There are times I wish a moment could last forever. An early morning dreary, we—Jerry and I were standing, facing each other, in the middle of an area enclosed by an eight foot fence. My hands rested on his forearms; his hands supported mine. It was like the day we were married -- nothing elaborate -- a simple late afternoon ceremony in a bar next to a store front ministry by the preacher.
Standing in front of the bar as Jerry and I locked arms together, Preacher delivered a short sermon to introduce to the ceremony. "Today, our good friends Jerry and Amy go through an important threshold in their lives: marriage by which according to the words of Christ Lord Jesus a man and a woman become of one flesh. .."
I had wanted Jerry to read one of his little poems,
"Physical love,
Touching
Romanic love,
Clutching,
Spiritual love,
Trusting."
I protested Jerry's refusal, "But it's so sweet."
"I like to keep the thoughts I share with you private. I don't want any emotion display in public," Jerry declined.
We married right after I graduated from college. In those care -- free college years I met and started a relationship with Jerry. We'd been together ever since.
I was green, 17 without worries. National Service wasn't in my forecast. Registration was required for unemployed youths between 18 and 21. College students were exempt. Publicly, it was said that whenever National Service had sufficient volunteers, there would be no forced call ups. But so what, all that worry was for other people, not me.
I had an off -- campus apartment in some old lady's house. I had no worries. Other than collecting the rent the old lady didn't interfere with my comings and goings.
Recently discharged after two years National Service in the Army, Jerry was the opposite seething with a rage he tried to suppress, but which erupted in an exciting competition when we grappled for the upper berth in bed.
Life was beautiful. What was happening in the wider world, the storm crowds gathering, didn't concern me. Though less beguiled, Jerry was carried along in the moment. He commemorated this in a poem:
"Thrills and Chills,
Love's magic noticing
Voices shrill
Object focusing
Deep diving drill
Gateway opening."
Life with Jerry was all good fun. Our main concern was whether he'd take me by surprise from behind or I'd mount him while he slept and shout that I was going to pump him dry. That old widow landlady sure got a lesson in sex education.
Jerry summed up those times in one of those little ditties I wanted to write down:
"A paean to the young
Give a little tongue
Lots of love and fun"
"What a dirty mind!" I gave Jerry a playful, phony bitch slap in mock protest.
Whirling me around and whipping my pants off, Jerry laughed as he forced my feet apart, "You never noticed your landlady's embarrassed smile when she collects the rent."
"She's jealous," I managed to grunt before Jerry stuffed my panties in my mouth. "I got 'Lot of love and fun.' "
There was pause. Jerry sighed and released a wheezing sound. Jerry paused. My butt was bare, my mouth was clogged shut and my hands were bound behind my back, what was the problem?
Jerry did enter but not his usual rage driven plunge but a slow, considerate screwing, timidly entering, withdrawing, entering deeper then pulling back. I tried to draw him deeper by moving my butt against him to force his thrusts in deeper. It was a rare time I came before Jerry when taken from behind. I'm glad I never shared that with Jerry. Not that I didn't like it that way, but I was afraid Jerry might embarrass me by turning the experience into a poem.
In those fun days, I wasn't watching how the National Service Law was drawing its net deeper against the public. Suddenly, it was no longer voluntary but was now mandated to solve youthful unemployment at first until age 25 and force repayment of college loans. The returning veteran Jerry winced whenever the net drew wider as the age limit extended upwards and the number of conditions which invited the call - up that would require induction multiplied.
Upon my graduation, decided to make our deal official. We both landed well -- paying jobs. And of course, Jerry always knew how to make a joke out of it.
Clad in the same raggy dungarees we wore to report in to National Service, we faced each other in our wedding in a strip mall bar. The store front preacher stood in front the bar. The bar tender with a rag in hand stood behind the bar to the right of the preacher. Giving the bartender a wink, Preacher joked, if we was Catholics, I guess we'd call you an altar boy."
The old lady, my maid of honor, stood behind us. When drafted into the role, she insisted upon dressing in an old gown she once wore to a formal affair. "Make sure," the old lady told me, "to save those ratty dungarees for your daughter to wear at her wedding."