish giggle on the other end of the phone, Sharon said, “I didn’t hear about that until after the semester had ended, Doris told me all about it.”

Feeling the rims of my ears heat up I said, “I didn’t realize you and Doris talked about such intimate stuff Sharon.”

“She WAS my matron of honor Peter. We were close friends. We both shared intimate secrets with one another. I’ve never had another friend like Doris.” She went quiet. I heard a sniffle. “I-I just didn’t realize she was gone, Peter. What kind of friend have I been to find out that someone so important to me has died?” Snorting in derision she said, “And I didn’t even know she was ill.”

I felt confused. On the one hand, I felt betrayed. On the other, I wanted to know what Sharon Balfour knew about me. Imagining her the way she used to walk into my class I felt my penis pushing against the fabric of my pants. “What else do you know about me, Sharon?”

“I’m not going to have this kind of conversation on the phone, Peter.” There was another sniffle. “Your news has caught me up so short that I don’t know what to say.” Pausing she went on, “I’m in town Peter. I’ve come for a publishing conclave at the university and will be here for a few days. I was hoping to reconnect with Doris ... and you but.”

“Are you staying at the Inn Sharon?” I didn’t like how uncomfortable I felt trying to make conversation with this long-ago friend, so I decided to impose myself. “Maybe I can come over for a drink.”

“Yes, a drink.” She sounded distracted. “Can we meet in the bar in an hour Peter? I wanted to see you and Doris so badly. Now I desperately feel like I want to talk with you face to face.”

The bar of the University Inn was not crowded, it was dinner time, and the restaurant was full. In the old days, I would need to have looked hard to see Black clientele at the Inn. Thankfully, times had changed and there were numerous patrons of color in the bar and restaurant. It wasn’t difficult to recognize the single Black lady sitting at a table for two along the wall. Sharon Balfour at forty-two was quite recognizable, thicker which only made her appear more sophisticated but no less desirable. She still appeared taller than five feet four inches and was so elegant. She wore a business suit but would have been even more appealing in Nigerian native garb. The way she waved her hand and smiled it was obvious she recognized me. In the dimly lit room, her brilliantly white teeth lit up her space in as if she were a well-recognized celebrity. Getting out of her chair she seemed to rise from the floor as if she were part of it. She extended her hand, but I brushed it aside and gave her a warm hug.

“Mm,” she murmured, “You’ve always given the best hugs. And how I used to fantasize about you when I was your student.” Our relationship in her during her college days had always been appropriate even if she overstimulate me. At no time during those days though had she exuded the raw sexuality which worked its magic upon me at that moment.

Just as she had when she was a coed any contact with her seemed primeval, the skin beneath her clothing exuded heat and sensuality, which always left me with an erection. “Oh Peter,” she said as she felt my growing bulge pressing against her, “age hasn’t tempered your libido, I see,” her hand sliding from my waist and patting my butt.”

“All I can say Sharon is if it not for Doris you might have experienced more of it.”

She chuckled, “Men will always be boys. But had you and Doris communicated better you would have. She and I did.”

“Did what?”

“Communicated better and did it.”

“You ... and Doris? It being sex?”

“Yes, Doris and me...” she grinned, “and it was more than just sex. It was a special kind of bonding. I still can’t believe we drifted apart.”

Taking my hand she said, “This is a strange way to have our first conversation in twenty-two years. And It might have been even stranger had Doris been alive and well and we would have met the same way.” She sniffled. I looked more intensely into her eyes and realized how puffy they were. She had been crying. “Learning of Doris’ death hit me hard. What’s wrong with us Peter for abandoning each other this way?”