The next day at the rugby game, I sat at the top of the small bleachers for
two reasons. First, from my somewhat high position, I could be sure to see
anyone approach, especially the stranger from the previous night. Second,
it made me a prominent spectator, so that I could be seen from a distance,
making it easy for the stranger to spot me.
Unfortunately, it was all in vain. He never appeared. I sat in the stands for two whole hours after the game was over and there wasn't the slightest sign of him. But that time, I didn't have Fred with me. I was there alone.
I didn't even know his name, but I was heartbroken. Sitting there, I wept, for the first time in my life, I truly wept. And it wouldn't be the last, at least not where he was concerned.
Later that night, I cried again, just thinking about that afternoon. I simply couldn't understand why he had been so loving and open the night before, and then hurt me so much by walking away and not coming back.
I thought about him every night that week, just before I went to bed. And each night, I would wonder why he did it to me. Why I even cared about someone I had just met. Then I would promise myself to stop thinking about him. But, of course, the next night, he would still come to my mind. His memory tortured my nights for that first week; however, soon it would seep into my days as well.
***
At the next rugby game, one week after he stood me up, I, once again, sat at the top of the bleachers to watch for him. And it seemed that he would not show up again.
Fred sat beside me, saying, "I don't know why you keep looking for him. He's a dirty bastard who isn't worth your time."
I wanted to tell Fred that the stranger wasn't a dirty bastard. That he was the only man I had ever been instantly attracted to. The only man that I wanted to touch; to have touch me. The only man that filled my dreams. However, before I got the chance, I saw him.
My jaw hung open as I watched him at the bottom of the stands, looking up at me with that same smoldering expression he had worn that first night, before he discovered my age. I knew that Fred was trying to talk to me, but his words were somehow lost in the few inches between us. All of me was focused on him, and it was wonderful. I had never been so aware of anyone before.
He made the slightest gesture then turned to walk away. Not saying a word to Fred, I followed the stranger to a more private area of the park, away from the crowds.
Without warning, he shoved me against a tree and thrust his tongue into my open mouth. I felt his hands roving over me, never ceasing their movement. And I had no desire to stop him, even as a hand reached under my shirt. He could have taken me right there and I would have thanked him.
Violently pushing himself off the tree, he paced in front of me. "What have you done to me?"
"What do you mean?" I asked, a part of me wondering if he was having the same recurring dreams about me as I had about him.
He trapped me against the tree again. "Why can't I stop thinking about you?"
I could barely breathe. He had been thinking about me too?
"I never thought I could feel this way about anyone," his face inched closer, "until I met you. Why you?" And then his lips touched mine again and all coherent thought was beyond me.
All that mattered was the places where our flesh came in contact. He was right. I had never felt that way about anyone, as evidenced by the previous week. But how could it have happened? We were only together for mere minutes. It was impossible, and yet, there we stood, unable to let each other go.
Unfortunately, it was all in vain. He never appeared. I sat in the stands for two whole hours after the game was over and there wasn't the slightest sign of him. But that time, I didn't have Fred with me. I was there alone.
I didn't even know his name, but I was heartbroken. Sitting there, I wept, for the first time in my life, I truly wept. And it wouldn't be the last, at least not where he was concerned.
Later that night, I cried again, just thinking about that afternoon. I simply couldn't understand why he had been so loving and open the night before, and then hurt me so much by walking away and not coming back.
I thought about him every night that week, just before I went to bed. And each night, I would wonder why he did it to me. Why I even cared about someone I had just met. Then I would promise myself to stop thinking about him. But, of course, the next night, he would still come to my mind. His memory tortured my nights for that first week; however, soon it would seep into my days as well.
***
At the next rugby game, one week after he stood me up, I, once again, sat at the top of the bleachers to watch for him. And it seemed that he would not show up again.
Fred sat beside me, saying, "I don't know why you keep looking for him. He's a dirty bastard who isn't worth your time."
I wanted to tell Fred that the stranger wasn't a dirty bastard. That he was the only man I had ever been instantly attracted to. The only man that I wanted to touch; to have touch me. The only man that filled my dreams. However, before I got the chance, I saw him.
My jaw hung open as I watched him at the bottom of the stands, looking up at me with that same smoldering expression he had worn that first night, before he discovered my age. I knew that Fred was trying to talk to me, but his words were somehow lost in the few inches between us. All of me was focused on him, and it was wonderful. I had never been so aware of anyone before.
He made the slightest gesture then turned to walk away. Not saying a word to Fred, I followed the stranger to a more private area of the park, away from the crowds.
Without warning, he shoved me against a tree and thrust his tongue into my open mouth. I felt his hands roving over me, never ceasing their movement. And I had no desire to stop him, even as a hand reached under my shirt. He could have taken me right there and I would have thanked him.
Violently pushing himself off the tree, he paced in front of me. "What have you done to me?"
"What do you mean?" I asked, a part of me wondering if he was having the same recurring dreams about me as I had about him.
He trapped me against the tree again. "Why can't I stop thinking about you?"
I could barely breathe. He had been thinking about me too?
"I never thought I could feel this way about anyone," his face inched closer, "until I met you. Why you?" And then his lips touched mine again and all coherent thought was beyond me.
All that mattered was the places where our flesh came in contact. He was right. I had never felt that way about anyone, as evidenced by the previous week. But how could it have happened? We were only together for mere minutes. It was impossible, and yet, there we stood, unable to let each other go.