Ten Years Gone — An Erotic Reunion
Read Ten Years Gone — An Erotic Reunion Online
Authors: Sean Gerard Leah
T E N Y E A R S G O N E
An Erotic Reunion
by
SEAN GERARD LEAH
CONTENTS
T E N Y E A R S G O N E
Part One
I lay on my bed in the hotel at noon, indifferently watching soft-core porn on pay-per-view as I reflected that ten years was far too quick to have gotten stuck in this sorry state. Single. Alone. My dick in my hand as I jacked off and eventually shot with an empty groan onto the towel I’d draped across my stomach.
I was twenty-eight. I thought about the past a lot. I thought about high school a lot. I thought about how different my life was supposed to be.
I thought about Mareta. More than I could ever admit.
It must have been May, a month before grad. We were in the storeroom downstairs, just off the student lounge and the parking lot corridor where Mareta and I had been three lockers apart all year. We skipped last class that day, probably physics, because neither of us ever needed an excuse to skip physics. We were in the storeroom to dig through and organize four-dozen boxes of books donated for a grad rummage sale the following week.
I can’t remember if we volunteered or were drafted by the grad committee for this particular job. Which is to say, I can’t remember whether Mareta volunteered or was drafted. But I was there because I went anywhere Mareta went, as a matter of course.
Mareta was supposed to be the one. Only I never got around to telling her that. Because something happened in between the moment in sophomore year that I first set eyes on her and felt my heart and my hard-on tell me this was the most beautiful, the most engaging girl I’d ever know, and the moment in senior year that I said goodbye to her for the last time. Something really fucking annoying cropped up to get in the way of the intimacy that I felt she and I were destined for, with all my heart and soul.
Sometime in junior year, Mareta and I became friends. And the most beautiful, most engaging girl I’d ever known went off the menu, leaving me with just my memories. My dreams.
More than anything else in my life, I remember these dreams. Not the images of things that happened, but of things that could have happened. The memories of the life that should have been.
When I jacked off at the hotel, it was the memory of all those other memories, not the hotel porn, that got me hard.
Like they had for the past ten years, it was the memories of everything that could have been that got me off. It was the memories that had kept me going.
In reality, in the truth of what we were, we spent that last period alone in a high-school storeroom talking about nothing, and laughing about nothing. And then it was done, and Mareta said, “Thanks.”
In the dream, in the fantasy, in the moment of a life unlived that I desperately wish I could go back to, she says, “Thanks.” And then I lean in and kiss her.
I go gently at first, because I have no expectations. I feel the sense of surprise at her lips, opened as if to say something, but I’m swallowing the words before she has a chance to make them. Then I feel her tongue testing me, answering the passion that tears through me like a shockwave. Then both our tongues are touching, our bodies locked to each other. My hands are at her back, her neck, her incredible ass, anywhere that they can touch down to feel the softness of her.
“
Check the door,” she whispers, and I stumble away to do so. I shut both locks tight, no chance for anyone to get in. By the time I turn back, she’s pulling her shirt off, shaking out the mahogany tresses of her hair. She presses her hands to her firm tits, packed into a black lace bra. She lifts them, holds them out for me. I’m on my knees in front of her, licking between her breasts, licking her belly as I fumble her bra down. Then I take both her perfect tits in my mouth, one stiffening nipple at a time.
I almost junked the email when it first came in.
The Class of 1991!!! — 10th Reunion Celebration!!!
complete with all six exclamation marks. Those ten years had been fairly empty ones for me. I’d been consistently stressed throughout a bachelor’s in education and the master’s degree that followed it. I was consumed by work as an elementary school vice principal, then principal. I was banging a long line of women, none of whom meant anything to me.
A good job, good pay, meaningless sex. Every guy’s dream life. Except for this guy, who wanted more than anything to find someone I could share my life with. A woman I could embrace as a friend even before taking as a lover. The fact that none of my endless string of relationships had lasted more than three months spoke to my inability to make that happen.
Ten years ago now, Mareta and I had been friends. But the memory of how that friendship felt had become a weight around my neck that seemed intent on dragging down every relationship that followed. Ten years ago, I had felt a passion for Mareta that defined my sexuality, warping it around my inability to ever let her know how I felt about her. Friends without benefits, in the most severe way.
Because being Mareta’s friend was important to me. And recognizing how strongly I felt about her, I knew that there was no way our friendship could survive the passion I felt. So for the sake of that friendship, I forced the passion aside. It was worth it, I told myself. I just didn’t know what kind of price I would pay in the end.
To make it look good and to keep things safe, I actually dated Mareta’s sister a few times during senior year, a sophomore named Kim. She was a cute kid. A sweet kid. A kind of younger version of Mareta in her looks, but most definitely a kid, which meant I had no temptation to get anywhere even within striking distance of her pants. Those urges, I reserved exclusively for Mareta, embracing the undercurrent of sexual agony that underlay the intimacy of our friendship.
Throughout senior year, we were the closest of always-laughing-over-the-same-stupid-jokes friends. Finishing-algebra-and-physics-homework-together-in-the-student-lounge friends. Late-night-phone-calls-to-bitch-about-your-parents friends. I-wish-we-weren’t-such-good-friends-because-I’d-love-to-fuck-you friends.
I can still remember the summer evening that last one came to light.
A bunch of us had been hanging in the park past sunset, then when it was time to go, I offered Mareta a ride like I always did. We’d been talking all day and kept it up on the drive home, laughing like we always did. Her house was dark when we rolled up her long driveway, her parents and sisters out at dinner and a movie, she said.
She thanked me for the ride. She leaned over to kiss me on the cheek. “Sometimes I wish we weren’t such good friends,” she said. “I could really go for you.” She smiled as she opened the door. I watched her skip up the driveway in the glow of my headlights, her amazing ass barely contained by her tight shorts. She waved to me as she disappeared inside the house.
I can still remember how I had to jack off three times that night before my hard-on finally eased and I could force myself to sleep. That wasn’t the first night I’d jacked off to thoughts of Mareta, not by a long shot. But it was the night when I started to dream about all the things that could have been. Dreaming about all the things I already knew were never going to be.
The fantasy is a blur. It’s slightly different each time, never the same specifics playing out in terms of the action.
We’re on the floor of the storeroom, me on my back and her on top of me, sucking on my tongue as she rubs her luscious tits against my bare chest and her crotch against my rock-hard cock still in my pants.
She’s on a chair, leaning back against the wall as I pull her tight jeans down to expose her sweet pussy. Her chocolate-dark pubes are trimmed neatly but left long in a beautiful swirl above her clit. I spread her legs as I lift them to my shoulders, pushing in to trace my tongue along her wet slit.
We’re sitting together, both of us naked and Mareta straddling me. Her tits are thrust against my face, firmer than I ever imagined as I suck her nipples like a hungry child. We’re eighteen years old, both of us starving for this first feeling of each other. So wet, so hard, so ready. My cock is so thick, her pussy so tight as she pushes down against me, gasping as she takes me a half-inch at a time. I’m spitting to my hand in between kissing her, my saliva and hers mixed together to lube me up, getting me as wet as I need to be to ply her tightness for the first time.
I’m shooting inside her. Leaning over her where she lays back on a stack of boxes, legs wrapped around me. She cries out with the voice of a songbird as my body spasms and locks me to her, my cock crammed inside her tight pussy to the hilt. I fill her with my cum, fill her with my scream that makes her laugh for joy even as she stops my cry with a desperate hand to my mouth. There’s a school’s worth of people outside the door, and all I want to do is shout out that I love her.
I love you.
I loved you. That’s the secret, Mareta.
I almost junked the email. And then just on a whim, I clicked through to the reunion website. I saw embarrassing pictures of senior year, the prom, the grad ceremonies. Hairstyles best left forgotten. One shot of me in a tux that I’d kill to be able to fit into now.
I saw a picture of her, packed into the pale-yellow backless one-shoulder number she wore to the prom. I saw the list of people who had already committed to attending the reunion festivities. Her name was there. Mareta. A short note that she’d filled in on the web form.
Looking forward to seeing old friends.
I loved you, Mareta.
That’s what I’m going to tell you tonight.
Part Two
That senior prom, Mareta had gone as the date of Rob Fitzgerald, defensive tackle for our first-place-that-year football team. I’d already asked Kim to go with me because I kind of felt obliged to, knowing that when I headed out of state for college in July, that was it for us. I knew that Mareta and Rob had no chance of ever being an item anyway. His only real interest in her was the profile she presented in the tight t-shirts she loved to wear, and she was too smart socially to turn down a casual date with a football player when the opportunity presented itself.
I had a good time with Kim that night, all things considered. Mareta and Rob didn’t even make it through to the last dance, which only added to my enjoyment. I never got the whole story, but from where I was sitting, it looked like he was unable to keep his hands off her and she got pissed about it. He left with three of his defensive-line cronies. Mareta got a ride home with other friends.
I had to drive Kim home that night. But all the time since then, I’ve thought about what would have happened if I hadn’t.
Mareta stands at the juice bar, watching as Rob makes his exit. She’s alone and off to the side of the crowd, so that no one really sees her except me where I walk up to her. When she sees me, she flashes a smile.
“
Bad night,” she says ruefully.
“
No,” I say. “Not anymore.” And I see her look of surprise, feeling the faint tremble in her as I reach up to stroke her hair.
We’re outside, walking through the gardens that run along two sides of the gym. The ever-present layer of junk food wrappers and other detritus that builds up here year-round has been cleaned up for prom, the one night of the year that these stands of juniper and boxwood and weeping willows look as romantic as they should.
The moon is almost full, high in the sky as Mareta leads me into the shadows. Her hand is shaking as she pulls me close to her, leaning up to kiss me hard. Then she’s pushing me back against the gym wall and dropping to her haunches in front of me. The pale-yellow dress is silver-gold in the moonlight, swept up and over her legs so that it doesn’t get dirty. I get a great view this way of her rose-print panties, one hand slipping inside them as the other fumbles with my fly.