Dear Paulette,
The waves are rolling in today - it's grey but warm. A bit of rain last night but hardly enough to break the drought. I walked back through the woods yesterday – barefoot – and the soil felt unsurprisingly desiccated. Unusual for springtime here. It is difficult to complain about drought to someone in Southern California. Particularly with this big lake spread before me.
I missed you at the reunion last weekend. Many people did, I'm sure. Steve for one asked after you. And you will be pleased to hear that Mr. Perry, our physics teacher showed up. He wondered about you as well, saying that you and I were his favorite students. He looked pretty good for being 66. Still must be running or swimming regularly or something. Your type even thirty some years later. And don't worry – I haven't given away any of your secrets.
Your secrets aren't very heavy, generally, except when I am surrounded by people who would take prurient pleasure in learning how untamed Miss Buttoned-up-bookworm in fact was. I do miss, even after all of these years, sharing secrets with you. Why did we stop? Perhaps that kind of closeness is available only to a very few lucky ones only for a short time when young. Every one builds walls and defends their secrets, but adults build deeper, higher and thicker. Some sophisticates are adept at hiding in plain sight. Adults know the risk that comes with secrets uncovered, they fear the cost of living the fully disclosed life. But you and I, we were kids – well-loved at home – perhaps unscarred enough to trust each other with our fears, uncertainties, desires and dreams.
On reflection, one could describe our friendship – at least once puberty set in – as an on-going came of truth and dare. Actually truth and daring each other to tell even wilder truths. Lord knows we didn't actually do too many crazy things. All talk, little action Lol. Parents did not have to worry about us popping out any pups! Study, study, study, chat, chat, chat. Actually, the ration was more chat, study, chat, chat, chat. Which was probably strategic on your part – Ms. Smarty Pants – to facilitate your higher G.P.A. Very slick. Though I contend that your narrow victory resulted from your physics grade enhanced by extra-academic influences. We've had this discussion before. At least allow me this possibility as a way to bolster my pride.
Here's a question for you: Did your friends even wonder about us? Mine certainly did. John, in fact, last weekend asked whether the two of us keep in touch. When I said not really – that we had drifted apart after high school, he looked puzzled.
"I thought you two were destined to get married."
We both laughed.
"It was like you were married anyway, though in a creepy way," he continued. "Joined at the hip but no sex. Reminds me of my marriage for the last ten years."
I grimaced a bit inside but laughed with him. TMI. Yeah...he had been drinking a bit too much. A bit sloppy. And I should leave it at that but WTF, you did ask after what happened in the car after the prom, and want's the harm in a bit more truth between two old truth and dare partners?
So drunk John running solo that night starts recollecting on that day trip we took to the beach. The two of us, John and his GF. I don't remember her name, but per his taste she had big tits and according to him gave good head. She wouldn't fuck but she'd swallow which for John was a fair trade.
Here's what I remember. We get to the beach and John and his gal are laughing having a good time. You pull off your cover-up and John's jaw hits the sand. GF immediately gives your swimsuit the once over, grabs John's hand and says "time for a walk." Personally, I thought your swimwear was fine. But then we had seen each other in underwear before (dares in Truth and Dare never got far). So, your white bikini – pretty modest as far as that goes – its contrast with your skin, the curves of your body...pretty normal fare for the beach, I thought. Well, the rest of the afternoon kinda sucked for me and the GF. John was like:
"Paulette, let's play volleyball." "Hey Paulette, you wanna take a dip?"
GF was unhappy. You'd be long dead if her stares were physical weapons. You seemed to enjoy the attention and had your subtle flirt thing working. Not that you care, but I am sure the GF would have welcomed a taste of revenge, if it had been possible. Needless to say, you did not make a new friend.
The line that sticks in my head after John and I dropped you and the GF off:
"Dude, you must be either gay, crazy of asexual or all three. How you can spend any time around that chick and not pop a steel rod is insane. If I were you, I'd grab my text books, blast over to her house, say 'hey' to her parents, get her in her room, turn on the tunes, throw her on her bed, show her the monster dog, undrape that hot bod, split her legs, set my cock on her juicy lips, tell her she's a tease and that I can't take it any more as I jamb it up inside all of the way."
"John, dude, you are talking about Paulette."
"Yeah," he said, shaking his head. "I know. When are you going to figure it out?"
I tell people that we just aren't that way, you and I. And I suppose it is odd, looking at us from the outside. Teenagers are horny. Whatever. I know we talked enough about sex. Shit – the stuff we told each other. I didn't really need to know when you were having your period. But then you probably didn't need to know that my mom caught me wanking off. Such was the tenor of our peculiar truth and dare game.
One dare I appreciate was our senior prom. A mutual dare, in fact, for both of us – virgins, unkissed even – to find a date for the prom, to find someone to attend this coming-out party, this initiation into the world of adult, romantic relationships. The hours we spent strategizing, making lists of possible dates, rating them on virtues of intellect, niceness, raw attractiveness. I can't remember how we came up with Steve for you. Was our class so barren of suitable men? He was smart and nice enough, I guess. He must have scored well on raw sensuality. Am I right? Truth!
As for Cathy, we started with a list of about 20 gals. If I remember correctly, you edited that list quickly down to three or four. Cathy's combined score (we broke the three categories into about 15 sub-categories: book smarts, EQ, intuition, economic potential, politeness, political sensibility, public speaking, legs, athleticism, hair, lips, smile and so on) was something like 7.89 out of 10, beating her nearest competitor by .37.
I was super nervous asking her. But since you had already secured Steve, you never would have let me live it down if I hadn't tried. Vast relief with her "yes."
A simple off-the-shoulder black dress. Tight. Cleavage. I gulped, looked at her father and thought: 'You're going to let me take this anywhere outside of your sight line?' Her mother smiled and helped me attach the white rose when my fingers failed me. I don't know if Cathy blushed. It could have just been her skin reflecting my shyness. Clumsiness describes not only my fingers but my entire mindset at that point. Two fingers slid behind the fabric by her left shoulder trying to hold the flower steady. Her mother's hand steadied mine as I pierced the fabric and flower stem with the pin. I smelled her perfume, hyper aware of her bosom rising and falling as I pulled my hands away.
Thank God Cathy scored high on conversation. By the end of dinner, she had put me enough at ease that I didn't have a seizure when she took my arm on the way to the prom hall. The dancing helped too. When the first slow songs came up, I deflected, telling her that I needed something to drink.
The punch table – that's where we ran into each other. Steve looked happy, with his arm holding your waist tightly. Then the hug happened. I blink. Suddenly, I am watching Cathy and Paulette hugging. WTF?! It's not that you hugged. It was the hug. I've never understood this. You have two girls both dressed to kill; they know each other casually, and then for no apparent reason at the prom they give each other this more than polite hug. Clearly not an inappropriate girl-on-girl thing. But it was long. And weirdly affectionate. And here's the kicker. The whole time you were staring directly at me, daring me to break eye contact.
"I'm so glad you are here," you said to her, your hand on her lower back.
"Craig and I are having a great time," Cathy responds. "I'm so glad he asked me."
"He is kinda cute, isn't he," you said with a smile yet wrinkling your nose at the same time. "If you are into that shy, geeky, athlete kind of thing."
"Yeah." Cathy wasn't shy about giving my body the once over.
It was all too much. "Time to dance," I chimed. The music had sped up, and the fun returned to simpler fare.
Now that I think of it, the prom marked the end of our truth and dare game. Asking Cathy and Steve to the prom was our last real dare. The secret sharing stopped that night.
Mr. Perry, as you no doubt remember, chaperoned the prom. Now there was a secret. I never quite got how you found him attractive. Married guy, smart, supportive, twice your age, kids. You need not remind me that I had my own teacher crush. But face the facts. Ms. Simmons was hot and liked tight clothes. I'm sure I wasn't the only one jacking off with her butt and boobs in mind. Besides, she was younger and single. And I at least didn't construct complicated schemes to get with her. My favorite of your many creations: Stalk his house on Saturday mornings, learn his running routine, then run your self along his path, once you see him approaching, you'd pretend to sprain your ankle, forcing him to rescue you. Odds were good that he would be up close and personal, that his hands would be on you, albeit your ankle and calf. 'A beginning,' you'd remark with a big smile. Don't think I didn't notice that your wardrobe would step it up on days we had physics. Did you really need to get all of that help at his desk? No doubt Ms. Simmons would have laughed me out of the room if I tried stunts like that.
You never told me if you had any success with Mr. Perry besides perhaps that bump in your physics grade. Then again I never asked. I do remember what I saw at the prom. Granted you two looked like you were having a lot of fun, and he obviously knew what he was doing on the dance floor. Mr. Perry ballroom dancing with Paulette – back straight, arm around your back, firmly holding you, patiently directing you on the steps of some Latin dance – a tango or samba or swing-something. There were steps, twirls, dips. There was your smile and laughter.
I'm sorry. I am making too much of this. It was just a dance. And you had some fun with a favorite teacher. Who's to complain? It was in plain sight. I'm sure he was a responsible guy and knew enough to file that memory away as a pleasant event and not spend the rest of his life climbing on his wife and imagining it was you.
So, you asked how it went in the car after the dance. Little harm in fleshing out the details after all of these years.
So, one more secret for you, Darling. But I need not remind you about our rules. You will be in my debt.
Cathy and I weren't good dancers like you and Mr. Perry, but we had fun faking a tango. After a few tunes and a good sweat, the music slowed again.
"I love this song," Cathy said holding my hand, keeping me from bolting. "Dance it with me?"
"K." Two hands on her hips, her hands on my shoulders, a safe spacing. Yes, I was hard and worried about it. The dress felt great. The curve underneath... I cheated and moved my hands a bit down, a bit in, figuring she wouldn't notice.
She smiled and put her hands together behind my head. The gap narrowed. Her breasts grazed my chest. I prayed for my erection to go away. God evidently doesn't love me. My hands moved again, stroking her side, ending a bit further back. Who told them to do that?!
"I like you holding me," Cathy said.
My arms pulled her closer. She felt so good. She smelled so good. But my cock! Her belly brushed it. She had to know. I stepped back to gain more space. My hands returned to the more neutral position on her hips. Her eyes looked so calm compared to my inner confusions.
Yes, the first kiss. You and I researched this subject in depth. We watched Rom-Coms together, categorizing kinds of kisses. We discussed techniques; we practiced French kissing apples when we were supposed to be studying French conjugations; we ruminate on signs one gives or looks for showing the desire to be kissed. None of this analysis was any help.
I looked around for you. Steve was chatting with his buds, but you were AWOL.
