Devoted to You

This is a follow-up to "Living in the Moment" published in the Romance section 9/3/2019.

*****

Bryson

Monday back to work days aren't easy when you've had a terrific weekend, even returning to a job you like. Somehow, I get through the day teaching my students the rudiments of algebra, all the while thinking of little else but Layla Moretti. I love her, adore her, this millennial Penn State grad student who had waltzed into my bike shop (Kobin Sports) on Saturday. It was a surprise visit. We had met on the beach in August, fell into an improbable romance and then kept in touch through October. She left my house on Sunday with two things: a new bicycle and my heart.

"Right back at you, dude," she had said when I told her I loved her, looking so cute the way she said it, her hazel eyes sparkling, he pretty mouth upturned in a wide smile. Who would have thought that a twenty-something grad student from McKeesport, Pennsylvania and a fifty-year old, divorced guy from Baltimore, Maryland would find each other and fall in love? Think of the odds. Anyway, that August trip to Ocean City with my good friend Brent was supposed to be a lark, a throwback to our youth. We got more than we bargained for. Brent's liaison with Alisha, Layla's girlfriend, didn't survive post-Ocean City. Layla and I formed a much deeper connection, one that went beyond carnal fun, though there's no denying the connection we made under the sheets as well.

Of course, with love comes complications, and given our generation-wide age gap, plus living in different states, I imagine that things could get mighty complicated. I haven't yet told my grown kids about the romance. No hurry; I can picture how they'd react.

Now, a week after Layla's departure, I phone my friend Alan, who had known about the Ocean City trip beforehand and had said, "You'll look ridiculous trying to pick up girls your daughter's age. What could you talk about, have in common?"

"Plenty," I say after throwing his words back at him. "You'd be surprised. We found common ground."

"Yes, and that ground is called a bedroom," he replies cynically. "Come on, Brice, who do you think you're fooling?"

I suspect he's jealous. He's been married for a long time, and by his own admission, his marriage has been on shaky ground for years. "We groove together, Alan," I say, "and not just in the bedroom. You'd be surprised—I know I am."

"Right. Keep telling yourself that," he says.

"I don't need convincing, Alan. What I need is something to calm me down. I've been hyper ever since she left. I adore this girl, can't wait to see her again."

"It sounds to me, Brice, as if you've got a midlife crisis on steroids. Buy yourself a Corvette or something. It's a better investment than fooling around with chicks who don't know what life was like before personal computers and cell phones."

"She's not an investment, she's someone I care about, someone I love. I'm in love again, Alan."

"Whatever. Have fun...geesh."

We soon click off. Yeah, he's jealous, no question about it. Meanwhile, I look at the calendar that hangs on my refrigerator door. It's one of those calendars showing outdoor photos that reflect the month. This one from October shows a farmer's field with browning stalks of corn and pumpkins. Next week it will be November, then December. When will I see her again? I saw her just a week ago, yet it seems much longer. God, I miss her.

*****

Layla

I'm relaxing in the living room of my off-campus, townhouse apartment building, sharing a Blue Moon with my good friend and fellow grad student, Nicole Levin, who at the moment can't recall ever being this exasperated in her entire life. "Of all the guys on campus," she says, "I can't believe you're hung up on a man twice your age that lives hours away."

"Not hung up, Niki, in love," I say, tucking my legs under me on the brown Naugahyde sofa that came with the house. Nicole now knows all about Bryson and me, how we met, our time in Ocean City, my surprise visit to Baltimore.

She uncrosses her legs, turns and assumes the same position as me so we can face each other. Letting what I just said sink in, she takes her index finger and begins to curl a few strands of her blond wavy hair. Then, shaking her head, she says, "I still don't get it. Okay, you told me how great he is in bed, how wise and sensitive he is, how great he looks for his age and how much fun you had cycling down there after he sold you that Cannondale. But, damn, girl, he's like, close to your parents' age. Have you told them yet?"

"No, not yet. I see no need to. I mean, it's not like we're serious or anything. We just enjoy each other's company."

We both knock back a swig. "Not serious? You're in love with the dude. To me, that's serious."

"I mean commitment serious, future husband serious."

"But it might lead to that, couldn't it?"

I chuckle and shake my head. "Nah, it could never..." I exhale and look down at the colorful, Southwestern style scatter rug on the hardwood floor, pondering what she said. As farfetched as it sounds, could it lead to commitment serious? I hadn't thought about that until this moment. Pushing it aside, I say, "No way, Niki, and for all the reasons you just stated. Look, he's divorced and now happily single it appears to me. I mean, you should have seen him and his friend Brent in Ocean City, acting like they were eighteen." I take another swig. "But I sure do miss him, missed him not long after I drove out of his driveway last Sunday. We've emailed each other about him coming here. Can't wait."

*****

I don't have to wait long. On the first weekend in November, that Friday afternoon, I'm almost jumping with anticipation. My classes are done for the day and the weekend forecast looks ideal for cycling, sunny with temps in the upper fifties. I feel pumped, just like the tires of my new red Cannondale. I hope his GPS guides him to my apartment building okay. I have no doubt he can find his way to Penn State, for he's told me that he once dated a Penn State girl when he was a student at Maryland.

My cell goes off and that voice that now shoots an electric current down my spine, says, "Layla, I'm only minutes from your building, at least according to my GPS."

He's right, for only minutes later, standing in the doorway, I see his Toyota Camry pull into the parking lot that faces the row of my townhouse complex. I jog over to his car, then fall into his arms. He smothers me in kisses and tight hugs, tells me how much he missed me. Not that he had to say it—his actions articulate what he's feeling better than words, though it's nice hearing it, and even nicer telling it back to him.

"I like the new doo," he says, noticing the waves in my normally straight hair. "But somehow it makes you look younger. Oh, man, what will your friends say now?"

We have a good laugh over that. We both expect my millennial student neighbors to wonder what we're doing together, if not chirp a few snickers. Not that I care. Bryson looks so cool and sexy in his jeans, blue and white checkered shirt and green vest. His salt and pepper hair (more pepper than salt) now creeps over his ears, a bit longer than when I last saw him. "Bryson, if any of these young dudes snicker, just show them your six-pack, put them to shame."

"I just might do that," he says, and then begins to take down his bike from the rack on the trunk of his car. It's not the same bike he rode with me during my visit. This one's red and white and all steel, a vintage machine, I gather and he confirms. "The Bridgestone RB-1 is a classic," he says. "This one's a ninety-two. Got it off eBay. Our shop, unfortunately, never carried them."

"A beautiful bike for a beautiful man," I say, then help him with his luggage, such as it is, one suitcase and the Bridgestone.

I show him around my one-bedroom, eleven-hundred square feet of space, paid for by money I had saved through summer jobs and my generous parents. I tell him more about my family, my dad, a practicing physician (GP) back in McKeesport, and my mom who runs a successful financial services business and Dean, my younger brother who's in his second year at Lehigh. "Our family's well-off," I reveal, "but our parents have never spoiled us. They're demanding in that they expect us to succeed, to work up to our ability."

"And from your coursework, I have no doubt you do," he says, eyeing the computer science textbooks on the desk in my bedroom. "Whoever said beauty and brains don't mix is sadly mistaken. I always thought they mix quite well. And if there's a more shining example than you, I haven't seen it."

"Flattery will get you everywhere, Mr. Kobin," I say. We're sitting on my double-bed holding each other and I'm getting horny. Correction, I'm already horny thinking back to Ocean City and Baltimore and now pressing my body against his on my own turf. I unbutton my shorts. "And right now, everywhere is in this bed because I can't think of anywhere I'd rather be or anyone I'd rather be with."

He starts kissing my neck. "We're on the same bike, Layla. Let's take a ride."

With our clothes heaped on the carpeted floor, I snuggle with the man I love, oblivious to everything but the pleasures of the moment, another of those bright shining moments that we had talked about. Those precious moments—they've become a sort of theme to our budding relationship given our unique situation. Living in the moment: yes, that we are, and living in it as if it might be the last one.

Closing my eyes, I absorb the pleasure of his tongue roving over me, from my neck, then down to my boobs, tummy and finally my pussy, wet before he even started, drenched by the time he gets there. I'm on my back, gripping the sheets while he's between my legs, doing what an obviously experienced and giving man can do—driving me fucking crazy. I almost laugh thinking that this man must exercise his tongue as well as his biceps. I've received oral before, but never like this. "Ohmygod, Bryson," I cry out, "your tongue must be turbo-charged!"

He pauses to laugh, then says, "Does that mean you like this?"

"Slightly."

My gross understatement gets him chuckling before he continues. Softly I moan with my eyes half-closed, barely seeing the ceiling fan whirring away full blast. No man has ever brought me to climax doing this. Bryson, it's obvious to me, will be the first one. I don't tell him this until after I come down from the summit of the mountain where he just led me. He holds me, asks if I'm okay. "More than okay," I assure him.

Just to prove it, I take top, bouncing up and down on his wonderful top tube—and I don't mean the one on his Bridgestone. He tucks his hands under my big butt, lending additional energy, speeding up the action of my thighs, "yummy, powerful thighs," he called them when we did it like this during my Baltimore visit. He rubs his hands over my boobs, "so soft and luscious," he says, and fully engages me when I lean over to kiss him. I'm experienced enough to sense when a guy's nearing climax, and this guy is for sure. My thrusts quicken into the homestretch, and so does his breathing. Then comes that wonderful sound that tells me I've done good.

"Tis better to give than receive, they say," I tell him during our post-coitus cuddle. "But with you, Bryson, there's little distinction between the two."

Starting from between my boobs, he zigzags his index finger down my front. "Right you are. I'd say we're as symbiotic as it gets. Not bad for being a generation apart."

"Like you had said, age is just a number."

*****

Bryson

Age is just a number. At last, I'm starting to believe that, at least when it comes to romance. Layla's starting to turn what I had said in theory into an idea that works on a practical level. Somewhere in my head, I'm feeling twenty again, reliving a past relationship with a one, Suzanne Denise Lafferty. I had mentioned this to Layla, leaving out details. We met around this time in 1989 at a football game in the old Memorial Stadium in Baltimore. The University of Maryland (my alma mater) played, coincidentally or not, Penn State to a tie before sixty-thousand screaming fans, one of whom was Miss Parker, a Penn State student. She had come down for the game, sat a row in front of me. Somehow, we got into some good-natured trash talk. Then, after the game, we exchanged phone numbers. There followed weekend trips both ways, she to Maryland, me to Penn State before the relationship ran its course.

I had spared Layla the details, didn't think she wanted any until she brings it up as we prepare to take a bike ride on Saturday. She's wearing a long-sleeve jersey and a pair of black spandex knickers that hug her large, shapely calves and thighs. "Is being up here now a kind of déjà vu for you?" she asks. "I mean, you told me about coming here in late fall to see a Penn State girl named Suzanne."

"It brings back memories but calling it déjà vu is a stretch. It was a different time, and I was at a different place thirty years ago. You don't think the same way at twenty that you do at fifty. But, like now, I brought my bike up, a steel Trek that I wish I had kept. Suzanne, if I recall, was on an aluminum Klein. Being a bike guy, I remember details like that."

"Were you in love with her?"

"No, it never went that far. We dated on and off through early spring and that was it."

Standing astride her bike, she draws her hair into a ponytail, then slips on her helmet. "And to think that I wasn't even born when you and this Suzanne were dating."

"I hope that doesn't freak you out."

She chuckles. "Not at all. And I hope that doesn't make you feel old."

"Not old, ancient." We both laugh. I check the numbers on my handlebar computer, tapping the mileage back to zero. "Ready to roll?"

We do a twenty-mile loop through wooded backroads, keeping as far right as we can in deference to the light traffic that passes. Leaves swirl and fall around us in the brisk northwest wind. I prefer warm weather myself, though there's something to be said for riding this time of year; fall weather feels invigorating after a long hot summer. Plus, the season's colorful foliage is a sight to behold from a bicycle. Best of all, I'm sharing it with a special lady. She's not only beautiful, she's a powerful rider. Every few miles, we challenge each other by doing all-out, twenty-second intervals. After one, breathing hard and laughing, she says, "I thought I could leave you in the dust."

"Not a chance," I say, proud of myself for keeping up with her.

Minutes later, we cruise into our starting point, a park&ride, then rack our bikes. Inside the car, she says, "I'm treating you to lunch. But that's after we shower together and maybe do other stuff we can't do here. Are you onboard?"

"Fully onboard. Sounds like my kind of plan."

I drive back to her townhouse, pull into the parking lot and there, standing in front of her door, is a tall, good-looking, athletic looking guy with dark hair that looks around Layla's age. "Oh no," she sighs, "I didn't expect this."

"You know him?"

She keeps her eyes on this guy as he approaches the car. "Um, yeah, I do. Dylan's his name, and he has no business being here when I told him I was busy this weekend."

This Dylan looks to be at least six-foot-four. He comes around to the passenger side and leans over. "I wanted to surprise you," he says. Then he looks over at me. "Your dad?"

"Ah, no, Dylan, this isn't my dad." Turning to me, she says, "Bryson this is Dylan. We take classes together." I grin and wave, feeling like I'm Jack Lemmon in one of those farcical situations his movie character always gets into.

Dylan scratches his head, shoots me a goofy smile and nods. He wears a tan sweater with elbow patches over his jeans. He sees the way we're dressed and the racked bikes. "So, you guys just went cycling it looks like."

Layla sighs. "Yep, that's what we did."

Momentarily lost for words, Dylan does a bobblehead wearing this goofy, aw-shucks kind of grin. Clearly, he's feeling the awkwardness and groping for what to say next. "Well, I just wanted to know if you're up for getting a bite to eat later. But if you're busy..."

"Yeah, I kind of am, Dylan. Just like I told you before." Her expression is hard to read. She's either annoyed that he showed up or sorry she can't say yes to his invite. Perhaps it's a mix of both.

He nods, purses his lips into a frown of disappointment. "Okay, well, later then," he says, and steps back from the car. We both alight from my Camry and watch as he walks away. He looks back a couple times to eye me, as if he's trying to figure out just who the hell I am and what I'm doing with Layla.

She's strangely silent until we bring the bikes inside. Then, as we sit around her kitchen table sipping iced tea, she says, "In case you're wondering, Dylan's not my boyfriend." I had been wondering but let her go on. "We've gone out a few times. I just hope you weren't embarrassed by him thinking you were my dad."

"I wasn't but I think you might have been." She grins, oh so cute the way she does it, like a little girl caught in the proverbial cookie jar. "You were, weren't you?"

She unties her ponytail while looking down at her feet, covered in heavy wool socks. "Truthfully, a little," she says, resuming eye contact. "Although I have to admit it was kind of funny."

"Agreed." I chuckle as I watch her face turn from one of mirth to one of wistful regret, akin to how she looked in the car while telling Dylan she was busy. Reaching for her hand, I say, "Layla, remember what I said back in Ocean City, that you'd meet lots of nice guys here. You seem to like this Dylan and it's obvious that he's fond of you. There's a potential future with guys like him as opposed to guys like me, guys who get mistaken for your dad."

She squeezes my hand and blinks back a tear or two. "I know that. I also know that I love you and don't want to hurt you."

"I love you too and it would hurt me more thinking I'm holding you back from forming relationships with the Dylans of the world. I never..." I shake my head, take a deep breath. "Look, I never expected this to go beyond a certain point. Heck, I never expected to get as far as we did in Ocean City, much less carry on afterward. We can say age is just a number until hell freezes over, but we both know it's more than that. If you'd like to see Dylan tonight, I'll just pack up and leave. No hard feelings."

Momentarily, she absorbs what I've said, then steps forward, eases herself onto my lap and starts playing with my hair. "Yes, I like Dylan. But as far as having a 'potential future' with him, as you put it, we're hardly on that sort of time. It's you I want to be with this weekend. And I'll concede that there's more to age than just a number. But living in the moment, what we always talk about, means how it sounds. Moments spent with you, Brice, are moments and memories that I'll treasure forever, whatever does or doesn't happen with us. Good memories. No, make that great memories." She leans forward and kisses me. "I don't want you going anywhere. Well, anywhere except into the shower stall, then into my bedroom and then out to lunch like we planned. Does that still sound like your kind of plan?"

It does. Moments later, we're soaping each other off and smooching under jets of warm water. We all have our favorite simple pleasures, and taking a warm shower after a bike ride in cool weather is one of mine. Add the hot kisses from a girl like Layla, she with the vibrant personality and spontaneous sense of fun, she with the delicious scent of sweet oranges surrounding her sexy voluptuousness, and you take that simple pleasure to another level. Then comes the icing on the cake—snuggling next to her in bed, smelling the clean freshness of her smooth, young skin, absorbing her affection and passion and giving in equal measure. Age might be more than just a number elsewhere but not here doing this, making love to this amazing girl. I'm living in the moment, one that cries out for more moments to follow.