Have You Ever Made Love To A Stranger ?

The Queens Journal

“Have you ever made love to a stranger?”
Well- I never! Well- maybe just once or twice- those were twisted times….I wasn’t myself…I ...I was grateful to rely on the kindness of strangers. For on those occasions my soul was at risk of disappearing into a sea of cruel circumstances. Betrayal was the choice weapon used . Whether it was the person I loved or my own innocence I lost myself for a time.

Once again, a stranger, someone with no past who sees me as someone with no past wants to comfort himself with me. This time, I’m also quite flattered as I no longer turn young heads.

My face and body are ads of my history, wrinkle creams, knowing a few things, grocery store roses in a bucket at the end of the day. I’m not used up…..just slightly tattered on the edges like a beloved novel in your night stand.

When did this happen? …the fading…losing one’s cheek color and gaining a deep furrow between those once sexy eyes. God-----this is a nasty trick…to punish the young by making them see their oldness with their young souls!

I draw a breath to answer. Lying…”no”..... at first then quickly confessing to a “yes”. Recovering with- this is really awkward with my sixteen year old with me.
I want an easy out of it! LIAR….you’re absolutely screaming…YES, YES, YES inside your brain.

This handsome young man proposes a scenario with the communal camp shower. I grab some dignity to dismiss that idea! He recovers as though he is reading my thoughts with…” a walk on the beach maybe?” I respond, “That’s more romantic”…letting loose an embarrassed smile.

Like two naughty children planning to rob Aunt Mary’s cookie jar, we bat glances back and forth at our joining campsites. We the plotters….my daughter the unknowing cog in our sensual wheel.

Not so lately, has she been so chatty or wanting my attention that I fear her young womanly radar has picked up the signals some how. It takes a sneak to spot a sneak!

My heart pounds with the excitement of crossing a line, rebelling against my matronly fate, of knowing something is still attractive about me….THEN I begin to act coy…you know…positioning myself so that he can watch me move about.
I’m reminded of the Saturday dances at the Knights of Columbus Hall. Catholic Saturday Night Fever…sort of! In my small Ville Cajun catholic community where everyone knows your lineage down 3 or 4 generations and the town has been deputized to protect your virginity.

We vestal virgins (most of us) would parade back and forth from the concession counter at the entrance through the dance floor to the restrooms at the back . Giving the Cajun boys a swish of our skirts, a giggle with a flash smile and pony tails bouncing left then right.

Again, I parade myself for a boy…instantly I’m a young girl hoping for a dance or maybe a kiss. But now, I have some hard earned skills. This young boy won’t go home with a little peck or possibly a slow hip grinding session on the dance floor!

He and I plan to …God…DO IT ! Now that really sounds sophomoric but I refuse to see the ugly side of reality and only see the beautiful night with thousands of stars in the sky and hear only the waves crashing against the sandy beach below us.

We sit together…on the tailgate of his truck…legs dangling…at least a foot worth of gap between us when he leans over and whispers, “I feel like a school boy, wanting to scoot over but”….I giggle like a school girl and immediately check to see if my daughter has picked up on our playfulness.

If she did, she pretends not to. Whatever!...however…we three chat about the night sky and he teaches us how to locate satellites among the stars.

It’s not a cheap cheesy torrid scene retold in Playboy…it’s not rushed with panting mouths and flinging bodies…it becomes so comfortable and natural that I lean on his shoulder as if I had always leaned on him when we sat together.

The teenager stops talking and begins to breathe slowly and deeply. She sleeps.

He slides his hand in mine. I feel no sense of urgency from him. We share a hug…then a soft sweet kiss after which he gently leads me to the secluded side of the truck. Leaning against the picnic table, I’m trembling….he’s trembling as we fully embrace. I smell cookies, he smells like sugar cookies and I comment so. He laughs. I say, “I’m going to give you a nickname….Cookie.” He smiles, he likes that.

He breathes into my ear that it’s been a very long time since he held a woman .

I say nothing…I think …”I want you to remember me, Cookie.”