It was a bright and warm day in early May in 1978. The sky was crystalline and the air smelled new and sweet. The trees were bursting with the growth of new leaves and everything looked green and fresh, a contrast to the dark and decaying neighborhood where I rented an apartment. I was a student at University, and I had just purchased on a whim a book of poetry titled, “The Days Run Away Like Wild Horses Over the Hills”, by an author I’d never heard of named Bukowski. He’d go on to be a cult hero among disaffected college students and wanna be poets. I was hungry for experience in those days, and filled with the burning desire to learn the ways of love. My aged companion had brought a bag of bread crumbs for the pigeons that he distributed to the cooing horde with admonitions to share with each other, which the greedy birds ignored. As the morning progressed, he emptied out his bag and the nasty grey beggars lost interest in him, while I would read a poem and watch the lady joggers. I watched, (fascinated I have too admit) as Anna tugged at the material as Kelly rocked from one side to the other allowing her pants too be slowly inched over her hips. Soon as the obstacle of desk, hips and bodyweight was past, Anna wasted no time in breaking off her extremely passionate kissing to bend down and swiftly pull the material down Kelly’s legs and onto the floor. I have never slept with a girl, been tempted too or desired too. My boyfriend has always been more than enough. Occasionally I have lied to him, on his birthday and the like, telling him stories about myself involving a few girls when younger. He seems to like that sort of thing. Its never failed to amaze me how hard he becomes and how quickly, with only a few words like: ‘When younger, at school, I allowed one of my girlfriends too slide her hands up my skirt and feel my panties when we were alone in the toilet.’ Now I wonder if I missed out on something. I expected Anna to go back to kissing Kelly. Anna.
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