| western watershed romance |
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She scared me. The first time - at least, I thought it was the first time. When the clothes fell, when we exposed ourselves - she conjured it, without either of us knowing. I wanted to run away and yet stay, bloody blaring lights screamed to stop while gleaming sylvan verdant lights seductively pleaded to go - conflict. So I instinctively walked her down to a lake, a sparkling little lake, little waves lapping gently against the sandy shore, and under the calming cover of oaks and pines, I felt safer, she kindly fucked me while I swooned, and then she left.
There were two - not just chance that both were blondes, both with snow-white skin. Certainly an innate weakness of mine, which a friend recognized even back then in our formative years. Both were warm, seemingly not caught up in the fucking pecking-order games, both seemingly quite content with a quiet but well-lived life. And both were very approachable for me, to me. One always surprised me by greeting me warmly, excitedly, with joy in her eyes and smile. The other I remember most when on the bus, the dirt-spattered hearse that toted us past fresh and pure snow to that horrible mausoleum of budding misanthropy. My heart fluttered when I saw her boarding that stinking, piss-hued casket, and now, even now, 30 years later, merely the thought of her ascending the walkway steps and then cruising down the aisle towards me, filling ever more of my vision, causes my heart to ripple a little. She smelled of Heaven, she had this ambrosia to her that enchanted me and scared me. Amazing young women - wish I could've not only gotten into their pants, but also their hearts and minds. I bet they had a lot to offer in all three. I, unfortunately, was too scared to offer much of any of what I had in those categories, so we never did.
Rippling cream-colored sundress, long, silky chocolate hair, cute dimples - I took her, of all places, to a fucking McDonald's, my lame attempt at dispensing with elaborate courting ritual. And where did I take her after that? To a lake, of course, but this one bigger, a mysterious one, one not cute but enigmatic, alluring. Took her to a spot I knew intimately, for the smallmouth and green sunnies and occasional bruiser brown trout were common inhabitants, so I was, too. The light fell so golden, it matched her rippling dress so well. Pink happy nipples, a vibrant white body, heat shimmering off us both, candy kisses, and we awkwardly connected, physically if not much emotionally or intellectually, in the falling golden light, and then in a rising silver shimmer from a round, helpful moon. That was the first time with her - and the last.
Over crumbly rock of a cold, braided stream, an unstable stream, by which an old cabin with rusty-brown timbers tottered nearby. Across the stream, a little creek, free-falling from the towering mountains above, and we traced a trail switch-backing up a side canyon to a little falls, little falls in the frozen winter air. We sat by the falls for a while, quiet. She imbibed the same fucked-up art I did while possessing a haunted, phantom beauty; such an unlikely union had me reeling. Her totality had me so wanting but so terrified, and so my behavior - bewildering, even in that disarming setting. A mass of internal conflict, entangled, leaving very little left to extend to her. Hard to decipher anything at that time, all those energies flowing without understanding their source or their destination, and even in that sparkling, pristine winter scene - side by side, thigh against thigh, yet separated by an endless gulf. We left the canyon in silence.
She of glittering eyes,
pouting, pouty, full red lips, rouge, big beautiful tits intimated by
the shadowy cleavage that promised such lovely vistas when the sun
shone on the shore exposed. She epitomized, exuded sultriness, like Liz
Taylor in her prime. Mischievous eyes, brilliant, bold - she frequently
shoplifted pocket-rocket bottles of booze from convenience stores when
we were in high school, no doubt employing her gifts, her charms, to
achieve that booty by mesmerizing the starry-eyed clerks, the young
fellars, manning the counters. I bet they thought it was worth it. Bold
and cunning and aloof. She once asked me if I had a role model, and I
responded with Greg Graffin - Bad Religion's No Control was my
Bible at the time, with Graffin the Jesus. She sighed, then stated that
she wished she admired someone, but she didn't - she had no one. Now I
realize why - she didn't need one. She was to lead, not be
led.
We only fucked around once, a product of
mistaken readings on my part coupled with a fiery lust totally
unharnessed to sentiment or love or fidelity or any other emotion.
Drunk, big party, she sat on my lap for what seemed like hours,
laughing, and the friction kept stoking my lust. But I've little doubt
she was sitting on my lap as if she would a brother, a father, a family
member, certainly not a lover. Good friends. Anyway, when alone with
her later, I tried exposing those luscious lovely rolling Edenic hills
of hers, and she stopped me but quick, shocked - and me, totally
embarrassed. She handled it afterwards with such class, however - I
apologized, and she breezily dismissed it, and our friendship picked up
where it left off unabated. Given her sultriness, she was probably used
to dealing with untoward advances.
I really did love her as a friend - but
only as a friend. Though my mind's weathering has erased the details, I
remember candid conversations in her bedroom on the icy north side of
the mountain. On an old photo I have of her, she apologized for some
slight she caused me. That she knew about the insult means I discussed
it with her, suggesting some candor from me to her - probably about my
home situation. A sign of good friends. She and I, driving in my
battered truck, stereo blaring to its maximum the Pixies' Doolittle,
both of us screaming in unison to "Wave of Mutilation" and "Here Comes
Your Man." A sign of great friends. But nothing more. Aside from that
drunken misstep, a smidgen of something more neither occurred between
us nor entered my mind. Now as I sit here, thinking of the copious
possibilities of those lost years - she just wasn't one of 'em. Too
many differences. She - adept at dealing with people, smooth,
Machiavellian, assertive, could've been a fine politician. Me - clumsy
with people, naive at times. She - clearly some ego, some
self-reliance, while I was so frequently - and will be to some extent
'til my life's end - rootless. She was fucking gorgeous, a physically
beautiful human, while me back then - not so much; I just wasn't
comfortable in my own skin, and I know it showed. She loved chaos in
the world around her, while I needed an obsessive external order since
my mind was the chaos. While some difference needs to exist between two
people to be lovers - need that to grow - much common ground needs to
exist, too, and she and I - nowhere near enough. Yet we related in two
important ways: we were smart, and, further, our family situations
similarly sucked ass. But a big difference - she had herself to fall
back on when the family failed, her guile, her beauty, her charms, they
could always snag a dude (and I know of two good guys which they did),
whereas I had nothing but murk within myself to hold fast, and I
certainly had no attributes to attract a lady with which to help
stabilize my life, give it some meaning: I hid what I had that was
worthy to give, and the dark part of my mind, the stained part of my
heart, neither of which I could acknowledge, most women subconsciously
perceived. The friends, however, her included, saved me from decaying
to complete psychopathy.
I saw her years later after middle age
had hit me with beer gut and fat face and sloth and a little
self-awareness (though not enough), but she was still gorgeous. Still
slim, eyes still glittering with a malevolent glee, still aloof. Yet
she did seem more pensive than when we were young. I never saw her
again after that brief encounter - I know she never needed to see me
again after that brief encounter.
I thought of her last night. I
pause. What a woman. Self-sufficient, smart, sardonic, curvaceous and
cute, wild like a wild huntress of the forest and yet somehow in
control, like an implacable rock surrounded by a crashing, swirling
ocean. She was my date to a friend's wedding, and goddamn did the opal
sparkling dress she wore perfectly accentuate her swoops and swales
while matching her opal eyes. Uncanny ability to detect bullshit, and
intolerant of that bullshit. God, we had such resonance, which even one
of her boyfriends noted, but we never reached the logical conclusion -
fuckin'. I know why - together, we would've self-destructed. She had a
firm foundation within her, and I didn't - I was a pliable sand grain
thrown about by that swirling, violent ocean. She was a responsible
adult on her own, while I lived with my mommy like a bitch. She could
sense that I really didn't know how to take care of myself - renting my
own abode, managing my money, basic shit like that - so if we'd hooked
up, I'd've threatened to crumble her in a spiraling drunken dive to
dissolution and destitution. But Christ, we connected so much in our
misanthropy, our sarcasm, and, I think, when I was cookin', had my shit
reasonably together - I really made her happy. You can see it in the
last shot I have of her.
Years later, and she, through
Internet-sleuthing, contacted me. She was very open, at least in the
beginning, of our relationship's renewal. But when I responded and
probed deeper and planned to roll down to her town and visit her -
Hell, I even called and left a message - she never responded. Total
silence. That was years ago.
The first episode - ecstasy.
She fanned the fire of life in me, she of honey hair and ambered skin,
so fucking earthy. In her apartment, next door to my buddy's, and we
just connected, the conversation just bloomed and ascended, the energy
oscillating between us and ever amplifying, the excitement accelerating
for us both. It was real. But for some stupid fucking reason I left her
for my buddy's apartment, and, as was my wont at the time, proceeded to
pour down the booze with a bunch of other boozehounds. Meanwhile, a
better-looking, more well-adjusted friend of mine took my relinquished
role in her apartment, and he fucked her. A few hours passed, he
returned, then spun for us the tale of his adventure.
Second episode - I returned to her
apartment, booze sparking the tinder of lust, no doubt primed in part
by my friend achieving the golden dream so quickly. But the connection
between she and I had been severed, and rather than the sentiment and
empathy I channeled earlier, all that I let flow was lust, and her
daily allotment of lust had already been burned up. I stubbornly
persisted, however, shamefully, trying to seduce, placing empty kisses
on unwilling lips, unfeeling hands on unresponsive tits. Finally, she
told me - and she had to tell me given I was so insensitive to her body
language - that she would've been overjoyed had our conversation
earlier expanded and culminated in that golden dream, but now - it was
too late. Clearly, I'd been deaf and blind to her initial invitation.
So back to my buddy's apartment I stumbled, alone, dejected, and I
passed out on his couch, only to wake the next morning and never see
that honey-gilded girl again.
Now I know why - I never gave all of me
to her. I talked and laughed freely with her about so many shared
feelings and views, but I couldn't add lust to that - it just would've
been too much of me out, dangling, vulnerable. And with my lust
repressed and dormant, her suggestion went unnoticed, unmet. Later, the
opposite - the lust flowed fiercely, but I was too scared to let the
potential of my loins fuse with that of my heart and mind, and then all
of that - all of me - with her. I was just too fucking scared, too
scared to be whole man to her and for her, a pattern that would recur,
and one further stained by increasingly donning another face.
Bukowski's dream, a "...filly
with 40-inch breasts and a fine big ass and eyes like the sky after a
good rain." Midnight eyes, God, yellow hair that flowed forever, like
sunbeams arcing across a windswept sapphire sky, lunar curve and sway
of tits and ass, and legs, too, streamer-cloud legs that stretched
forever, voice a robin's melody. The moment I saw her, I was struck,
enchanted. Like me, she was a drunken disaster zone, barely holding it
together by busting ass at two lame jobs then drowning the soul-robbing
mundane toil in heroic volumes of booze. And she, like me, seemed lost
and yet self-aware enough, smart enough, to sense that she was in a
haze but just couldn't see her way out of it. Nevertheless, I felt
daunted by her to take an honest chance - felt I just wasn't worthy
enough for her physical beauty, let alone her mind - dumb she wasn't. I
walled myself from her with a false facade, and damn, even now, so many
years later - I can feel it, can feel the bland board of plywood I
erected to protect and hide a frightened, damaged young man, the
thinnest veneer of bullshit, the board adorned with the specter of a
guy I thought she'd like, assuming that who I actually was was someone
she wouldn't. I remember faking a nonchalant, don't-give-a-fuck act
with her once when we were drowning in cheap draft beer and cheaper
bottom-shelf gin, her following me down the dark, cold sidewalk,
pleading with me to return with her to the dive bar. Of course the
truth was opposite - I cared deeply, desired deeply, she filled my eyes
with wonder, and certainly our ailing souls resonated to some
degree.
But one night - one night. I threw a big
bash at my house, where I felt comfortable, where I could be more
myself, be more open than usual, let the false face fade. She came, she
came in all her sunbeam glory, and amid the laughter and bright,
smiling faces of so many young, vibrant people, still with so much
potential, the atmosphere was likewise warmer than that chill, shitty
night on the sidewalk. With the door of me cracked open, more energy
flowed between us, an authentic energy, somehow evolving to only us,
upstairs, alone, in shadow, on the landing, talking, her midnight eyes
glittering like the galaxy in a new-moon night. We kissed - once, and
only once - and it was the best kiss of my life to that point, and,
y'know, it remains so even now, over two decades later. It was as if
she put everything, all of her heart and soul and mind and body, into
that one kiss, overwhelming me, selflessly giving me all of her. She
then went downstairs, leaving me alone and mesmerized, and she
disappeared - for good.
I wish I would've had the foresight to
thank her. I wish I would've had the self-awareness to have learned the
lesson when she taught it.
Twinkling twilight eyes she had. Her hair, it draped long, a rich auburn. Voluptuous - perfect curves of hips, of ass, of tits, even her forearms and hands, full ruby lips, and those twilight eyes. She worked her ass off, in jeans, collared shirt, big brown work boots, often the graveyard shift that so many others shunned. She was warm and yet spoke rarely, but when she did speak, the warmth came through in her voice, in her velvet laugh. She lived out in the forest amid the mountains, where I longed to live. A dreaminess enveloped her and emanated from her, like she was brushed with and breathed stardust. She seemed so pure, so good, and I - I wasn't. I was tainted, stained, unwilling to give what I had, tossing out bullshit instead, acting imperious, not magnanimous, seeking to impress, not engage. The key to her heart certainly wasn't a pedantic display of shallow intelligence or superficial wit - it was a gentle touch, an attentiveness to subtle signs, a connection with her twilight eyes that my words could only tarnish. I would've tarnished her.
She clutched a bottle in one
hand, can in the other - that's how I first saw her. My kinda girl.
Black dress slacks, silky sky-blue halter top, luxuriant, never-ending
almond hair, slurred speech and drunk off her ass. REALLY my kinda
girl. But that night, we only bullshitted - no hanky-panky, kinda like
how it should usually be. The night blackened, blackening by booze, and
when I roused in the morning, I had nothing from her - no name, no
number, nuthin'.
But a beauty my age on the mountain -
that was a precious jewel that I just couldn't let escape, so I asked
around about her. Got a name. Then, somehow, a number. I took a deep
breath, then rang her up. Nice conversation - I think my humor worked -
that resulted in a date. As was typical for that period, I did a banal
date thing - fuckin' dinner at a decent, rather renowned eatery. The
dinner flowed pleasantly enough - I teased many laughs out of her. I
certainly recall watching those hips, that full ass, sway in time with
her swinging hair as I walked behind her to the food joint. She kissed
me when I dropped her off at her cute little A-frame, in a blue-black
mountain-chilled night, and I recall nearly feeling like a stable,
middle-class guy - of course, a self-delusion.
A second one. This time, her
house - just us two. Another typical date thing, albeit a bit more
heartfelt - we planned to cook dinner together, then watch a flick or
two I rented - I recall one was that George Clooney country-singin'
convict flick, O
Brother, Where Art Thou? She was fucking gorgeous - she'd
curled her hair, enhancing her lusty bounce; her face was clean, fresh,
rose on each cheek; a tight black glittering shirt revealed the curve
and sway of her tits as she dipped and rose from tending the oven. As
we baked dinner, I imitated, of all people, Rodney in Back to School
when he slapped together that giant hoagie out of tedious hors
d'oeuvres...fucking ridiculous. Then to her plush couch, below a
massive window overlooking the deck, and we popped the movie in, but we
didn't get much into it - got into each other instead. She smelled of
Heaven. Her shirt came off fairly quick, and then those gorgeous tits -
the epitome of form, perfect pink nipples, which she quickly shoved
into my mouth. She paused, looked at the big window, and commented that
we'd already fogged up the whole damn thing. So far, so good. Then I
got everything off of her, and the beauty continued - from the
chestnut, bouncy hair, to her dove's neck, to those delectable tits,
down to her smooth belly and cute li'l belly button, sine-curve hips
and milky thighs leading to milky calves and even the cutest little
feet with artfully painted toenails. I dove into her then, but I was
still wholly clothed - that deep, and I got scared. I abhorred my body
back then, for myriad reasons, and I must've felt that if she saw it,
she'd be disgusted, too. Certainly an unusual twist in the
actualization of lust, one fully covered and the other fully exposed,
one closed and one open, though whatever equivocation she may have felt
at that point had little room to expand with my head between her legs.
But after she came - it must've, because an ambiguity haunted the rest
of the night as we lazed on her soft bed, and it persisted into the
next morning. She had to have detected something, that something wasn't
quite right about me, even if she did get a euphoric shuddering out of
the encounter.
I spoke to her once more on the phone,
but I never saw her in the flesh again, like so many others. I've
little doubt I scared her, a fear that if I'd just been honest - that I
ain't some suave motherfucker, that I ain't some middle-class
well-adjusted American, that intimacy scares me because I'm so insecure
- would've very likely disappeared. And then I likely would've seen her
again.
She was a nurse, which impressed me -
that young and already so accomplished. And I believe she owned that
cute little A-frame - doubly impressive. But what I remember most about
my time with her was that just before I knocked on her door that second
night, a fresh, pure powder snow had fallen, gracing everything with
glittering promise, a silver, full moon beaming down and bouncing all
around a kaleidoscopic violet hue.
She was dreamy, like mist
somehow. She worked at the local grocery store, where I still had some
friends. Beautiful caramel skin corralled by a white-collared button-up
shirt when at work, poorly concealing her full tits, black little cute
bow tie around her smooth neck. Deep green eyes, and caramel-yellow
hair, thick, soft, like a bed of feathers. And that otherworldliness, a
mysticism, like mist - I don't recall her saying very much, but I've
little doubt she communicated elegantly with her eyes, her body, her
movements. She was like the tall pines that swish and sway in that
mountain wind, her skin kissed gold and made one with the shimmering
sun. She promised so much to one who really listened and
looked.
I threw a party, and she came. I was
pretty aggressive back then, striving to mimic a more suave friend of
mine, so I went after her. But while my friend was always so open and attentive, a
wonderful listener, just always in tune with the other person,
especially women - I only was in the most superficial sense. I could
make 'em laugh, and I could imitate enough, but it was a thin veneer,
and when that veneer had been penetrated - I recoiled. At least I
looked reasonably good and displayed some intelligence. Whatever it
was, it was enough: I hooked her that night, no doubt with booze
chaperoning. Too, not enough time passed for her to dig deep and scare
me - the lust overcame that. But a fuckin' envious buddy, he
interrupted us just as we were about to get fully naked, killing the
momentum, and then she left with no trace, no phone number, not a
thing. A familiar refrain.
But not too long after, I ran into her
again. I was washing my truck on a beautiful summer day in Arrowbear at
a car wash adjacent to a nursery overflowing with flowers and plants.
She was working in the flowers and plants, and I can't recall if she
noticed me or me her - I think the latter. Suggests that she worked in
the floral department at the grocery store - it would've fit, her being
beautiful, the beauty of flowers. Backlit by the cheery mountain sun,
she glistened, sparkling. We chatted for a bit in that beautifully
serene mountain day, but I neither asked for her number nor a date -
just too scared. Somehow, though, as I drove away - probably without
all of her in front of me, overwhelming me, which booze certainly
abated in our first encounter - I bossed up, called the nursery, spoke
to her, and asked her out. She accepted. And then I repeated the lame
old imitation of a typical guy thing: took her out to a decent eatery,
and I think - no, I know - I tried to be a worldly guy, when I really
wasn't. I drank too much during dinner, which, of course, was to calm
my fear, my fear of me.
Nevertheless, still, I guess I still interested her enough because she
invited me to her cute little house, to which I brought a whole bunch
more beer. We lounged on her deck, under glistening stars, and I poured
the booze on, loosening the doors of lust and shutting the doors to me. We fucked
around, but I could feel, even through my numbness, her interest fading
fast. With only my lust flowing and firing my actions with no other
emotion, she felt cheap, like she'd been swindled. She had. Ironically,
so had I - if I'd opened up and just been the damaged me, at least
there would've been some depth and some authenticity to complement the
lust. As the night progressed, she started doing household chores, a
clear gesture that her interest had vanished despite my attempts at
romance. I finally got the hint and then left, drunk, driving wildly
back to my home with The
Downward Spiral raging, some resonance bouncing between
the forlorn music and my lonely soul, a lonely soul that had nothing
but itself to blame.
I never saw her again.
My apologies.