Dearest Lysette,
Thank you so much for meeting me at the airport, and for being my hostess and companion during my week in Atlanta. As you recall, my plane arrived at ATL late that morning. Though it was a long flight, I wanted to look my best for you (remembering all they say about first impressions). I'd dressed in my best three-piece suit, a dark grey pin-stripe, with my favorite gold tie. I even had my beard trimmed more closely than usual, so that I wouldn't scare you at first sight! It's one thing to see a bearded man in photos or on the internet—another entirely to encounter one up close and personal.
Before I deplaned, I took out the single columbine that I'd carefully preserved in a small floral container and held it in my free hand, bundling up my bags and woolen coat in the other (though we planned so much of this trip in detail, I'd forgotten to ask you how Atlanta winters might differ from those of Colorado Springs). In spite of the fact that I was eager to get out to the waiting area, where I knew I'd find you, I waited until the plane was almost empty before leaving my seat, to make sure the flower didn't get crushed in the usual press of passengers ready to rush to the exit as soon as the seat belt sign goes off. As I walked down the passenger walkway off the plane, I could feel my pulse beating excitedly—and my 53 year-old stomach quivered as if I was a young teen-ager going on my first date! "After all this time," I said to myself, "I'm going to meet the woman I've fallen in love with—online, no less. I'm finally going to hold her and kiss her and feel her body against mine."
I saw you immediately on stepping into the waiting area (which had thinned considerably, since most of the passengers anxious to get out of the plane were obviously as anxious to get out of the airport). Your bright smile beckoned me and you called out my name. I stood there, taking in the sight of you, never wanting to forget this moment. You were dressed in a full skirt with black-and-white polka dots, an exquisite white blouse, sporting one of those big, black flouncy hats. Your honey-blonde hair danced on your shoulders with each step. I've memorized the dozens of photographs you've sent my way, but none conveyed the picture of elegance running to me now. At 49, Lysette, you outshine women half your age.
Before I could say anything, before I remembered to give you the Colorado columbine, you were inches from me. Your face was alive with excitement. I tossed my luggage and coat onto a nearby seat, seized you around the waist and pulled you to me. You didn't need to be pulled—you threw your arms around my neck and pressed your body into mine. I could feel your breasts against my chest. Leaning back, I cupped your face in my hands, and spoke in tones meant only for you.
"I've waited all this time to kiss these lips, but first, I want to look into your eyes." They sparkled with joy. "My God, Lysette, you're beautiful."
"And I'm yours," you whispered.
I lowered my lips to you, and we kissed. Your soft lips were yielding; they seemed to quiver—or was that me? I slid my fingers through your hair and lightly ran my tongue against your lips, from one side to the other, wanting to gently explore what I'd so long wanted to taste. Then, to my delight, your lips parted, ever so slightly, and the tip of your tongue touched mine. An electric thrill raced through us, from one to the other and back. Almost simultaneously, we tightened our holds on each other; the gentle kiss became insistent and demanding. The tongues, which had at first touched so tentatively, began an eager probe of the others' mouth. Our whole bodies kissed. Hands clutched at shoulders, napes of necks, arms. Fingers kneaded clothing, flesh, anything they could press into of the other. At some point your hat dropped to the floor. We molded ourselves together, oblivious of our surroundings. The allure of your scent filled my nostrils and captivated my mind. When our lips parted, two thin strands of our saliva stretched tenuously from your tongue to your lower lip. It's one of the entrancing images I've ever seen—I'll carry it with me into eternity.
"What a woman you are," I whispered, my lips still only inches from yours.
"Wait till I get you alone."
Only then, when we looked around the waiting area, did we notice everyone: gate attendants, counter employees, and the scattered people in the area were all watching us. We both smiled as they broke out in a friendly applause. You curtseyed and won all their hearts.
"Let's get your things together and go, my love," you said.
"Easier said than done," I answered. With my eyes, I directed your gaze to the front of my trousers, where my "excitement" had become obvious. "I may have a problem going anywhere without embarrassing us both."
"Speak for yourself," you answered. "I have plans for just this—um—contingency." The corners of your mouth turned up in a playful smile as you touched the tip of your tongue to your upper lip.
I tangled the columbine through the hair over your left ear, then gathered up my luggage. We started down the concourse hand in hand. My jacket covered my "condition" quite well, but I did become aware that we were drawing the attention of people as we passed. I glanced at you, taking in the movements of your body as you walked, admiring the bounce of your hair, the flair of your hips under the flow of your skirt, and the fine sheen of the stockings you wore. They sure weren't looking at me.
