In the mid-eighties, before the internet became a household necessity, I married a good-looking Midwestern girl named Hannah. We were both twenty-one years old and full of hopes, dreams and sexual prowess. Like anyone else in that age group, I had no desire to hear anyone speak to me of the wisdom that comes with experience. I lived a full nine years in blissful ignorance until reality kicked me in the teeth.
As pretty as she was, I always thought Hannah was shy around people. On her thirtieth birthday, I decided to surprise her by coming home early with a bouquet of flowers, but the shock was on me. I walked in to find her blonde hair swaying over our upstairs neighbor Jake's lap while some guy I'd never seen before pounded her from behind.
I was no babe in the woods, but the closest I'd come to witnessing such a scene was on the pages of sleazy magazines—pictures taken at clever angles to hide the fact the guys weren't really in the girl. But Hannah and her friends weren't falsifying anything. I walked in unnoticed and stood watching as Jake's cock thumped between her lips and a pearly bead dripped from the corner of her mouth. What I witnessed may have broken my heart, but at the same time, it surpassed any erotic fantasy I had ever dreamed of.
Dumbfounded as I was, I found it in myself to ask Hannah why she did it. Still toweling her crotch, she huffed in an aloof tone, "Not everything has a reason, Sari. Some things just happen by chance. I felt bottled up...like there was nothing more. I guess I wanted to break free of that."
Needless to say, I was soon on my own. I was thirty years old, but still solid as a rock and virile as a young bull. It was a bit overwhelming at first, living in a small apartment with traffic roaring by at all hours of the night, but I adjusted in due time.
I came to appreciate the time I had to myself. No one nagged me for drinking a third or fourth beer, or tried to turn off the game I was watching. Moreover, any fear that my sex life was over was soon abated. It turned out there were ample opportunities for a man with some punch left in his potency.
It was a simple matter of going out and talking to women—at the park, the local festivals, or even a good old fashion watering hole. I still had unpacked boxes on the floor the night I took a gal named Sandra home. She was the bank teller who re-issued my debit card without Hannah's name on the account. That same night, I buried my cock in her velvety hug and groaned as a succession of viscous jets spurted my deposit into her living vault. She smiled at me the next time I saw her, twirling the rings on the fourth left finger—the ones she wasn't wearing when we hooked up.
I was getting my share and more, but I could sense the proverbial walls closing in. Sooner or later, I'd run out of prospects, or into a jealous ex. Perhaps that pressure was what motivated me to act on something that had meandered through my dreams for years, even when I was with Hannah.
I worked in the same building as a girl named Lanelle d`Chevreaux. We often chatted at lunch and took strolls around the parking lot. I had maintained my cordial composure as a married man, but tucked many deep desires in the folds between myself my spirit. Over time, we confided in each other about most anything—sometimes even our private lives. After I left Hannah, images of Lanelle filled many a restless night's sleep.
She called herself Lan for short. Her long, full auburn hair sparkled with rich ruby highlights. A peaceful quality always surrounded her. She spoke in a soft, understated voice with a song-filled tonality that soothed the senses.
Such was her etiquette that it was easy to imagine her strumming a guitar and singing beside a Volkswagen bus with peace signs all over it. But it was easier to imagine holding her hand. On our next walk I tried to do just that, but Lan denied me the honor, doubting we were compatible. Her elucidation was so sweet I wound up agreeing at first. But while Lan evaded specifics, something in her explanation told me an angel of unbolted fervor dwelt behind her hazel eyes.
Still, Lan never avoided me. She turned down two more of my half-hearted date requests, but still walked with me on our lunch break. I don't think I asked her the third time. As I recall it, I was complaining that she hadn't given me a chance. What I do remember was her statuesque pose—her auburn halo glimmering with red sparkles as the wind played with it in the midday sun. A slight but precious smile found her glossy lips as she touched my chin. "I have a story, too," she confided in her sing-song tone.
"I-I'd love to hear it," I urged.
"It's not a tale I enjoy telling. It's one of being kept...of never being allowed to express myself."
"Does it have a happy ending?"
Lan smiled and touched my cheek. "It hasn't ended yet," she tendered, gesturing for me to sit on a bench in the picnic area. "I know you've been through a lot," she continued. "But I believe everything happens for a reason. Nothing happens by chance. Baseless fears about our actuality limit us and make us believe life offers us nothing but what we see before us. That's when we blame others and act out, like your wife did."
"It wasn't acting," I quipped.
The atmosphere around me seemed to crackle as she reached for my hand. I fought to inhale—as if the air had thinned. Tingles shivered the back of my neck as her gaze fixed on mine. "I'd like you to come to my friend Cassie's home on Saturday night. She's having her friend Rhett over and the four of us may gel."
"L-like a date?"
"Not in the traditional sense, but you'll learn a lot about me. You'll understand why I've been reluctant to pursue a relationship with you."
"So, there's...still a chance?"
A gust of wind seemed to blow on cue as a full, enchanting smile raised her cheeks. "Pick me up seven thirty," she replied. "I have to get back to work."
****
That Saturday night, I picked Lan up at her modest but well-kept house just before eight o'clock. She opened the door and stepped out as I pulled my truck in the driveway. I let out a gasp at the sight of her slender form blessing a red blouse, denim skirt and strapped sandals. In my best attempt at chivalry, I ran around and opened the door for her, trying not to get caught gawking at her slender legs as she climbed in.
She was pleasant and cordial on the short drive, but not forthcoming. When I alluded to the story that might unlock the mystery of her reticence, she turned to me and smiled, pausing several seconds before singing, "Keep an open mind, Sari."
