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 "Not the Romance of the Century"

   I called Suzanne on the phone.  I was lonely and in not a little
distress.  My partner of four years was in hospital.

   I don't want to go into the whole sorry story - I mean the whole sorry
story of that partnership, and how it dragged on and on, to the hurt of
each party to it.  But I guess when it culminated in an auto accident, for
which I still blame myself all these years later, even though I was miles
away at the time, the distress turned into bewilderment and panic, and I
longed to have someone with me, even for a few days, who would
simply.............  what?  I didn't know; but the someone I turned to was
Suzanne.

   Gentle, ingenuous, plain Suzanne.  I first met her almost a decade
previously, just after another long-term partnership had fallen apart [I
seem to have a knack for this!].  We decided to keep company - no strings,
no demands, nothing serious, just company.  There were affectionate kisses
from time to time, there were cuddles when they were needed, and she would
lay her head on my shoulder.  There was no sex; to me sex needed
commitment, and I had had my fill of commitment just then.  Suzanne seemed
content with things as they were, and when I had a job offered to me at the
other end of the country, we said goodbye with a smile, and promised to
keep in touch.

   We did that, to an extent.  Any gaps, any neglect of our friendship were
purely on my part, because I guess I am a shallow, selfish person, although
I don't mean to be.  When I found myself in the North, the realisation
suddenly struck me hard, that I was "on the shelf".  Stupid thought for
someone in her mid twenties, but that was the idea which became fixed in my
brain.  So I took up with the first person who came along, and tied a knot
with my tongue which I couldn't untie with my teeth.  Misalliance doesn't
even begin to describe what happened next, and I do not want you to share
the misery!  Like I said, I still blame myself for the accident which left
me rattling around in an empty house, while my partner lay in hospital, in
the next town.  Why?  Imagine a blazing row.  Imagine throwing a cup of
coffee over someone, so that that person had to go and change their
clothes. Imagine that person late for an appointment, and driving with
haste...............

   So I rang my neglected friend Suzanne, and like the faithful friend she
is, she agreed to visit for a few days, along with another pal of ours,
just to fill the empty, rattling house.  I sent her my spare key in the
mail, as I was due to be at a gig on the evening she was going to arrive. I
should have been at home to greet her, or rather I should have met her at
the station, but my favourite punk band was playing down in the city, and I
wasn't going to miss them for anything.  That's the kind of woman I am! 
Instead of baking a cake, I got into my tight Levis, my biker jacket, and
my high heels, and went out clubbing!

   All the lights were on in my house, when I got back later that evening,
so I knew she must have arrived.  The front door was locked, so I had to
open it with my own key, and once inside, I met Suzanne coming down the
hall, her face white.

   "I was scared," she said.  "The noise of you coming in made me jump."

   "Who else did you think it would be?" I said, and she smiled, the colour
coming back into her cheeks.  Suddenly she was in my arms, and I remembered
how nice it was to cuddle her, and to be cuddled.  And she kissed me - one
of our old-time, affectionate kisses.  Yes, I remembered her sweet lips
too. She stood back, and looked at me.

   "You look great!" she said.  "I really like your hair.  Kind of long,
but spiky.  Black suits you!"

   I took off my leather jacket, and hung it carelessly over the banisters.


   "It's late," I said.  "I have work tomorrow, but we can have a good chat
over breakfast.  I've given you the back room."

   Suzanne took her bag upstairs.  No, I did not even offer to carry it for
her.  Then she came down again, and stood around awkwardly.

   "How are you feeling?" she asked.

   "I'm OK," I lied.  "Actually, I am so glad to see you."

   "Me too," she said, with a relieved smile, coming over and putting her
arms round me again.

   "I really have to get to bed," I said.  "Let's have a goodnight kiss,
and turn in." She put her face up, and allowed herself to be kissed.  I had
intended another one of our old-time, affectionate kisses, but the warmth
of her in my arms, the sudden feeling of safety, the wonderful knowledge
that I was holding an undemanding friend in my arms, made me - selfishly -
put a lot into that kiss, and made me hold it longer than would have been
right for mere affection.  I pushed my tongue into her mouth, and hers
moved against mine.  It became a kiss that said more than we had intended
it to say.  No, that's not true, because I was enjoying this little game,
and enjoying exerting a bit of sexual power over her.  Then I stopped, and
pulled back.  Was I teasing her and leading her on?  Was I scared of
committing myself all over again, in the middle of a very confusing period
in my life?  I have no idea!

   So we went upstairs.  It took us half an hour.  All the talking we were
going to do in the morning we did there and then.  Four years of catching
up - conversation by turns deep and trivial.  We would go up a couple of
steps, stop, settle into each other's arms, and talk.  Then someone would
say, "We'd better go to bed!" and we went up another couple of steps - and
started all over again!

   Eventually we reached the landing.  There we stopped.  I leaned against
the banister, and Suzanne came into my arms again.  We held each other
comfortably, I with my hands loosely round her waist, she with her hands
resting lightly on my shoulders, leaning back slightly.  Our bellies were
pressed together, and an intimate heat began to be made between us.  Still
we did nothing but talk, and Suzanne seemed content, happy, even downright
merry.

   Ever so slightly she rocked from side to side as we talked, setting up a
slight, very slight, oh-so-slight friction down there below our bellies. 
It seemed like nothing, at the most a playful, casual movement, or a way of
relieving her weight from one foot to the other; but she kept it up as we
talked, and talked, and talked.

   Eventually her eyes began to narrow, and I thought she must be tired. 
She leant further back, moved her lower body against mine more strongly. 
Then all at once she threw her head back, shut her eyes, and gasped, as a
shudder ran through her body.  Her face at that moment of ecstasy looked
more beautiful than I had ever seen it, and I realised that she was having
an orgasm.  She had rubbed herself to a climax against me, and I, who
thought myself to be sexually experienced, had been too stupid or two tired
to realise what had been going on.  I had been so caught up by our chatter
and, I have to admit, by the fact that our gentle closeness was actually
turning me on a little, that I had totally neglected what was right in
front of me.  This gentle, wonderful lass had been taking a little pleasure
from me.

   With a sigh, she snuggled her whole self to me, and put her arms round
me.  The conversation stopped.

   We went to bed.  Let me put this plainly - we each went to our separate
beds.  Yes!  After all that, we did not go to the same bed for a night of
passion!  Honestly we did not!  Don't ask me why - I just don't know.

   In my own bed, I was sufficiently aroused to draw my legs apart, and to
make little circles round my clitoris with one finger; but I fell asleep,
and woke up next morning, to the sound of my alarm clock, in the same
splayed-out position, stiff and aching!

   Over breakfast we talked, yes, as we had planned to do.  We said nothing
about the previous evening's arousal and one-sided climax, but occasionally
when I caught Suzanne's eye she blushed and looked down.  I let her keep
the key for the day, told her where all the shops and museums were, and we
both headed off for town on the same bus - I towards my place of work, she
towards some pleasure and sight-seeing.  At the end of the day our other
house-guest had arrived, and we all went off to see my partner in
hospital................

   A week later, all guests gone, I was rattling around in an empty house
again, pre-occupied and self-obsessed.  But then I usually am preoccupied
and self-obsessed.  That's the kind of woman I am, I'm afraid.

   Several months later, I actually wrote Suzanne a letter.  In it I
casually mentioned that our relationship, whilst it had been nice, had "not
been the romance of the century".  She wrote back.  Her letter was like a
bucket of cold water, thrown in my face, not because of any harshness or
anger - Suzanne is not like that, she is always gentle - but because of the
directness and candour.  Part of it read thus:

   "I can't believe you didn't realise how I felt.  Did you really not know
that I was deeply in love with you?  I would have given up anything and
everything for you, I would have given you my whole life.  All we ever did
was kiss and cuddle - I was so desperate to have sex with you, because you
would have been my first lover and I was absolutely crazy about you.  I was
too shy to make the first move, or to say anything myself.  Oh Marie, why
didn't you take my virginity all those years ago?  And the other week when
I saw you again, all the old feelings came up again - I fell in love with
you all over again - and you didn't take me to bed.  All over again I
didn't have the courage to say or do anything, except give way to that
orgasm on the landing.  But how could you not see?  How could you not know?
We will never have the opportunity again!"

   The last words there were so final!  To give her her due, she didn't
call me a bitch or a tart, she didn't curse me, she didn't actually use
words like "insensitive", "unfeeling", or "selfish" - no, she left me to
use those words about myself!

   I wrote back, and apologised to her.  I said no one deserved what I
hadn't given her more than she did.  I said I hoped we would always be
friends.

   And we have been - which means, from my point of view, that I neglect
her for years and years, then send her a letter or an email.  That's how I
treat my friends.  I can't change - I wish I could.  I'm not a good person.
That's the sort of insensitive, unfeeling, selfish bitch-tart I am.
   [c] 2004 Marie Marshall