MICKEY’S FINISH

I was attending a parent teachers’ night walking through a hallway of St. Joseph’s Catholic Elementary School when I heard a free spirited, deep, breathy voice from my past.  I knew the voice, felt the unmistakeable sensation of the presence of a particular person.  The feeling was exciting, warm, sexual.  I hadn’t felt this energy in years; yet there it was unmistakeable, awakening my libido, forcing me to return to the rolodex of my memory to identify her, “Who was it?  What was her name?”

I closed my eyes and thought quietly for an instant, opened them and there she was walking down the hallway.  It was Mickey.  I hadn’t seen Mickey in close to fourteen or fifteen years.  The last time I had seen her I was a seventeen year old high school, stock boy– boy being the operative word.  She was in her mid-twenties. We both worked in a woman’s retail clothing store. I worked in the stock room tagging and marking clothing for the floor.  She worked behind the lingerie counter, and at that time there was no one I wanted to see more in lingerie than Mickey.

Mickey was a five foot six inch, slender, shapely flower child, a product of the 1960’s free love, free thinking age of liberated American youth.  She marched on Washington DC in protest of America’s involvement in the War in Vietnam.  We didn’t agree on the war.  I don’t know that I disagreed with Mickey about the war when I was speaking with her though. Somehow whatever she said when she said it just seemed “right” to me.   She was Aphrodite in human form, and can one ever really disagree with a goddess?

Besides working at the same retail clothing store, we both smoked a lot of weed, and I supplied her with speed.  She was a bit of a “speed freak,” and I sold speed on the street for profit in those days, not to Mickey, of course.  I gave Mickey lines of speed because it put me near her, in her company.  I would sometimes sit with her in the backyard of her little house, my hair hanging to my shoulders,  while her husband was at work.  She and I would just talk, and I would wish she weren’t married.  Of course,  I would have struggled to make love with her then even if she weren’t  married.  It would have been an embarrassment for me.  I was Don Quixote; Mickey was my Dulcinea.  There was no way, in my mind, I could ever be an adequate lover for Mickey.

While other boys my age were fantasizing about  “banging” the likes of the playmate of the month, the hottest movie star, a sexy rock idol or women like the one who turned the letters on Jeopardy,  or since it was adolescence,  fantasizing about sticking their dicks in any available hole while thinking about the playmate of the month,  the hottest movie star, rock idol, or  women like the woman who turned the letters on Jeopardy,  I was in “la la land” thinking about “making love” with Helen of Troy, Lady Chatterly, Tess of the d’Ubervilles, Anna Karenina, or in other words, Mickey.

Mickey understood me, spent time with me, talked to me about my life, her life, happiness, sadness, all the thoughts and ideas I had , and when I was acting like a drug crazed adolescent, she would laugh at me, remind that I was smart and could make a future for myself.  She always took me seriously, but not too seriously.  I’m sure she knew I was “in love” with her and that she held the key to my libido.  As I got cynical and older, I thought perhaps she just manipulated me for the free speed I gave her. I learned from experience that that’s what speed freaks did.

She looked down the hallway at me and smiled.  She said, “Jack, how are you?”  My heart skipped several beats.  She recognized me, maybe it wasn’t the speed she liked after all.  She was now divorced, and had a daughter attending St Joseph’s.  She was older and showing the wear of life–no more flower child, much heavier, and yet  all the feelings of the fantasy of a seventeen year old boy were coursing through my veins.  I was in awe.  She invited me to her home for a cup of coffee and to “catch up”.  Of course, I went.

Mickey lived about three blocks from the school so I left my car where it was parked, and we walked to her home.  We climbed the steps to her second floor apartment where it turns out she lived alone most of the time.  Her daughter primarily lived with her remarried ex-husband.  There were a few pictures of her with her ex-boyfriend sitting around gathering dust.   The apartment consisted of a living room, a small kitchen, a bedroom and a bathroom.  A small blue floral printed, worn couch, two matching worn chairs and a coffee table sat in her living room.  She tended bar now for employment, no more helping women and girls pick out the correct, sexy bedtime garments.  She sat on the small couch and she signaled for me to sit next to her.  I did.

After talking for awhile she looked at me, I gazed at her, and we started to kiss, long passionate kisses.  I felt I was being absorbed by her.  I was a seventeen year old boy living out the  greatest female fantasy of his youth.  She began to softly, gently touch me, rub me.  I was melting under her touch.  The longings and desires of an earlier lifetime were overwhelming me,  and I wanted to make love.  She took my hand and Helen of Troy, Lady Chatterly, Tess of the d’Ubervilles, Anna Karenina, Dulcinea, Aphrodite were leading me to her bedroom.  Then suddenly I stopped.

At the moment, the instant of fulfilling a boyhood dream, of satisfying a fifteen year longing, I stopped.  I was bulging through my pants; my hormones, my brain, my emotions were screaming with joy and desire, and I stopped.  I said sadly, “Mickey, I have to go now.”  She stared at me stunned.  She asked, “Why?”  I told her, “Mickey, you occupy this place in my psyche that only belongs to you.  You were the woman of every teenage fantasy I ever had.  When I was a boy, what I wanted most with a woman was a relationship with you.  It was pure; it was unattainable; the feelings I had for you growing up are some of my best memories.  I like those memories.  I like where you are and who you are in my heart and mind.  As much as I want to do this now; I’m going to leave you where you live in me and not do this now.”  She kissed me gently good-bye and, of course, I went, never to see Mickey again.

 

 

 

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