The Hourglass Syndrome

"Me, I'll take her laughter and her tears, And make them all my souvenirs. For when she goes I've got to be, The meaning of my life is she" Elvis Costello from "She"

When the nurse came in to administer my daily dose of Valhalla on Earth I noticed a peculiar grin on her face and what I'm sure she was passing off as a "Curling Iron Burn" on her neck. "So, Vamperella, what's with the love bit?" I murmured as she tossed my scripts haphazardly towards my mouth. She walked out looking back over her shoulder eyes full of bile and disgust. Right then I knew I was falling for her. No hook. No sinker. Just a harpoon to the left ventricle. A feeling I recall having felt on one prior occasion.

At twenty-one, like all disenfranchised Reality Bites generation youths, I was wearing a gross amount of flannel, hating corporate rock, and wanting to move to Seattle to start my band, sign with Sub-Pop. Eventually leading to me taking a shotgun to my own head. The bite of my reality was I delivered mattresses, drank excessively, and duped a few ultra intoxicated bar skanks at dollar drink night into polishing my pants puppet. Thus was life in Southern California. It was at that bar that I first came down with a chronic condition that would be with me forever. No, not herpes. A disease that I call "The Hourglass Syndrome."

Her name was Michelle. Her hips were insanely 1940's hot rod curvy, smooth to the touch. Her hair the red of the sunset on a rare smog free City of Angeles twilight. Her husband, yeah her husband, well, he wasn't my problem. At least I didn't think so at the time. All I could think about, looking at her jade and yellow flecked irises, was that I would never behold beauty like those eyes again, so I had better take my time staring into them.

We hit it off and decided to go out. our first official date was the American classic. Dinner and a movie. The meal, Italian. The movie, Danny DeVito in "Other People's Money" with the luscious Penelope Ann Miller. It was a date like so many others, but extraordinarily unique to me. Heavy rains of fairy tale imagery fell around us, soaking us in enchantment. After a two hour hand holding session which had us both craving more contact, we ended up on a park toy made of disposed of tractor tires. Safely located under a spider web of powerlines. It was there that we kissed for the first time. Were we touched, were we fell, hard. As the sun began to turn the sky an azure blue I asked if perhaps we should call it a night. But she decided on making love until noon.

At her house, she stood before me naked of fear, inviting me to explore. I was like Magellan. Her breasts were monuments of glorious soft flesh. I devoured them. Taking my time to kiss, caress, and flick over every pore, leaving her eager nipples until the end of my worshipping session. Until then I had kept her hands from moving off the back of my head, but that was no longer enough for her, for either of us.

It was the first time I had made love to a woman. All sex before that morning had been just sweet physical release. In that bed, on that morning, I found out that emotional release was something you never forget. As I lay there with her head putting my arm to sleep I felt bliss for the first time. Then I looked at the digital clock on the night stand next to her wedding photo.

I hope the feeling that saturated every cell of my being at that very moment is something I never have to endure again.

To be continued...

Have you ever been the "other" man or woman? Ever been cheated on? Ever felt that kind of love?

Dixie Cup of Love: Cameron Crowe for naming my condition.