A WRITER'S REGRET

Five years ago now, my friend Erin came to one of my book releases and brought along her best friend Kelly. Erin was tall, blonde, smart, and drop-dead gorgeous. She stole the attention in a room. Even though Kelly continued to appear at my readings, I never thought of her as attractive in her own right. She'd been so eclipsed by Erin, it was as if I could see only sun spots when looking at Kelly. It wasn't fair. I was just oblivious.

In time, Kelly and I began to meet for coffee or ice cream--innocent dates. I would get busy, and time would pass. A month, or more. I'd be so absorbed in my work, I'd forget about Kelly. Until the next month, or season, or whenever an event would push me back into the public light. Kelly would be there.

To be a busy artist and not intentionally aloof is nothing original. For the first couple years, I made no promises to Kelly. If she remained a casual friend, fine. But of course, artists are contradictory. They have huge egos which drive them to create their own individual work, and yet fragile self-esteems. Slight criticisms, minor failures, even a low attendance at a reading can drive a writer to self-loathing melancholy.

And Kelly, sweet as she was, fell into that emotional vacuum. She was always up for a glass of wine, a stroll by the riverfront. Even that was fine. But in summer, when we went swimming, I saw her for the first time not as a friend, or as an emotionally comforting crutch, but as a 33-year-old with an amazing body.

That is when I crossed the line from being just a self-absorbed artist, to an asshole. I knew I had to have her. So I made it happen. I invited her over, and did everything cliche: lit candles, put on music, poured wine. And it worked. Soon we were kissing and hands groping and a shirt off and then a bra. Her breasts truly were perfectly shaped and firm. They were the most perfect breasts I have ever experienced, which made me want her more.

I reached in her panties and she was wet. After some fingering, the panties came off. She didn't trim her hair, but let it grow natural. I hadn't seen a full patch of pubic hair for years. It was surprising how something that used to be natural and just normal, was now exotic and untamed. I went down for a taste. Her pussy was sweet.

She fumbled in my pants and pulled out my hard body. She stroked it, and tugged me up over her chest. With deep blue eyes, she looked at me, and stroked with firm, steady rhythm. I looked down at her, at her perfect breasts, smooth and the part of her cleavage, now fairly flat, with the weight of her natural breasts pulling to her sides. That's where she wanted me to cum. And I wanted it, too. It was a gift she had wanted to give me for years and I had been too blind to see.

She continued her steady pace, and I felt my balls churn. I knew the pressure was building. She did not speed up but stared at me and smiled, her smile straight and white with perfect teeth. How had I been so oblivious? Here was the sweetest midwestern girl still fresh off the farm, with her hand on my cock, bating me off to cum on her perfect tits. I couldn't believe my fortune. I wanted to confess love and propose marriage. And I came.

Time passed. I don't know why. I got busy. Another book. Something about the feelings that welled up for her scared me. I had crossed a line I wanted to take back, and she thought wed finally moved forward. She sent me a photo of her, posed by her bedroom mirror, looking at the self-timed camera with her beautiful eyes, waiting. She wrote: thinking of you. She said she wanted to see me again and pick up where we'd left off, take the next step.

There never was a next time. Work resumed. I retreated. Kelly, hurt, finally gave up. I'm not proud of this. It is a story I tell myself when I am feeling back and want to confirm what is wrong with me. It is a story that wakes me up and makes me look at my empty couch, and rewind time to the candlelight and music and wine. Go back just to the point, and then say it. Confess my feelings for her. Words can change the course of things, if you believe in words. And words never said change everything.