Authors: Caelyn Alba
Neither of us spoke for a long while. Then you kissed me, and you whispered “I love you, too,” and it was done.
It all ended in the same kind of suddenness with which it began. We dressed, and we kissed some more, and we held hands for the sake of that most basic contact, not ready to break away yet.
It was long after eight, thankfully. The dinner reservations were history, but I doubt very much whether I would have been able to go through the motions of normalcy that dinner would have required.
I should go,” you said finally, and we both knew you were right. Then you kissed me one last time, and you left, and we never spoke of it again.
Through the long bath that washed the taste and the scent of you away that night, I understood without really needing to think about it that my life with J. would be different from that day on. I had revealed a side of myself that night that I had never known existed before. Like some kind of ghost lingering in the deep shadows of my life. A person I might have been but wasn’t, walking alongside me but never speaking up to tell me who she was, what she needed.
Over all the years since, I’ve been listening. I’m more in tune now with what I need and with who I am than I’ve ever been before, even as J. has embraced my new passion and met it with passion of his own. A passion he never would have known if not for that night. A passion that he’ll never know who to thank for.
It’s been two years since we’ve seen you, and we both miss you terribly. Your blog and your emails from London keep us both smiling, but it’s not the same. I hope you know that. I know you know that.
For a time, I was afraid that what had happened between us would ruin things, reflecting my initial fear in the moment. But you were right. Everything always does change, and the resilience with which we face change is our species’ greatest gift. We were still friends. We still laughed together, we walked, we talked, we argued. We were never again alone together, though. Both of us knowing that it had to be that way.
I was worried at first that I might keep thinking of you. That I might spend the rest of my life with my eyes closed and J. inside me as I dreamed that it was you instead of him. That dream never came to pass, though. It’s barely a memory now, four years later. So that after waking this morning and feeling J. hard against me in bed, and feeling him take me in the way I love to be taken, which is a thing I learned from you, I decide to write it all down. Because even after only four years, I find that I’m starting to forget who I was that night. Who you were. Everything always does change, but we don’t see the changes overtake us until it’s too late.
I need to remember your cock in my mouth, in my hands, in my pussy that had never known how hungry it was until you filled me. I want to remember your tongue on my tongue, on my tits, inside me, drinking deep to show me how dry I’d been before. I want to remember you opening up my soul like you opened up my body, spreading me like the petals of a flower before you. Filling me with the seed from which so much of who I am now has grown.
I want to remember the night I loved you, when you loved me back. I don’t know if you’ll ever read this. I don’t know that I’ll actually be brave enough to send it to you when it’s done. I only know that it needed to be said, because if I lose this memory, I lose the night that the rest of my life began.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Caelyn Alba is a pseudonym responsible for the writing of erotic fiction and memoirs, much of it in conjunction with husband Sean Gerard Leah. In real life (when she can figure out what that is), she teaches humanities in the Pacific Northwest.