A couple, who became lovers in high school, find each other years later

 

My wife and I just got back from watching “Never Been
Kissed.” We both laughed and cried almost all the way
through it, because it reminded us of us, and what we
used to be.

My parents moved to a new city when I was 12, just as I
was becoming 1) popular with my peers in elementary
school and 2) pubescent. So there I was, seventh grade,
gangly as hell, acne-ridden, and a new face in a new
school.

Bottom line, it was shit for a while. A couple of
years, in fact. Then I began to grow into my adolescent
body, and I gained some acceptance, when ninth grade
struck. Our junior high school was part of a system
that fed into one big (actually enormous) high school.
There were about 3000 students on campus.

As I said, I had begun to gain a little acceptance, and
that carried over a little into high school. I wasn’t
the most popular kid in school, but I wasn’t the class
goat, either. So, life was okay. I didn’t have a
girlfriend, but I hung out with lots of girls. Looked
like smooth sailing.

Toward the end of my freshman year, I met a girl named
Cindy Stuckey. She was “Yucky Stucky,” a reference to
her hair, which never seemed to be clean, and her
clothes (ditto). I had heard of her, or course, but I
only met her when the JV Band (she was in it) and the
JV Chorus (including me) gathered to rehearse for a
graduation performance of “Gonna Fly Now.” (Yes, late
70s.)

Graduation came and went, and without a lot of unneeded
details, we found ourselves together afterward at a
local hamburger place. She really wasn’t yucky, I
discovered, just poor and unpopular. We spent the
summer meeting at the library, and the pool, and…
well, you get it.

Tenth grade came, and we were considered an “item.” I
was a little more popular, and she was about as
unpopular as ever; but we were accepted as a pair. We
continued our meeting at the library, and had lunch
together almost every day. Driver’s licenses led to
dates. We were spending a lot of time together.

Summer came and went again, and Junior year began. We
were still an item, and by now she had begun to blossom
(a little). I was becoming more important on campus
(newspaper, Key club) and she sort of rode my star
upward. Then, after Thanksgiving, things changed a
little.

I was always a perfect gentleman with her. We had been
going out about a year and a half, and all we had done
was kiss. They weren’t huge kisses, either, more like
little pecks. Well, the day after Thanksgiving, we
found ourselves alone in her house. We started our
usual kissing-pecking, and that led to some more
serious kissing. I had never frenched before, and
neither had she; but we both knew what it was, and we
began to explore it.

We called a halt before things got too far out of hand;
but the genie was out of the bottle. And we knew we
were in for bigger things.

Christmas came and went, and in the week between
Christmas and New Years we continued our newly
discovered affinity for one another’s tongues. We were
alone in her house (again). Her parents and siblings
wouldn’t be back for several hours.

“Chuck,” she said, during a break in the action, “do
you really think I’m good enough?”

I looked at her. “Sure, of course you are. What kind of
question is that?”

She looked hopeful. “So how come all you ever do is
kiss me? Why don’t you ever try to… you know… do
more?”

“What brought all this on?” I asked. “You know I
respect you, and I don’t want to make you angry.”

“Yeah,” she said, “but don’t you ever want a little bit
more than just kissing?” She moved her torso a little
closer. Was she offering her tits to me?

I said, “If you expect me to put my hands on your
tits,” putting my right hand on her left breast, “and
squeeze it like this,” as I squeezed gently, “well…
okay.” We both giggled and kissed, and I slipped my
hand under her sweater, to find she had no bra on. Had
she planned this?

I pulled her top off and stared at her breasts for a
second. “You don’t mind if I look, do you?” I asked.
“This is the first time I’ve ever seen these.”

She rubbed my head, and pulled me in closer. “Look all
you want,” she whispered, “and suck me, too.”

I grasped her nipple in my lips and sucked. I realized
then I was a boob man, and just buried my face in her
mounds. She wasn’t stacked, but it was enough for me. I
was in heaven.

She began moaning. “Ooooooh, that feels so good,” she
whimpered, and began to rub her crotch. I placed my
hand on hers and rubbed with her. Soon she removed her
hand and let me rub her solo.

As you might expect, all this intimate contact soon led
the two of us between the sheets of her bed, kissing
and fondling and sucking, and generally going crazy
over one another’s bodies. The point of no return came
when I was on top of her, kissing her, with her legs
spread wide, and I instinctively moved my cock into
position between her pussy lips.

I came to my senses for a second, and said, “Cindy, do
you really want to do this? I mean, that’s it, no more
virgins.”

“I want to fuck you so bad I can’t stand it,” she
replied in a husky whisper. “I’m so horny…”

And with that, I pushed into her. She moaned softly,
and whimpered only a little when her maidenhead gave
way.

I won’t lie, here, and say I was lovemaking machine. I
was a 17-year-old bundle of hormones. So was she,
fortunately, and she was so incredibly hot that the few
dozen strokes I had to make to achieve orgasm were
enough to send her over the edge too. We came together,
and I thought I’d never be happier.

She was a little nervous for a week or so afterward,
afraid she might be pregnant from our little sojourn,
and she wouldn’t let me do any more than feel her up in
the car. She wasn’t pregnant, though, and we began
having sex at least every weekend. She stopped fretting
about pregnancy, eventually.

After a couple of months, we began to experiment with
oral sex. While not as fulfilling as the real deal, it
was quicker, safer, and added some spice. I learned to
eat pussy, which I never thought I’d try. She actually
tasted pretty good. She also learned to give head like
a pro. She joked that we were like a married couple.

We had almost a year and a half of semi-wedded bliss,
until graduation came around. We had both planned to
attend a community college nearby; but at the last
minute I got a scholarship offer from a university a
few states away. I couldn’t turn it down, and I
couldn’t make them admit her to the university as a
condition of my acceptance of their money (duh!).

So, with many tears and lots of sadness, we said good-
bye at the end of summer (having spent the intervening
time largely naked and intimate). I went to university,
and she went to the local college.

Life throws curves at us, of course, and our plans are
at best hopes. I had intended to write to Cindy every
week and see her on the holidays. We had some time at
Thanksgiving that year (and made love once); but
Christmas saw me in New Zealand on an exchange study
program. The letters became less frequent, and I was
unable to come home for summer due to work and study
requirements.

Eventually the relationship simply evaporated. I got
final confirmation of that during my second summer at
university, when my mother sent me a newspaper
clipping. Cindy was getting married in the fall.

My initial reaction was to rush back home, to salvage
what I could of our great romance. But then I began to
reflect on my motives. I really loved Cindy, I thought;
but the night before I got that clipping, I had spent
in the arms (and between the legs) of another woman. I
had actually been getting a fair amount of tail since
the previous summer.

So, I just let Cindy go, wished her all the happiness
she could find, and went on with my life.

I finished school, got a job, and got married,
divorced, married, and divorced. My first marriage fell
apart because my wife and I wanted children, but were
unable to conceive. It turns out, I’m almost (but not
quite) sterile. That was great when Cindy and I were
making like rabbits in high school, but lousy for
making a family.

My second wife went into the marriage proclaiming a
lack of desire for children, but then heard her
biological clock going tick-tick-tick, and left me for
someone not shooting so many blanks.

Cindy’s life was altogether different than mine, I
learned. I was able to keep up through letters from
home. Seems she had married, had 4 children, and
divorced.

And this is how we happened upon one another again.

We both experienced a loss recently. Hers was far more
catastrophic than mine. Seems her asshole ex-husband
had decided to quit paying child support. In a drunken
rage, he murdered the four kids. That must have sobered
him up, and he capped himself. That was three years in
the past.

My father passed away peacefully a little over a year
ago. It was around the anniversary of Cindy’s disaster.
She attended the funeral. Afterward we walked to where
her kids were buried, and I paid my respects. That
evening I had dinner at her house.

Things were a little strange between us. Here we were,
former lovers, all alone in the world, and there was no
spark of sexual excitement between us. We spent the
evening in pleasant conversation, reminiscing about our
lives (avoiding the subject of our intimate past).

A couple of days later I had to leave. Life does go on,
after all, and I had a job to get back to. Before I
left, I visited Cindy again. I told her she should come
to the city where I live, and spend some time. We
kissed, softly, passionately, but did not take it any
further. I left her there.

One evening a couple of weeks later I heard the
doorbell. I opened the door and there, to my great
surprise, was Cindy. She had a small overnight bag with
her.

“You said I should come,” she said softly, “and here I
am.”

I ushered her in, and we kissed again, like the old
days, like they had never ended. I was suddenly hungry
for her.

We sat and talked for a while, and the air was heavy
with the tension of not discussing what we really
wanted to discuss. We skirted talk of sex, but kept
getting closer. Finally, she asked to be shown to the
spare room so she could freshen up and get comfortable.
I obliged. When she returned, all she was wearing was a
robe.

“Chuck,” she said, “I’ve never lost what I felt for
you. I always felt you abandoned me, and I was hurt,
but I never stopped wanting you.”

“I know,” I replied. “I always felt the same way. I’d
give anything if we could turn back the clock.”

“Well, we can’t,” she said, “All I can tell you is that
you still look good to me.”

“And you look terrific to me,” was all I could say.

She opened her robe. Her breasts were a little saggy,
to be sure, and lined with stretch marks; but they were
gorgeous to me. She said, “Do these shriveled up things
still look enticing to my favorite man?”

In answer, I knelt before her and began suckling at her
nipples. The memories rolled back in. Before long we
had migrated to the bed, and discovered (to our
delight) that our lovemaking was as good as it had ever
been. It took a little longer – we were both 35 by this
point – but it had lost none of the fire. We spent the
entire night joined at the crotch, or so it seemed.

The next morning, as we sat at the kitchen table, I
made a split-second decision without even thinking
about it.

“Cindy,” I began, “do you remember our senior year of
high school? How we used to make love so much we called
ourselves an ‘old married couple?'”

She grinned. “How could I forget that?”

“Sort of like that this morning, huh?” I took her left
hand, and touched the first knuckle of her ring finger.
“All we need is something right about here…”

Her face went blank, and tears spilled over her cheeks.
“Do you mean it?” she whispered.

I leaned in close to her face – at that moment, the
most beautiful object in the world – and said, “Let’s
do what we should have done 15 years ago. Marry me. Be
my old, shriveled, droopy-boobed wife. Be my lover
forever.”

She laughed and cried, and said, “Oh, yes.”

It’s been almost a year. And yes, we still fuck like
rabbits, only now it’s every night (well, every other
night). And, oh, how I love that woman.