Parts of this story actually happened but most of this is fiction. Had I actually asked her to be my girl back on New Years of '76, she might still be alive today. Instead, a few years later, she'd married and divorced the guy I knew as her boyfriend, bore him a son and was brutally beaten and asphyxiated along with her roommate by her then-boyfriend. They had the arms of a cashmere sweater tied around their necks and flung over a door. He beat them unconscious and they choked to death. Paula was only 20. This is my tribute to her as to "how it might have been."
She was only my
third lover; a hippie chick in a post-hippie world, but she ended up being my
most enduring love.
Paula wasn’t
“beautiful” in the classical sense, but she was lovely to my eyes. I adored her and that made her happy. Prior to me, it had been “bad boys” she was
drawn to and her parents were almost relieved when she brought me in to meet
them. Still, they weren’t thrilled that,
back in 1975, I had hair past my shoulders but, other than smoking a little
pot, I wasn’t a druggie, wasn’t a car-thief, wasn’t trying to mooch off them
and I had a job.
Paula was
Jewish, born in St. Petersburg, Russia, raised in Israel and a naturalized U.S.
Citizen at age 12. She was rebellious by
nature, mainly due to the fact that she had such a slight build. Most guys would insult her, calling her “flat
as a board and twice as hard” but I never found her to be cruel except to those
who were cruel first. I accepted her for
who and what she was and she loved that.
We almost didn’t
get together. She had a very possessive,
alcoholic boyfriend who was also very large.
The only reason he wanted her was because her family had money and Paula
stood to inherit a lot of it. She
admitted to me that she was very afraid of him, but he accepted me for some
reason. I was often the “fifth-wheel” in
the group when we’d go out to the disco because Ken “didn’t dance” until he got
very drunk. Me? I actually disliked disco music. I much preferred rock, but Paula loved
dancing. I’d spent enough time in
California during the late “hippie” years to not care if I was dancing with
someone or not. Paula liked that about
me and would drag me out onto the dance floor, sometimes with a group of her girlfriends. I’d dance with all of them and none of them,
just letting myself fall into the rhythms.
It wouldn’t be until we would fall into an embrace during a slow-dance
that Ken would finally get up the nerve to come out and push his way between
us. At that point, I’d usually find some
other girl to cut a rug with, but I’d look over at Paula and Ken and she’d be
staring at me with a sad desire.
It wasn’t until
Ken went to jail because of a DUI accident over Thanksgiving weekend that we
found ourselves together. He ran a
stoplight, t-boning a car and killing a little boy. Paula called me, crying and not knowing what
to do because he’d used all their rent money to drink and they hadn’t paid that
month’s rent, let alone having it for December.
I finally convinced her to move back in with her parents.
We talked a lot
on the phone and she would have me come over to visit on Saturday
afternoons. We’d go to the movies with
her sister and her cousin. I never
pushed her to do anything or to be anything other than friends. That didn’t mean I didn’t want her,
though. When the prospect loomed of me
spending yet another holiday alone where everyone but me had someone to kiss, I invited her to a New Year’s
party. She eagerly accepted and said
she’d meet me at my house. Hours before we were supposed to be there, I
received a call from my buddy who was hosting the soiree. She arrived at my house just as I hung up the
phone.
“The party
canceled,” I told her. “Gary and Kim
decided it was going to be too much of a hassle and are going to a bigger one
somewhere else.”
“That’s fine,”
she told me as she slid into my arms.
My brothers
would chide me about Paula, saying she was, perhaps, “the ugliest girl I’d ever
dated,” but I didn’t see it that way.
She was perfect, mainly because her spirit matched mine. She was “House of the Rising Sun” to my
“Amazing Grace.” The music and lyrics
were interchangeable and both were wrenchingly beautiful.
“What do you
want to do then?”
“Whatever you’d
like, Jack.”
“Come on.”
I took her by
the hand and led her to the couch. I
didn’t own a TV at the time (I know, hard to imagine, right?) so I turned on
the stereo, tuned into my favorite station, rolled a couple joints and we just
smoked and talked while listening to the music, with her reclining on the couch
and me sitting on a chair.
She spent some
time examining my book collection and then sighed contentedly
“Can I ask you
something?”
“Sure,” I said.
“How come you
never put a move on me before this?”
“Real reason or
pseudo-reason?”
She
laughed. “Both.”
“Pseudo-reason is
that I don’t hit on other guys girlfriends.
It’s not polite.”
“How
gentlemanly!”
“Real
reason? I felt Ken would kill me.”
She
laughed. “He always accused me of
wanting you and, after the third or fourth time of him accusing me of that, I
told him I did. He beat me up twice
because I said that, but then he realized I meant it – and so did I. That’s why he got drunk and got into that
accident.”
“Why the hell
did you tell him that?”
She
shrugged. “I believe in honesty. Unfortunately, most guys I’ve gone out with
don’t.”
I smiled. “Well, there’s honesty and then there’s honesty.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning that
there is a difference between being blunt and using some tact. Were you blunt or tactful with him?”
She thought a
minute. “I guess I was pretty blunt
about it. I was getting fed up with his
drinking. Nothing seemed to stop him, so
I told him I didn’t love him anymore and that I wanted him to leave. He did, strangely enough, but when he went
out, he got drunk and hit that car, killing the kid.”
“Do you feel
guilty over that?”
“A little. But not really. I never forced him to drink. I dated him because it pissed my parents off,
not because I actually wanted him. They
were always trying to get me to marry a ‘nice, Jewish boy’, not a gentile. I didn’t want that. I wanted it to be my decision”
“I’m surprised
Ken didn’t come over here and beat me
up.”
She smiled and
then chuckled softly. “He might have
been working up the dutch-courage to do that.
I think you intimidated him.”
“What? I
intimidated him? The guy was almost 6 inches taller than me
and outweighed me by 100 pounds!”
“Yes, but you
always acted like you didn’t care if he saw you holding me or weren’t afraid of
him and he felt that you knew something he didn’t. He thought that maybe you were into martial
arts or something.”
I laughed.
“No. I suck at fighting and run like hell!”
That made Paula
laugh a little before a coy look came over her face.
“So, when we’d
go out dancing, did you enjoy it?”
“I did,” I
admitted. “Especially the slow dances.”
“Why?”
It was my turn
to smile. “Because I got to hold you.”
“Yeah,” she
smirked. “You got to hold a skinny
little troll. That must have been a real treat!”
I frowned. “Who says you’re a troll?”
Paula sucked on
the joint. “Most guys.”
“Then they don’t
know what they’re talking about. Only
shallow people judge others solely on their appearance. But I know there are guys that love fat
chicks, others – like me – who love skinny chicks. Some guys like big boobs, some like small
ones. Some guys are tit men, face men or
ass-and-leg men.”
“Which are you?”
she said, chidingly.
“Ass-and-leg,
mainly. But I like skinny chicks. And long hair.”
“Even if they’re
built like 12-yr-olds?”
I laughed. “Especially
chicks built like that and have long hair.”
“So… do you
think I’m sexy?”
I looked at her
longingly. “Very much so.”
“Then why aren’t
you sitting with me?”
I gave her a
crooked smile. “Because I love looking
at you… watching you.”
“You’ve done
enough of that,” she said, crawling off the couch and into my lap. “I need you to touch me now.” With that, she began to kiss me.
After we’d made
out for several minutes, I asked her a question.
“Paula, you said
you were always attracted to the bad boys.
Yet, here you are with me. I’m not a bad boy, I just have long hair and
a beard. And your parents actually like me.”
“So?”
“So, why are you
here with me?”
She kissed me
again and then cuddled against my chest.
“For a lot of
reasons, actually. First is that I feel
safe around you and I’ve never felt that before. You don’t intimidate me, you don’t force me,
you don’t guilt-trip me and you don’t whine.
You seem to accept me for who I am, not because my parents are wealthy. I mean, I heard you decline money from my
father – and you did it nicely!
“Jack, I think
you’re one of the most intelligent guys I’ve ever met. Normally, that would make me uncomfortable,
but you don’t make me feel stupid or inferior, either.”
“Why? Don’t you think you’re intelligent?”
“Not
necessarily, no.”
“Why do you say
that? You’ve always held your own in a
conversation with me, or with anyone else – even my friends! They like you, and they’re hard to please.”
She sighed.
“I just never
felt particularly intelligent. Braniacs
always seemed to look down their noses at me and stuff.”
She sighed
again. “I don’t know how to put this any
differently, but I feel some sort of spiritual connection to you that I’ve
never felt with anyone else.
“I mean, that
last time we were out dancing and Ken got so drunk that he fell asleep on the table
and you danced all those slow dances with me?
Something happened inside my heart.
I didn’t want the songs to end and it actually hurt to let you go. I think I realized then that I was in love
with you.”
“You’re… in love with me?”
“Very much so.”
“Why?”
“Because you are
who you are! You’re artistic. You’re creative. You’re funny.
You’re smart…”
“Whoa! Take me off that pedestal right now. I’m also very flawed!”
She smiled. “Yes, but you’re flawed in the ways I like.”
She kissed me
again after she said that. We ended up
kissing for a very, very long time.
“God, and you
kiss better than any guy I know as well!”
I chuckled as
she laid her head on my shoulder.
“How do most
guys kiss?”
“They… don’t,”
she laughed. “They just open their
mouth, slobber all over you and try to ram their tongues down your throat,
thinking that they are showing you how much they desire you. You… kiss. I mean, you somehow make it the most erotic
thing in the world, even though it’s only our lips touching. Good God, Jack, I’ve almost had three orgasms
from you kissing me like that!”
I shook my
head. “Paula, I don’t do anything
special. I just kiss like I want to be
kissed.”
“I know,” she
said, resting her head on my shoulder and breathing against my neck. “You kiss me as if to say I’m the most
beautiful, sensuous woman in your life.”
“You are.”
Paula was silent
for several moments and then I felt something warm and wet splash against the
opening in my shirt. She hugged me and
began to sob against my shoulder. I
simply held her, caressing her hair and back.
I loved her hair, which was thick, dark, and hung all the way down to
her ass.
“You bastard,”
she decried softly.
“What?”
“I never cry. Not in front of a guy, I don’t. Not with my lovers. I never
show them that I’m this weak or vulnerable!”
“Why not?”
“I just
don’t! And here I am, crying against you
because you say the most beautiful things!”
She rose up to face me again, leaned back to arms-length and looked at
me. “How the hell do you do that?”
“You said you
wanted honesty. I’m giving it to you.”
“Bastard,” she
said, grabbing the hem of her sweater and pulling it up and off her body. She wore nothing beneath it.
Paula was very slightly built. Her breasts were barely two mounds capped by
quarter-sized, mocha-brown nipples. She
looked at me shyly as she revealed her upper body to me.
“Oh, God, you’re
beautiful,” I breathed as I bent to lick at her left nipple.
Paula’s back
arched, pushing her chest against my mouth and face as I made love to her
breasts. Her fingers combed through my
hair, raking my scalp and pulling me tighter against her. Once more, I felt light, warm drops hitting
my face and shoulders. Somehow, she’d
managed to remove my shirt as well and we both sat on the chair clad only in
our jeans and socks.
I kissed my way
down her belly and she leaned back, her arms stretched from my neck, and my own
encircling the base of her spine, palms resting just above the gentle swell of
her tight little ass.
I made love to
her belly-button, licked along the ridges of her hip-bones, watched as
goose-flesh appeared on her olive-tan skin when I nibbled along the curve of
her waist, back to her breasts, then up her arms to her shoulders and neck,
ending in another long, sensuous kiss.
We didn’t speak
the entire time that we spent seducing one another. We didn’t hurry. We were so comfortable with each other that
we didn’t need to. Instead, we let out
all the pent-up feelings inside and focused on love-making as an art-form. I made love to her back side the same way as
I did to her front, nibbling at her neck just below the base of her skull, then
kissing my way down her spine until she was bending her forward. I leaned down to kiss the rise of her
ass-cheeks as they peeked at me from the tops of her low-rise bell-bottoms and
nibbled all along her waistband, making her breathing ragged and sobbing.
To me, her skin
was flawless, tanned and smooth. She had
dimples above her butt-cheeks that I adored.
I kissed each rib, each vertebrae in her back, making her shiver when
she felt my tongue peek out to flick across each bump. I nuzzled her shoulder-blades, her neck, her
earlobes. I stroked her hair until I had
it in a pony-tail and then pulled on it, forcing her head back, revealing her
neck to me. She told me she never felt
so vulnerable as when I did that.
“Let me up,” she
finally gasped.
“Why?”
“Because my
panties are soaked and I need to get them off!”
She stood and
slowly stripped for me, allowing me to take in the curve of her ass. As she lowered her jeans, I could smell her
arousal. My fingertips stroked down from
her lower back and over her ass cheeks as she slid the material down to her
ankles and stepped out of them. She froze
when my fingers traced their way down her butt-crack and moaned when I tickled
her back hole, gently touching the dampness of her sex.
Paula turned and
presented herself to me, smiling. She
was no longer self-conscious of her body because she knew I loved all of her,
worshipped her – had been worshipping
her – and I wasn’t just “doing things” simply to get her to fuck me. I was doing something she’d never experienced
– I was making love to her.
The sensuous
drumbeat of Cream’s “We’re Going Wrong”
filled the air and Paula laughed. The
lyrics were just the opposite of what we were feeling, but somehow it became our song. I drank in her loveliness, the bushy “V” of
her thick thatch of pubic hair that was matted down with desire, the way her
long hair brushed against me when she swayed, how her nipples hardened and
poked out like two brown erasers and most of all, how her brown eyes looked
into mine.
Paula had me
stand and looked me in the eye as she undid my belt buckle, pulling it out of
the loops. Then she slowly undid the
buttons of my fly and then eased the material down, revealing my cock to her
gaze. She bent forward gently grazed the
tip with her lips as I stepped out of my own clothes, but stood up with me and
we embraced, swaying nakedly to the slow, hypnotic beat of Ginger Baker’s
drumming and Jack Bruce’s beautiful, haunting singing.
“You’ve made me
cum five times already,” she admitted softly, her eyes still locked with mine
as she pressed herself against me. “Nobody has ever done that… not without
touching me.”
“I want to touch
you now.”
“I know,” she
replied, smiling. “I want you to. I want you in me.”
Paula pushed me
onto the couch, straddled my legs, grabbed my cock and slid it between the
brown edges of her pink pussy and slowly lowered herself onto me, gasping and
closing her eyes as “Soul Sacrifice”
began to play.
My lady rode me,
her face a study in bliss. She would
move her hips in a circular motion, faster and faster until she would stop and shake a little, put her arms on my
shoulders and breathe heavily, then begin again. I let her.
I let her enjoy herself. One of
the things she’d revealed in the past was that she was always on the
bottom. I was freeing her. I gave her this control and yet, I controlled
her more than any other man in her life.
She came at
least a dozen times; gentle, quaking orgasms that made her throw her head back,
letting her hair sensuously brush against my legs as her arms braced against my
chest. Her mouth would open in a silent
scream and I’d reach up to strum her nipples to make her shudder and fall
forward. After an hour of lovemaking
this way, she fell against me and said, “Enough! I can’t do it anymore!”
“No.”
“Mfph?”
“My turn.”
I grabbed her by
the hips and began to move them back-and-forth, shaking her like a
rag-doll. Paula clawed at me and bit my
shoulder before she rose up again, but didn’t stop me. Instead, she began to chant, “Fuck me! Fuck me!
Fuck me!” with each thrust.
And I fucked
her. Hard. Violently.
Ramming my cock as deep into her as I could, then moving her so that
only the tip remained inside, then slamming it back into her womb again. After 10 minutes, she fell against me once
more. I felt her drool on my shoulder as
she wimpered and begged me to cum in her.
I grabbed her ass, squeezing it as I began to arch my back as well.
“Cum for me,
baby!” she begged. “Cum in my
pussy. Make me yours!”
I could feel it
welling up and cried out hoarsely, “I’m so close… So fucking close!”
“Cum in me,” she
cried. “Spurt it in me. I want to feel it splash against my
womb. Make me your woman, Jack! I need you to cum in me! Fill me with your seed!”
I cried out
something unintelligible and bucked upward, almost throwing her off me.
She cried “I can
feel it! I can feel you cumming!” as the
first spurt hit the walls of her pussy.
She dug her fingernails into my back and bit the spot where my shoulders
and neck met, sending what felt like 10,000 volts through my system and making
me arch again as the next few spurts shot out of my cock like a rocket launch.
Eventually, I
was reclining on the couch and she was between my legs, lying against me, my
arms wrapped comfortably around her. We
were exhausted and sweating, even though the room was rather cool.
“Happy New
Year,” she whispered to me. I looked at
the clock and it read 12:33 am. It was
the first time I’d fucked-in a new year.
With any luck, it wouldn’t be the last.
“I love you,”
she said softly.
“I love you, Paula,” I responded sincerely,
kissing the top of her head.
Eighteen years
later, I sat at her hospital bed. The
product of that first New Year’s lovemaking was on my left, holding my
hand. Angel, our first child, sat with
me, crying softly. She was a taller
version of her mother and had blonde streaks in her light brown hair, but her
mother’s features dominated – the doe-eyes, hawk-nose and sensuous lips. Wade, Thomas and Evelyn sat on the other side
of the bed, staring teary-eyed at their dying mother and holding her other
hand. But neither Paula nor I were
crying – or, I was fighting not to. She
smiled at me and squeezed my hand in hers.
“You’ve let me
cry often,” she said. “Nobody ever let
me do that. You’re the only person that
I could do that with, so I’ll shed no
tears now. You’ve made me happier than I
ever deserved.”
“You deserved
ever minute,” I told her, smiling, but fighting away my tears.
“Jack, it’s your
turn to cry hun,” she said in a fading whisper as one of the machines clicked
and more medication was pumped into her cancer-ravaged body. “Show them all that it is okay to cry, that
you can still be strong and cry.”
I cried.
I cried - we all
cried as she slipped away.
I cried as I
held Angel and she cried against me as well.
I cried as I
held my other children… our children.
But she was
right. It wasn’t a sign of weakness to
cry because it made us stronger as a family.
We grieved together and found joy in each other.
Two years later,
my eldest daughter, Angel married a good guy – the youngest of a family of
12. His oldest sister had just been
widowed and I found she had beauty in her own way, even though she was nothing
like Paula.
Angel introduced
us at a family picnic and was happy when Scarlett and I hit it off. So were the rest of the kids, though Evelyn
took a little longer to come around.
She’d been 8 when her mother passed away and 11 when I began to date
Scarlett. We married on Evie’s 18th
birthday. She was also the maid of
honor.
So, yes… life goes
on. It must. Paula would have wanted it that way.
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