Author's Note:
This is my first, and potentially only, story. It's written from my perspective as a straight man. I hope it's not alienating for female readers. There's a bit of exposition before the naughty stuff, which I truly felt was necessary to convey the emotions and circumstances of the encounter. I also found it challenging to write about sex descriptively without it becoming either overburdened by tropes or cloyingly poetic. I'm sure this story isn't a perfect success, but I hope someone finds it interesting. I welcome feedback. Thanks for reading.
...
Her name was Angie. We hadn't seen each other in years. She was my high school crush. It had been the quintessential essence of a crush; the emotional namesake of the word, an excruciating and inescapable unrequited love that only a teenager could conjure and endure, the metaphorical crushing of my self worth. She was an acutely painful memento of my adolescent failings.
Twenty years later we reconnected on social media, and in some potentially misguided attempt to redeem my younger self I admitted to her all of the things I had felt for her those many years ago.
In high school I kept this crush a secret. I was far too self conscious and miserable to even entertain the possibility that my attraction to her might have been mutual, but in hindsight it didn't seem so implausible. We were both quirky and awkward. We shared endless humor and a certain irreverence for both authority and convention. We were a couple of young punks. I completely adored her. There was a time in my life when she nearly consumed my every waking thought. We had a kind of chemistry and joy together that I have never felt with anyone since.
Now we were adults, both of us in our late thirties, both married with children. We had grown into our adult minds, bodies, and lives. Maybe we had become old punks.
For many months Angie and I texted and chatted, often into the late hours. We seemingly never ran out of things to say. Eventually she confirmed my suspicion and sincerest hope that she had also been in love with me in high school. But that was the ancient past. Who can trust anything they thought or felt in high school?
The humor and chemistry between us hadn't diminished. In a way, it felt like we picked up right where we left off as teenagers, but now with the confidence and honesty of adults we fondly reminisced and lamented our past mistakes. If either of us had possessed the courage to be vulnerable our lives might have followed closer trajectories. I didn't necessarily regret hiding my feelings for her. My life had been fine. But I did feel a dull ache of sadness that we hadn't stayed close. I felt like I'd missed years of important friendship that I let go simply because it was too painful to reconcile my hidden desire. We had to distance ourselves for survival. Or at the least, I had to. My heartbreak was too oppressive and unsustainable.
We still lived close to each other, so at last it seemed the next apparent step in our reacquaintance was to meet for a drink. I can't remember whether I suggested it or she did. It doesn't matter. We both wanted it. We were unalterably moving in that direction. I told myself it was innocent. I had many female friends I saw regularly. There was nothing ostensibly inappropriate about meeting an old friend for a drink. I allowed myself this justification. It was an emergency exit of plausible deniability, but on the periphery of my conscious mind I knew I was still deeply attracted to Angie and wanted to explore where this rekindled feeling might lead. I wanted to stand close enough to the edge to get a sense of how it might feel to leap. I should have known it was a perilous step toward infidelity simply from the excitement I felt when we scheduled the date, but I ignored my conscience in favor of my desires.
Does this make me a bad man? Am I cruel? Am I weak? Do I lack the willpower to resist my base desires in favor of loyalty and long term happiness? I still wonder.
I won't mention my wife much in this story. The truth is, what follows has almost nothing to do with her. Stories involving marital infidelity frequently include excuses. People often recount tales of sexual and emotional neglect or resentment to dull the edge of betrayal. My wife didn't meet my every need, but who could? She was, by and large, a faithful and caring companion. My desire for Angie was born of its own accord. The human heart is fickle and inscrutable. This should be apparent to most people. How many can honestly say they've loved one and only one person?
I intentionally arrived at our meeting place early. It was a small cocktail bar familiar to me, but new to her. I wanted to find a good spot at the bar and calm my nerves before our meeting. She also arrived early, but luckily not quite as early as I. After claiming two seats I nervously eyed the door. Moments later she breezed into the bar wearing a soft coral colored summer dress. Her hair was darker and longer than she wore it in high school. It was wavy and appeared freshly styled. She had a woman's hips and a modest chest. Her arms were willowy and delicate and looked like porcelain in her sleeveless dress. She had changed in many ways, but her eyes were the same arresting shade of glacial blue as I remembered. She looked even more beautiful now than ever to my aging eyes.
I was keenly aware of how I might look to her. I had filled out into a man's body. My hair, once free and shaggy, was now thinning and I wore it cut closely, nearly shaved. I kept a short and neatly trimmed beard. I now wore glasses. I was in reasonably good shape. I'd become an avid runner and did strength training regularly, but I certainly didn't have a perfectly lean and chiseled body. My body was like a familiar tool, scratched and scarred over thirty-eight years of frequent use. It served me well, but wasn't a thing of beauty. I also looked very different than I had in my youth. I thought it was possible she'd be disappointed that I didn't match her image of me. But as an adult I no longer feared rejection. I could only present myself truly and accept whatever response I received with grace and dignity.
My fears that our reunion might be awkward evaporated instantly when I saw her. I surprised myself by popping off of my barstool and hurrying to greet her with a warm embrace. She returned my hug enthusiastically and we took our seats smiling like the giddy teenagers we once had been.
We began talking uncertainly. For months our only interaction had been through text. We'd discussed all kinds of intimate things. We were deeply acquainted. But being in each other's presence, making eye contact, and hearing each other's voices for the first time in at least ten years felt like it put our relationship into a new context. I think we both had to feel the conversation out slowly.
Our one drink gradually turned into several drinks and five hours of talking, laughing, subtly rubbing shoulders and elbows, brushing knees, and making any excuse at all to initiate physical contact. We talked about our lives, reminisced over shared childhood memories, bridged the past to the present, and flirted shamelessly. It was fucking magical and simultaneously clearly crossing the line. But there seemed to be a tacit agreement between us to maintain a platonic facade. We both felt the energy of what was happening but didn't openly acknowledge it.
I'd love to recount our conversation in detail. In truth, I don't remember the content of it all. I'd simply be making it up to provide dialog. But I'll never forget her looking me in the eye and gripping my bicep.
"I thought you were the coolest person in school. You didn't give a shit what anyone thought of you. You were just always yourself. I thought you were a rockstar," She said.
"That's exactly how I felt about you," I admitted. "But it's not that I didn't care what other people thought. I did, and it hurt. It's that I couldn't be anyone else."
Somehow I felt like we understood each other in a way that neither of us had been understood by others. More than understanding, maybe it was that we shared a very deep and sincere appreciation for each other. We saw each other as uniquely special. We were enthralled by each other's idiosyncrasies. Our flaws and quirks were just beguiling details that made us real to each other. I can't read her mind, but this is what I felt.
