Give & Take Among Friends

I lay in bed continuing to think about my beloved Lila as she slept peacefully.

When I met her, she was a virgin, a status that just did not fit a vivacious, beautiful, intelligent and talented young woman of 22. After a passionate encounter in which I gave her as much pleasurable motivation as she would allow, I asked her to think about allowing me to change that status. She did give it some thought, and on a dinner date the following weekend, looked me directly in the eyes and told me she was open to pursuit of that educational advancement.

We went back to my apartment, and engaged in a long passionate embrace with tongue interplay. After getting some of our breath back, she quoted something ancient-sounding.

“His speech is most sweet, and he is altogether desirable. This is my beloved and this is my friend, O daughters of Jerusalem,” She looked tenderly at me. I needed interpretation. “That’s the king’s lover who became his queen, describing him after she moved into the palace with his other concubines. It’s from the Song of Solomon.”

“Does that mean we have the go-ahead from the Bible?”

She smiled. “Ecclesiastical interpretation differs. I think many in the church are embarrassed and discomfited by many biblical passages. There’s another of her verses that I like too. ‘A bundle of myrrh is my well beloved unto me; he shall lie all night betwixt my breasts.’ ”

“I like the way that chick sings to Solomon,” I said. “How about your own interpretation. You’re not made uncomfortable by it, are you?”

She shook her head, those deep brown eyes wide open and so inviting.

I took her hand and led her into the bedroom, and we shed our clothing for preliminaries similar to our genesis of the week before. I then positioned myself between her legs and entered her gently. Her beautiful face took on a new look of wonder, tinged perhaps with a hint of pain as her hymen stretched in an extreme, unfamiliar manner. I took my time, apologizing for the discomfort, kissing her brow and murmuring words of love that may not have been as eloquent as Solomon’s but as sincere as any I ever mouthed before with any woman. Before long, she was playing through the pain, getting into the rhythm, making soft exclamations of pleasure as her respiration rate grew, until she finally exclaimed something very unbiblical as her vaginal muscles contracted. I managed to hold it through her second orgasm before joining her in praise of the heavenly experience. It had lasted the better part of a half hour. When it was over she acknowledged it as a sublime experience.

And it became even better over time, without the initial pain and with the advanced pleasure that education brought. She was an apt pupil, her long legs wrapped around me, hips gyrating in new ways, learning all the postures and movements to increase the sublimity of physical love, just as Solomon’s lover had long before. At the end of the semester, she graduated, left the dorm and moved into my apartment. We lived together the next two years, as she took courses toward her teaching credentials.

Then came the problem. I developed an attachment to a young woman at work, a new hire with a sparkling smile, ready laugh and independent views, not to mention a very well-proportioned body. After leaving the office evenings, Kim and I sometimes visited a nearby bar, swapping stories about our reporter beats and issues of the day over beer and sandwiches. She was fun to be with and very accessible, hungry for male companionship after recovering from an emotional breakup with a longtime boy friend. We liked each other, and it was almost inevitable that a strong attraction would grow into something more. We went to her apartment one night, smoked a little weed and wound up having passionate sex on a floor rug between two giant speakers blaring out A Question of Balance by the Moody Blues. It was not just a one night stand. Other assignations followed, once on a desk in the office after hours.

I felt a little guilty about stepping out on Lila, but rationalized that at this point in my relationships career I was still young and not ready to cease “sewing wild oats.” I had never yet formed an exclusive relationship, and considered love life a two way street. Many of the women I had gone with did not seem upset if I dallied with other people, and when they fucked someone else I conceded they also had that right, and suppressed any alpha male inclinations to gore or trample the other bucks. Some of my paramours were less amenable when I felt the inevitable attraction to someone new, but my attitude was they could either cut me some slack or move on, as they wished.

Lila and I had never discussed these points. There had been no need to, as she was occupying the center of my universe to an extent no woman had before. Since meeting her, I had set a new personal best in monogamy, and knew that she was also focused just on me. Because of that, when I did get the old itch it came with a new sensation of guilt, and I was not forthcoming about it. I did not want to hurt Lila, or jeopardize the great thing we had going.

Lila sensed something. She did not ask directly but did remark a couple of times about my “extended work hours.” My half-truth excuses included “a late night meeting” or “grabbing a beer at a bar with co-workers,” etc.

When I came back to the apartment late one night, she approached me with a sad look of foreboding and said she had been “missing” me. I was dreading a direct question, but instead she undid my belt and knelt before me to do what I usually welcomed, but this time I was nervous. I had not showered at Kim’s apartment following our assignation just an hour or so before, and was sure that Lila would taste her love juices on me. I also wondered if I could even get it up. And considering where it had been was it right to just let her take it in her mouth without saying anything.

Libertine coward that I was, the last concern went unaddressed, and the others were unnecessary. I did rise to the occasion as Lila worked her magic, and she did not seem to detect any seasoning. She soon released me from the oral embrace and said she wanted to make love. Again, I felt a momentary unease. Was this a test? Would I be able to perform after such a short interval. As it turned out, my recovery ability was as good as usual, and I was able to play through the pain. Lila seemed well satisfied as I performed for an extended time. She seemed happy and tender after her second climax. If it was a test, I had passed.

Chauvinist pig that I was, guilt was displaced by a tremendous boost in ego. Next day I even confided in my best friend Eli that I not only had two mistresses but had succeeded in satisfying both within the space of a couple hours.

“You may be superman or you may be lucky,” was his response. “What’s that saying about pride going before a fall?”

That may have helped bring me down from my high. It was time to give Lila an explanation about my increased absences, and talk about the ground rules of our relationship. That night, as we sat on the sofa watching TV, I brought it up. It did not go well, and later led me to seriously re-evaluate my vaunted way with words.

“Baby, there is something you need to know,” I began. I was apprehensive this was going to hurt her, which caused me to grope for words. “There’s no easy way to say it,” I continued, “That new girl at work that I told you about, she and I have become more than just co-workers.”

Her expression became very serious.

“So you are fucking her.” It was more of a statement than a question.

I nodded, swallowing heavily.

“I knew it!” she yelled, standing and walking away. “I could feel it. How could you do this to us? How could you not talk to me sooner about the way you were feeling toward her?” Tears welled from her eyes, increasing my sense of guilt and triggering a new discomfort in my gut.

“I should have said something earlier, but I thought it was just momentary infatuation, and not important,” I began. “I still love you.”

She suddenly picked a book off an end table and threw it at me.” I ducked.

She rushed to the bedroom, tears flowing. I followed tentatively, feeling like king shit. She had retrieved her carry-on from the closet and was opening drawers, yanking out clothes, cramming them into it.

“Honey, it doesn’t change how I feel about you, how important you are to me. It’s just…”

“It changes everything,” she said, wiping the tears away. “You don’t even realize, do you? We were together. We were special. I can’t trust you any longer. You keep secrets…” She paused momentarily, then yelled, “You aren’t mine anymore!” I went toward her, and she put up her fist as if to strike me, yelling, “Stay back. Don’t touch me.” In the movies that is a funny cliché, but not in the trauma of real life. “You have someone else. You’re not mine and I’m not yours. It’s over,” she yelled.

That feeling in my gut had become tumult. I had never been so upset myself, not even in first grade when Johnny, the kid next door, hit me in the nose and said we weren’t best friends any more. I asked her to please stop packing so we could talk about it, but after sweeping up her toothbrush and some toiletries from the bathroom she rushed out the door with her bag, saying she would stay with her friend Brittany and be back for the rest of her things the next day while I was at work. She didn’t look back.

The next evening I returned to find she had cleared out everything — clothes, guitar, CDs, cooking utensils she had bought. Stuff was scattered on the floor — pictures of us together and some love poems I had written her. There was no note.

I tried to be stoic about it. No big deal — just another former girlfriend, another babe who wanted to control me. Her leaving would make it easier to be with Kim, and the wine would flow fine.

It did not last with Kim — she soon met a guy who aspired to be a sheep farmer in New Zealand, and following a tender farewell fuck went away with him. Soon, two other women that I had been friendly toward found I had become available, and volunteered to fill the gap in my love life. However, something was missing — they were okay as fuck buddies, but boring if not downright irritating in other respects. I did not enjoy their company, at least not after the orgasm.

I felt a great emptiness, which went on and on and was completely new to me, as surprising as it was disconcerting. I was grateful for the distraction that work provided, but found it difficult to concentrate on things and made mistakes. Everywhere and every place brought back memories of Lila. I tried calling her a few times. It went to voice mail and she did not return the calls. Three months went by like this. I walked around in a daze, considered quitting my job and moving away, starting over somewhere new.

Then I saw her one day, crossing the street near the university. It was like a vision of a goddess descended to Earth: Firm, well-proportioned body, erect posture, light and flowing movement on those long legs, dark hair streaming in the breeze. She looked so fine. My reaction was spontaneous — I hurried to catch up to her, considering some good lines as I did, telling myself to be cool, be sophisticated. I called her name. She turned to look at me, but that beautiful face with the deep brown eyes was immediately obscured by a veil of sadness, and the spiel all went out of my head.

Sounding desperate and demented, I blurted out my profound sorrow at having hurt her, confessed there had not been a good day in my life since she walked out and asked her to just go have a cup of coffee and talk, after which I would never bother her again if that was her wish. At first she looked at me with such an icy stare that my heart sank, but as I babbled on her expression softened some and she agreed.

We took an outdoor table at one of the cafes we had frequented when we were still together. She was noncommittal at first, listening stone-faced to my clumsy repetitions of regret and professions of longing for the only woman who had ever truly stolen my heart. Sensing that I was becoming maudlin, I combed my memory for people, places, events, concerns that we held in common to talk about and update. Little by little, she responded and began opening up. Her first question concerned my current relationship status, and I answered honestly that it was zero. I was dating no one important, and Kim was part of my past. She seemed to wince at the name, but made no comment. I asked her if she had anything going with anyone. She shook her head, and volunteered she was still sharing an apartment with Brittany, splitting the rent. Her teaching credentials had come through, and she was looking at openings in various locations.

Once we got talking, the healing moved along. Before coffee was finished, she seemed relatively at ease with me, if still distant. Dreading rejection, I proposed dinner the next evening, and after a moment’s hesitation she agreed. We had a few more dates over the next two weeks, enjoying musical venues, lectures, going on day hikes and recreating other common interests. We began laughing together again, and she did not object to a light brush of hands and other casual touches. I dared to kiss her goodnight the fourth time we went out, and she smiled before turning to go in, giving the distinct impression that she did not mind. I wanted her desperately, but had decided not to push my desire any further than lips for the time being.

Nature took over. One night we saw a sentimental romance movie at a local theater, much better than the farce that had led to mutual laughter and our first taste of intimacy two years before. This one brought tears to her eyes. She was mellow, leaning into me as we walked back to her apartment. When we got there, before I could implant a goodnight kiss, she asked me in for a glass of wine. We shared a bottle and talked about the film, which featured two star-crossed lovers unable to overcome their pride who sacrificed their relationship and faced an unfulfilled future apart. Her mood was very sensitive.

“Brittany is gone for a few days,” she remarked casually, then with as hungry a look as I had ever seen, put her arms over my shoulders.

“Do you want to make love?” she asked. “I do.”

Clothes went flying and we virtually collided with one another in the rush to bed. It was one of our best ever — wild, passionate, yet tender at the same time. In the afterglow, as we lay side by side, naked upon her bed, she looked at me tenderly.

“Set me as a seal upon your heart, as a seal upon your arm; for love is strong as death, jealousy is cruel as the grave. Its flashes are flashes of fire, a most vehement flame. Many waters cannot quench love, neither can floods drown it.” It was another quote from the Song of Solomon. What I once might have considered silly this time brought tears to my eyes.

Seeing that, she shared more personal information and feelings. She had thought about me often, wondering whether her anger at Kim and desire to keep me entirely to herself had sparked too strong a reaction to my confession. Maybe she should have heard me out before deciding whether to sacrifice our relationship. During our time apart she had dated some, but had not gotten “serious” with anyone else. No one had interested her “that much,” she said, snuggling against me, her head on my shoulder.”

Her abstinence may also have been conditioned by vestigial Baptist upbringing, but my ego attributed it to longing for her first love — her “lost love.” She was so beautiful that I was sure a host of guys had tried to take over for me during our separation, and told her so while stroking her hair.

“Your friend Eli offered to comfort me,” she said, with a mischievous expression.

I was not surprised. Our breakup had gone public and been unequivocal. She was fair game, according to the ground rules for woman-hunting that Eli and I had established long ago.

“We went out a couple of times,” she added. We even kissed pretty intensely once.” She sighed. “He is a sexy man, and a very persuasive talker, but it just didn’t feel right.”

“How so?”

“He and Brittany had been together, and while that has cooled off it would have been like I was cutting in on a man she still cared for.” She paused and laughed. “Besides, he had also taken up with Rachel, and didn’t hide they’d even discussed marriage. Given how wild they both are, it probably wouldn’t have mattered to her if I did hook up with Eli, but I would’ve felt like the naked girl popping out of the cake at his bachelor party.”

I laughed at that image, but told her, “I’m selfishly happy that you didn’t hook up with Eli or anyone else, although I am a little surprised you didn’t test the waters, especially since you’d already taken the big step with me, and… well, when people break up they often go on a screwing frenzy, especially if they feel they got the shaft.”

Hell, I had screwed a couple of people during our split, and I wasn’t even the victim, I thought to myself. Or was I? I had sure felt like a casualty.

“I thought about it on a trip home,” she admitted. “About six weeks after we broke up, I went south to my brother’s wedding. Brittany was angry that Eli was seeing Rachel, and taken a leave of absence from him, so she went with me. We bunked one night at a motel, and at the restaurant we got talking with a couple of guys who were also staying there. They were real friendly, and we shared a bottle of wine. They invited us to their room to, as one guy put it, ‘carry the party further.’ It was so funny — he winked as he said that to me.” She laughed. “Brittany wanted to go. She was still hurting from her breakup with Eli, and kept telling me we should both come out of the ‘nunnery’ and let go of the past. Besides, she thought the other guy was cute. They were both kind of cute, actually.”

“But you stayed in the nunnery?”

“I considered forsaking my vows,” she smiled. “It would have been a good opportunity to see what it was like to have sex on a casual basis, just fuck my brains out and see how I liked it, without having to worry about it getting back to anyone. Brittany wouldn’t have ratted me out. She wouldn’t have been in any position to. She was more hot to trot than I was. I almost gave in to her pleading. But I didn’t,” she said, a little wistfully.

“Because?” I asked.

“Even though you and I had broken up and it had ended badly, the intimacy we’d shared was very special to me, and I felt if I tried to replace that by just fucking around that it would cheapen that intimacy and intrude on the good memories of our time together.”

This boosted my ego all the more. She was still a virgin as far as the rest of mankind was concerned, and I was still her chosen one. I kissed her.

“I may not have abstained too much longer,” she added. “I was very hurt. I felt betrayed, and worse, I thought it was the end of your commitment to us.”

I stroked her hair gently. “I tried to tell you as you walked out that I still love you more than anything or anyone,” I said, dabbing away a droplet falling from the corner of one of her eyes, and wiping another away from mine. I launched into a story from the classics, hoping it would better explain my view.

“In my creative writing course in college, we studied the Odyssey. You may remember that after sacking Troy, Odysseus had a long roundabout voyage home, during which he bedded down with the goddesses Circe and Calypso and probably a few other ladies too. After all, it was a 10-year journey. But despite the interludes, Odysseus always yearned to return home to his wife, Penelope. He remained ‘true in his heart’ to her. That was the way the prof put it — you could screw around but still be committed to your true love in your heart. And that’s sort of the way I felt. You and I never talked about any of this, and I guess I shouldn’t have assumed you would feel the same, or know how I felt.”