CHAPTER 30 - A NOT SO LITTLE SECRET

            Michael's kisses and his gentle touch awakened feelings in me that I had thought dead of old age after 20 years of being alone. For just a little while, I dared to allow myself to revel in his embrace. I dared to imagine that this extraordinary experience could actually become a normal occurrence. Canoodling on the couch together, time might have stood still but for the clock upstairs proclaiming its passage with the annoying dependability of Big Ben. Half-past three marched resolutely toward a quarter to four. With reluctance, I placed my hands on his strong shoulders and gave a tentative push, unwillingly ending a very pleasant interlude. "Easy there, big fella," I said with a smile. "We've passed late and made it all the way back ‘round to early. We ought to get to bed."

            He looked like a little boy at Christmas. "Really?" He asked with a hopeful sparkle in his eyes.

            Wait a minute, I thought, that didn't come out quite right. But it's not hard to tell what he's got on his mind. I felt like nine kinds of a Grinch raining on his little carnal parade. "I meant, you need to go to your bed, and I need to go to mine."

            He was crestfallen. "Oh," he said with just a hint of a pout.

            "I thought we were starting over," I reminded him. "Did you expect me to sleep with you on the first date? What kind of a girl do you think I am?"

            "That's what I was hoping to find out," he rejoined as he stood up with those minor difficulties usually had by people of our age group after periods of extended immobility. Everything still works, but it just takes a little longer to get back to work than it used to. He gallantly offered me his hand, helping me to my feet. We both groaned as stiff joints protested, and minor aches reminded us that we had come a long way since 1974. We laughed together at ourselves. "When did we get so old, Magnolia, darlin'?"

            "I think Father Time caught up with sometime in the 90's," I replied.

            "Then I've got at least a decade head start on you, Sweetheart."

            "That's okay," I assured him. "I've always had a thing for older men."

            "Ouch," he said, making a wry face.

            I stood on tip-toe and kissed the end of his nose. "You're still foxy for an old fart."

            He hugged me. "And you're not bad for a mature woman."

            "Ooh, so diplomatic! Well, good night or morning as the case may be," I said as I turned toward the stairs to go to my room.

            "Sweet dreams," he responded, as he caught me and hugged me once more before placing a kiss in my forehead. As I walked away, I heard him mutter good-naturedly, "And all this time I thought I was through with cold showers."

            "Aw, poor baby," I commiserated with a smile as I made my way up the stairway. Once inside the solitude of the guest room again, I leaned my back against the closed door. "What kind of a girl do you think I am?" My own words echoed in my head. Before too long, Michael would find out exactly what kind of a girl I was, and that impending event terrified me beyond words because once Michael knew the truth, all bets might very well be off.

            I climbed into bed and sat there, cross-legged, hugging my pillow, pondering my rather unique predicament. What kind of a girl was I? I was an antique, an anachronism, a sideshow freak. Put very plainly, I was probably one of the worlds' oldest living virgins.

            I talked a good game, but in all actuality, my values and morals were products of a bygone era. In the sexual revolution, I had been a conscientious objector. Growing up in a church with a strict fundamental doctrine during the moral paradigm shift of the 60's and 70's, I had been efficiently indoctrinated by the older generations against the new permissiveness going on all around us. While everyone else was testing their boundaries and pushing the envelope, I unwittingly found myself allied with the side determined to hold the line at all costs.

            Sadly enough, it hadn't been that difficult. There had never been that many men storming my defenses anyway. I was the personification of Dorothy Parker's poem entitled, Parable for a Certain Virgin. It was all about the porcupine and catalogued the little animal's natural protection against predators. The final stanza observed in that inimitable Parkeresque style that in spite of all the porcupine's defenses, no one really wanted the darn thing anyway. Yes, sadly, that was me. I had spent a lifetime saving myself only to learn that I had been the butt of some cosmic joke and that no one really wanted me either.

            Sometimes I felt like one of those items found on the clearance tables at the after-Christmas sales, those cheap novelty items that appear only around the holidays, some marketer's bright gift idea that didn't quite fly. I was one of those shopworn odds and ends marked down to a fraction of the original price. I felt like one of those things that nobody would ever buy, even at a discount, one of those things that no one can imagine anyone else buying in the first place. In church parlance, I was what they called an unclaimed blessing, that polite and clever euphemism for an unmarried woman, a spinster, an old maid.

            Most of my past relationships had ended before sex had become an issue. Even Alex and I had never made it to that crossroad, but only because unbeknownst to me, that particular need was being satisfied elsewhere. Alex was the one I'd come the closest with, though. I'd actually thought he was going to be the one, but that was before everything went, as they say, to hell in a hand basket. I'd let down my guard with Alex in a way that I hadn't with anyone since Michael. When that trust had been so badly betrayed, I pretty much renounced romance completely.

            On the occasion when sex had become an issue, that gentleman, to use the term in its most ironic sense, had responded to my confession first with disbelief and then scathing derision. After which, of course, he had vanished abruptly and completely from my life. Naturally, I was less than anxious to see the same thing happen with Michael. I might be able to bear a lot of things, but I didn't think I would ever be able to endure Michael's scorn.

            It was enough to know that society at large would consider me some kind of mutant aberration. The very idea that someone my age had never engaged in sexual intercourse must mean that there was something drastically wrong with me. Everybody else was doing it with casual abandon. Why in the heck couldn't I? Was I so wrong, so hopelessly out of touch to want something more, something different than what everybody else was doing? Was it so unrealistic to hang on to my girlish dream of a wedding that would symbolize the beginning of a life together instead of being just a formality after months of playing house? Obviously so.

            I punched my pillow in frustration, and lay down pondering the irony that what had once been considered a badge of honor was now a mark of shame. Finally, my exhausted mind and emotions surrendered to a few hours of fitful sleep.

            I awakened to the clock striking the hour of eight. I didn't hear any movement downstairs, so Michael was apparently still asleep. Not wanting to disturb him, I puttered quietly around my room after I showered and dressed in jeans and a long-sleeved black tee-shirt. I was just to the point of raiding Michael's office/library for something to read when I heard the stirring.

            Making my way toward the sounds, I was greeted by an olfactory symphony of delicious breakfast smells wafting from the kitchen. Standing in the doorway, I watched as Michael busied himself at the island range making what smelled and looked like western omelets. In his snug blue jeans and a royal-blue MMU sweatshirt with the sleeves pushed up and a dishtowel thrown over one shoulder, he was a perfectly gorgeous picture of domesticity. I nearly drooled, and it wasn't because of the eggs.

            His face lit up with genuine happiness when he saw me. "Good morning, Sunshine! I was just about to call you. Have a seat and dig in before it gets cold."

            As he passed me to set a plate on the table, he planted a quick kiss on my lips behaving as naturally as if making breakfast for me in the morning was something that happened all the time. I, on the other hand, was feeling just a little shy. "Mmmm, smells great," I observed as I sat down in the indicated chair.

            "Would you like coffee or juice? Or both?" He asked. "I have OJ, cranberry and apple."

            "Just orange juice is fine," I said.

            He poured a glass of juice from a crystal pitcher in the refrigerator and set it before me, and then he took his place opposite mine.

            I took a bite of my omelet. It was fluffy and filled with mushrooms, bell peppers, onions, tomatoes, ham and cheese. "Oh, golly, that's good," I exclaimed as I closed my eyes and savored the taste. "My usual breakfast is a Coke and Pop Tarts on the way out the front door. A girl could sure get used to this in a hurry."

            He smiled, pleased by my praise. "Well, I like to cook, and it's nice to have somebody else to cook for." He gave me a meaningful look across the table. "You know, I could get used to having you here."

            "If you keep feeding me this well, you can count on it," I replied, trying to ignore that weightless feeling of apprehension in the pit of my stomach.

            "About last night," he began.

            "Oh God, here it comes," I thought.

            "I just wanted you to know that I think you're right about taking things slower."

            "You mean that?" I asked as relief hit me like an ocean wave.

            "Yeah, I do. It's about the journey as much as the destination."

            I raised my juice glass. "To the journey, then."

            He clinked his glass against mine. "To the journey." He echoed.