Oh Paul, the day we met I had never in my life imagined someone like you. Our meeting was brief and I thought we were just ships passing in the night. You stood in my room and winked at me. You captured me in a heartbeat. I dreamed about you night and day. Obsession would not be too strong a word. You were just a fantasy though.
The doorbell rang one evening that January, 1969. Paul stood on the porch. I opened the door and my mouth. No words, can't make words. He saved me. He acted like it would be perfectly normal for him to be there. He strolled in and said hi to my parents. I introduced him, I think. Dad was on the sofa reading. Mother was knitting and counting stitches under her breath, "two, four, six, eight, ten, twelve, fourteen, purl, purl, purl, purl", and the ticking sound of her needles resumed. Paul sat in the rocking chair and started making conversation with everyone. Dad was quiet. Mother made her ticking sound. We watched TV, something funny like Laugh-In or The Smothers Brothers. Paul laughed at the double entandres and would look at me and wink like I got it too. I was on the floor in my usual TV watching position. Two pillows and the floor. I would lie on my stomach, or side, or back. I "lolled" constantly as mother put it. "Quit lolling", she would say to me in between the ticking of the needles. I wondered if Paul could pick up on how much of a disturbance he had created in our sterile environment.
After watching whatever on TV I suggested we go in the living room and listen to music. "Cool", he said. I tried to remember my hostess duties. Do you want a coke or something? "Cool", he said. I showed him into the living room and went shaking in to the kitchen to get sodas. "Who is he and why is he here?" hissed dad in a whisper. "He lives up the street, he's visiting". I answered. However, I too was thinking, "why IS he here?".
We sat in the living room listening to Bob Dylan, The Beatles, Steppenwolf, The Doors. We talked about lyrics, the deep meaning some of them held. His voice was like chocolate. Rich, deep, thick, creamy and sinful in it's own way. He had a deep resonate laugh that thrilled me every time I coaxed it out of him. He talked philosophy, human rights, social equality and I was entranced. This was genius. This handsome, witty, charming man was HIM. I didn't say much because I wanted this fantasy to go on for a while. I didn't want to open my mouth and prove that I was indeed a dummy. I watched him, I listened and learned. I was a student at his feet. These visits went on for a few evenings. Eventually I relaxed and actually talked to him. Gave opinions on subjects he talked about. Asked good questions about things I didn't understand. He thought I was smart. He thought I was deep and insightful. Thank you, God, for this man who didn't think of me as an idiot.
Now, I had boyfriends prior to this moment. Little boys who would hold my hand or put their arm around me. I had engaged in closed mouth kissing and wondered what the hoopla was all about. Girls at school talked about french kissing. Not really, that can't be real. One afternoon in junior high stoopidboy came to my house on his Honda 65. He was "it" in his own mind. He knew every word that rhymed with dick. He zipped up and down my street on his little Honda and stopped where I was standing. He pulled me toward him and stuck his tongue in my mouth. I got a little bit of Frito and the pattern of my fishnet hose seared on my leg for all his effort.
Now I was ready. I wanted Paul to kiss me like a man kisses a woman. He didn't . He kept coming over. We got closer. We talked on the phone. No kiss. One night he was getting ready to leave my house. I walked him to the door. He took my hand and pulled me out on the front porch. It was freezing cold and I was barefoot. He pulled me to him and wrapped his coat around me. His corduroy coat with the fleece lining. It smelled like him, smoke and cologne and man. I put my arms around his neck knowing the moment I had dreamed of was here. He looked directly at me and I held his gaze. I was memorizing this moment. Suddenly I was surrounded in thick pile velvet and rose petals. This was certainly not disgusting. This was indescribable. His mouth was sensual and gentle and thrilling and exciting at the same time. I felt like I was sinking in a mass of something strong yet comforting, honest and thoughtful, sincere and loving. Holy cow, I'M A WOMAN. And he is magic. He is The Wizard.
I watched him walk up the street while I gathered my composure to walk back in my house. I was certain "FRENCH KISSER" had magically appeared on my forehead as some mark of near sluttiness.
That night I said to God. Thank you for bringing him to me so early in my life. Somebody finally loves me and I am so lucky that we will have an entire lifetime starting now to be together.
I had never been so blessed. I was finally living.
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