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Combat duty during the Viet Nam conflict separates two lovers prematurely.
"Come to me Michael," she said in the darkness.
As if they were the words of an angel, those four words haunted me for the next forty years of my life. Later, whenever I thought of her and in all the years that I couldn't find her, her voice resonated in my head as if she was a ghost.
"Come to me Michael," played on and on as if an endless echo in my mind.
As if she was calling me from afar and as if she wanted me to come to her now in the way that I came to her so long ago before, I so wanted to come to her but I couldn't. I so wanted to find her but I couldn't. I didn't know where she was, who she was with, or even if she was alive or dead.
Psychically calling to me, maybe she was hurt? Maybe she was in trouble? Maybe she was thinking of me as much as I thought of her every day? Maybe she was dead. I hoped she wasn't dead. I want and I need to see her for one last time to tell her that I love her, I always loved her, and have never stopped loving her.
* * * * *
Although not physically her lover yet, nonetheless I loved her. I've always loved her and will always love her. With no other woman in my life, she was my one and only. I couldn't imagine loving anyone else but her. A memory that only she could make, being that she was my first love, my one, true love, I was glad that she'd be my first lover too.
Perhaps because I had imagined her naked so often, I noticed her state of undress as soon as I entered her bedroom. With the light in the hallway behind me extinguished and with the rest of the house so dark, I stood in her bedroom doorway paralyzed by the eroticism of the moment and by her nakedness. Afraid to take another step forward, precariously perched upon the point of no return and teetering in place, I was unable to take a step back. I was about to do something that would change my life forever.
Once my eyes adjusted to the darkness of her unlit room, I could tell by the dim moonlight that peeked through the venetian blinds that, indeed, she was naked. Naked, naked, naked, the woman of my dreams and the woman of my sexual fantasies was naked, naked, naked. She sat up in bed without the modesty of a sheet and with her legs parted enough for me to see all of her. Brazen in showing me her nude form, neither embarrassed nor ashamed, she didn't make a move to cover her nudity from my leering eyes.
As if I was an artist about to paint her, I memorized every naked detail of her beautiful body. She gave me a memory that I never forgot and have masturbated over a countless number of times. Obviously for her to be sitting up like that in her bed, she wanted me to see all of her nude body. Obviously for her to be sitting up in bed like that, she wanted me as much as I wanted her.
As if she was a freak of nature instead of merely a naked woman, all I could do was to stare at her. More beautiful than I had imagined her to be without her clothes, her large, full breasts, the womanly curve of her shapely hips that swelled out from her slim waist, and her bushy, dark brown pussy were a work of feminine art. A masterpiece created by a God who obviously loved women more than he did men, I wished I looked as good as she did naked. My first time seeing a naked woman, not knowing what to do other than to stare, I was as afraid as I was sexually excited.
A masturbation machine back then, admittedly, guilty of lusting over her and sexually wanting her, every night I dreamt about seeing her naked. Even when I wasn't dreaming about seeing her naked, always imagining seeing her naked, I sexually fantasized seeing her naked while she gave me hot sex. Not ashamed to admit, especially if anyone saw her naked in the way that I was seeing her naked now, admittedly, I've masturbated over the thoughts of her naked all the time. Admittedly, whenever I saw her in her sheer nightgown, able to pinpoint the impressions her nipples made in the thin material and the dark shadow of her pubic hair, even the dark, vertical line that separated her round, firm ass cheeks, I've endlessly masturbated over those images too.
Other than seeing topless women in Playboy, she was like no woman I ever saw in any men's magazine. She was real instead of one dimensional, flat paper. Instead of smelling like magazine print, she smelled of Chanel perfume and baby powder, mixed with the musky aroma of sex. In the way that I routinely masturbated over topless, Playboy Playmates, as soon as I entered her room and saw her sitting up nude on her bed, I had an erection. Controlling the immediate urge to take things in my own hand, I wanted to pull down my fly, pull out my cock, and masturbate over the sexy nude sight of her. Only, afraid I'd offend her and ruin everything and eliminate my chances at anything, instead, I followed her lead and I was glad that I did.
With her inviting me in her bedroom to sleep with her, tonight was my special night. Tonight she'd make me a man. Tonight, for the first time, I'd be making love to a woman. Tonight was a night that I'd always remember and a night that I'd never forget for as long as I lived.
"Happy Valentine's Day Michael," she said.
"Happy Birthday," I said. "I have gifts for you in the living room."
No better day for her to be born, it's appropriate that my angel's birthday would be on Valentine's Day, the day of love.
"We'll exchange gifts later," she said while giving me a sexy look that I could discern even in the dark.
She looked at me staring at her before looking down at herself as if to see all that I could see of her.
"I leave tomorrow," I said.
