Bacchanalia 3

"So, how'd it go?" Deb asked before I'd set my coffee down, dropped my bags, or sat in my office seat. "I want to know everything."

"Good morning to you, too. I love that outfit. You look really cute." I sipped my coffee, hung up my jacket, and settled into my workspace.

"Cut the crap," Deb said with a laugh. "Is he everything his profile said he is?"

"It was good. It was really good," I responded. Deb nodded her head, waiting for me to continue. "You know we didn't do the nasty, right? It was just dinner and drinks," I told her.

Deb rolled her eyes. "Yeah, yeah, gotta keep it PG on the first date, but did you want to?" Deb had encouraged me or maybe forced me to sign up for the exclusive dating app, so she had a stake in my love life. Now, she seemed to think that entitled her to all the gory details. The first two tries with the app had flamed out quickly. I think she felt responsible and wanted this next date to work. Otherwise, it might be three strikes, and I'm out.

This new guy from last night, Chet, hit all the right buttons on his profile, so both Deb and I were hopeful. He looked great, loved the outdoors, had just moved from a small town to the city, and was interested in adventure. The date last night surpassed all our expectations.

"Well, it didn't suck," I said about the date. "We had a lot of fun and a lot of laughs. He lived up to his profile, so yeah, I could see this going somewhere."

"Damn it, girl, we are doing lunch. You are going to tell me everything, even if you have to make shit up." She turned on her heel and stomped off to her cubicle. I had to laugh. Deb seemed more invested in getting me laid than getting laid herself. She said it was because I was such a challenge. I had met a few of the guys she dated over the past year, and each one was different. They would hang around for a month or two and then disappear. I used to joke with her about the "flavor of the month," and she didn't deny it. "Believe me, they're all the same where it counts." Deb was a bit of a size queen. If a guy had the right equipment, he had a shot at bedding her.

I was more selective. I evaluated the whole package and was looking for more than just a good fuck. Not that sex wasn't important. I just wanted more. In fact, I had a pretty specific idea of what I wanted. He had to be devilishly handsome with a wicked smile that would make me melt. He needed to be tall and muscular without being too jacked up. I wanted dark wavy hair with icy blue eyes that seemed to see right through me. He had to make me laugh and make me wonder what he was thinking all the time. He would be adventurous and outdoorsy and challenge me at every turn. In short, he needed to be like my first love, Steve.

Deb said that was unreasonable and that I needed to get over him. I know she is right, and believe me, I have tried. I had boyfriends in college and a few after college. It was fine for a while, but then I'd be disappointed or bored or just gave up.

Frankly, I was more comfortable alone with my memories. I would lie in bed remembering my summers with Steve and masturbate myself to a fantastic climax before sleep. Later, I created fantastic scenarios, always ending with some happy ever after with Steve and me. In my head, I would imagine the two of us in every rom-com or yogurt commercial. When Deb found out that I named the latest in a long line of sex toys Steve, she staged an intervention.

I'd had an eight-month dry spell before Deb forced me to get on the Periwinkle dating app. She said she would get me a clowder of cats if I didn't get laid soon because I was clearly a cat lady in the making. I didn't want that, so I was trying.

As I settled into my desk, I got a text from Chet saying how much fun he had last night and that it was rare to find a beautiful woman like me with a sense of humor. We shared a lot of laughs about past misadventures, and I felt like there was a connection as well. He suggested a hike this coming Saturday.

I was just about to respond when I got a phone call from my mother. Mom never called me at work, so I picked it up immediately. She sounded upset, as if she had been crying. "Aunt Belle died last night." This couldn't be true. My Aunt Belle was my mother's older sister, but she was just 72 years old. Mom didn't know all the details and would need to get back to me to let me know the arrangements.

I sat at my desk in shock. How could she be gone? My Aunt Belle had basically raised me after my parents divorced when I was twelve. I would shuffle between boarding school and my parents' houses during the school year. Then, I had all summer on my Aunt's farm. While my parents could barely behave like adults, Aunt Belle treated me like an adult, talking with me and listening, giving me responsibilities, and, most importantly, giving me the freedom and safety to make decisions and learn from my mistakes.

She was always a free spirit herself, the last of the hippies. She wore loud print dresses, and her red hair was a bird's nest of curls piled on top of her head. She had the best jewelry I'd ever seen and always seemed to have a wonderful story about who had given it to her.

She lived in an old, ramshackle farmhouse with rooms stuffed with endless treasures. There were books everywhere. On rainy days, I would pick a room and spend the whole day rooting around in trunks, or I'd pick a book and curl up in one of the day beds piled with mismatched pillows, getting lost in foreign lands and long ago times. On sunny days, I'd explore the woods and fields or hang out with the kids in town.

Aunt Belle had crazy ideas that I never told my mother about. She let me drink a glass of wine with dinner, even as a kid. She would take me skinny dipping in the old quarry on the back of her property. She would tell me about travels and adventures that sounded too crazy to be real. Most shocking to a young girl, she would discuss lovers she had over the years. Nothing explicit, mind you, but not exactly discreet either.

It was as though my world was light and dark. The light days of summer and the dark days of school and home, when I had to be disciplined in my studies, respectful of my elders, and always well-behaved. Both of my parents were lawyers, and they drummed into my head that appearances matter. My big act of rebellion was to go to business school and not become a lawyer like them.

"So, where are we going for lunch?" Deb asked, pulling me out of my memories. I realized I'd spent the whole morning getting nothing done, drowning in my past. I filled her in on what had happened. "Oh my god, I'm so sorry." I let her wrap me in a hug and finally began to cry. I think before that, I was just too stunned. Lunch was no longer about my love life. She took me to McHenry's Pub and listened to my stories for most of the afternoon.

It wasn't until that evening that I realized I'd never responded to Chet's text from this morning. I apologized and told him what had happened. He understood completely, and we spent the next hour texting back and forth. He wanted to call me, but I told him that I would just cry again, and I didn't want to cry anymore. We made plans to go on a hike on Saturday.

The funeral would be next Tuesday at my Aunt's farm. My mother would fly up from Florida and meet me, and we could drive up together. In the meantime, I had work to catch up on, and my date with Chet on Saturday. Deb had talked with work, and everyone was super supportive. She would check on me every hour to see if I needed coffee, make lunch plans, or ask about my plans with Chet. I knew she was just looking out for me.

Chet and I spent about six hours hiking through a local park and just talking. He was a really good listener, asking thoughtful questions at just the right moments. At the end of the day, I felt a warm connection with him, more than I'd felt with anyone in a long time, enough to invite him back to my place for dinner. He hesitated the appropriate amount of time before agreeing.

We showered separately, and I gave him a big terry cloth robe to wear. Then, we cracked a bottle of wine and waited for the Thai food to be delivered. It was all very relaxed, which is just what I needed. It turns out he gives great hugs and is a pretty good kisser. The next morning, I made us huevos rancheros for breakfast. Deb would be so happy I got laid. Hell, I was pretty happy myself. I thought to myself that Aunt Belle would also be pleased.

Mom arrived late Sunday evening. It had been nearly a year since I'd seen her. We sat up part of the night catching up. Mostly, I was surprised by how different our memories of Aunt Belle were. Of course, Mom knew her growing up and remembered her as a girl who couldn't stay out of trouble and was a disappointment to her parents, my grandparents. I remembered her as a free spirit who knew what she wanted and wasn't afraid to reach for it, someone who lived life to the fullest.

The four-hour drive up to Bentford Creek on Monday was easy. Mom slept part of the way, leaving me with my thoughts and memories. It had been nine years since my last visit. Aunt Belle invited me every year and begged me to come for the last few years, but I just wasn't ready. Now I wish I'd listened to her. She used to say that we needed to confront life head-on and take control, otherwise life would control us. I certainly didn't feel in control right now.

I know I was imagining it, but driving through Bentford Creek on the way out to the farm, the whole town seemed sadder, like it was missing something important. It was an overcast June afternoon when we arrived. It may have rained already and looked like it could rain again any minute.

At first, the old farmhouse looked quiet and deserted. Usually, when we arrived, Aunt Belle would be outside in the garden, waiting for us with big hugs and kisses. I missed that and sobbed again. As we pulled around in front of the house, an older gentleman wearing overalls with a bushy white mustache emerged waving to us, followed by my old boyfriend, Steve. My breath caught in my throat. I expected to see Steve on this trip. I just didn't expect to see him this soon. He looked even better than I remembered, wearing jeans, a faded t-shirt, and work boots.

The older gentleman introduced himself as Henry Fitzgerald, my aunt's "friend," and said Steve was my aunt's farm manager. My mother hugged both of them, thanked them for being there to greet us, and began ordering them around like they were hired help, telling them whose bags were whose and where they could take them. I shook Henry's hand and gave Steve the briefest of hugs.

Once inside, Henry filled us in on all the arrangements for the funeral tomorrow and told us where we could contact him if we needed anything. Steve was mostly silent as he talked, acknowledging a few remarks Henry made and answering a few questions. I was quiet as well, trying to take it all in.

After Henry and Steve left, I showed my mother around the house. While she and Aunt Belle weren't exactly estranged, it had been years since she visited the farm. They had kept up through holiday letters and occasional phone calls on birthdays and major holidays. As she walked through the house with me, making disparaging remarks here and there, I felt like I was showing an enemy through conquered territory. What she called clutter, I saw as valued treasures. I may not have known all the stories, but I was sure there was a story behind everything, and whatever that story was, it would probably make me laugh until I cried. Now, I just wanted to cry.

The refrigerator was stocked with food some neighbors had left for us, so Mom and I shared a bottle of wine and ate mostly in silence. I grabbed some of my favorite books from the shelf and retired early to my old room.

The next day was a whirlwind of activity. The small church in town was packed with mourners. It seemed that my Aunt was a local institution, and the whole town turned out to see her off. After the burial, most of them came out to the farm for a potluck wake that went into the evening. I was talking with Henry when Steve approached us late in the afternoon. Henry quietly excused himself to let Steve and I talk.

"It is great seeing you, even if it is the worst of circumstances," Steve said. He looked uncomfortable in his suit and tie but still pretty fantastic.

"It's good to see you too. How long have you been helping Aunt Belle with the farm?"

"Most of the last seven years, ever since she decided to expand the vineyard and start producing wine." Since my last visit, the farm had been transformed from corn fields into rows of grape vines. The old barn was now a wine-making operation. "You know, she hoped you'd come to see what she was doing with the place. She thought you could give her some business advice."

I groaned. "I know, I know, and now I wish I had come." I was worried I'd start crying again. "It is really impressive what you guys have done." We had been drinking Nymph White and Satyr Red since we arrived, both surprisingly good.

"You've done pretty good as well, all graduated and working in the city. Your aunt was really proud of you. She talked about you all the time." Steve was smiling. I didn't want to talk about work or myself. Here on the farm, remembering Aunt Belle and talking with Steve, work seemed to be a million miles away and insignificant.

As we talked, we walked down to the barn, and I asked Steve questions about the grapes, bottling, and sales. It quickly became clear that he loved this stuff. He was proud of what he and Aunt Belle had made. He had a passion about it that I hadn't felt in a long time.

This shouldn't have surprised me. Like Aunt Belle, Steve had always tried to live life to the fullest. That may have been the thing I loved most about him. When we were kids, he would excitedly tell me about some book he was reading or some movie he had seen. He would drag me off to show me some bug or flower he had found. Where I was cautious and reserved, he was adventurous and daring. He would push me to climb higher, explore further, and do more.

That last summer, I discovered that his boundless enthusiasm to live life also extended to how he loved. We were both each other's first. He never said so, but I wondered if he had saved himself for my visit that year. Soon after I arrived in June, we went on long hikes, catching each other up on our lives while I was away. We were swimming naked in the quarry. We were making love. The first time may have been the only time I ever saw Steve hesitate. He wanted to make sure I wanted this, that I wanted him. I had no hesitation. I may have been saving myself for him, for my summer of freedom and light. I felt like I was living one of Aunt Belle's affairs.

Of course, Aunt Belle knew what had happened and what we had done before we said anything, and she seemed almost as happy as we were. She backed off and gave us the space new lovers needed, but she was also available to talk whenever I had questions. She didn't care if Steve spent the night at the farm or if she accidentally caught us in a compromising situation in the barn. She made sure we had protection available, so our only risks were to our feelings and emotions. She would make us breakfast, and we would all cook the most amazing dinners together. It was a magical summer, and none of us wanted it to end.

However, it had to end. I was expected to be at college at the beginning of September. I don't remember what the fight was about. What it was really about was me leaving. I wasn't ready to give up on the expectations my parents had for me. Aunt Belle just listened and didn't take sides. Steve and I knew each other well enough to finish each other's thoughts. Now, we knew each other well enough to know what would hurt. We both said things that I'm sure we both regret. I know I've regretted saying them for nearly a decade. I regretted them enough that I didn't want to face him. I wanted to move on, live my life, and reach for my goals.

Now, walking around the farm, we both avoided saying anything important. Mom and I would be leaving in the morning, so really, there was no time. The two of us had gone different ways, and there was a distance between us that was uncomfortable. I was worried that if I took the lid off the jar containing my feelings and emotions, that stuff would come out that I couldn't control, so I kept the lid firmly in place.

Besides, I had a job and a new relationship to return to. What would be the point of saying something or doing something that could mess all of that up? So I listened to Steve tell me about the vines and the wines and what he and Aunt Belle had been working on before she "checked out," as he put it. I laughed because that is exactly how she would have described dying.

The next day, on the way out of town, Mom and I stopped at Barker's General Store to pick up some drinks for the road. It looked like I remembered it and probably exactly like it had looked for the last hundred years. Sure, the products had changed and been updated, but there was a continuity that had a purpose.

This time, I looked around with a knowing eye. Barker's was the small, family-owned store my company looked for. My job was to find Ma and Pa grocery stores that Franklin Holdings could buy up and make into high-end boutique stores. Barker's was a perfect fit. They had a captive audience, had a reputation, and sold novel items, such as Nymph White and Satyr Red wine.

Back in the city, I threw myself into work and the relationship with Chet. I was caught up with work fairly quickly. Somehow, all the projects I had been working on fell into place, and I was the company's new star. I'm sure Deb had something to do with that.

Chet was easy to get to know. As I said, he listened and somehow knew what I needed and wanted. What I needed, what I wanted, was carefree, funny, and distracting from all the thoughts in my head and the feelings rocking my heart. Soon, we spent every weekend together, and then I planned my time around what we would be doing. I had never had this in any relationship before. In the past, it had been me and whoever I saw, and we somehow figured out how to do stuff together. This was becoming "us." It was new, it was different, it was nice. As this "us" happened, we just sort of started sleeping together.

I always found sleeping together a rather odd euphemism for having sex because when I was having sex, there wasn't a lot of sleeping going on. In the past, when I was dating guys, either he wanted sex, or I wanted sex, or both of us wanted sex. It could get a little crazy. The rest of the time, we would do our own thing.

For the first time with Chet, it was sort of expected that we would end up in bed together at the end of the night. I wanted it, and he wanted it. We would have sex, but we would also sleep. Together. In the same bed. And we would wake up together in the same bed. It was easy and relaxed. I found myself looking at him a few times when he was reading or watching television. I didn't wonder what he was thinking. That was obvious. That simple comfort was nice as well.

Chet was a gentle lover, always interested in my pleasure, and he had the equipment to give me pleasure. Maybe for the first time since my relationship with Steve, I was satisfied with a cock. More than once, I thought to myself, I now knew what Deb was talking about. I couldn't resist touching it, stroking it, playing with it. I would watch as he got hard in my hand and feel him stiffen in my mouth. Chet was amused by my interest, telling me what felt good. He never rushed me, and it was me who was pursuing sex.

Chet and I started to hang out with Deb and the flavor of the month, her insignificant other, going dancing, going on hikes, and doing stuff. We even hosted a few parties. Suddenly, I had a social circle. This was the life I expected to have when I moved to the city. Friends and lovers who would do things together and have fun together, and now I was living it.