by Donna Greenberg
My generation was famous for free love (and sex) in the 1960s and early 1970s.
You would meet someone casually and bang! You’d find yourself in bed with them.
Sometimes, you didn’t even catch their name. No matter.
Most of these brief encounters were just that.
But even with sex at the drop of a hat, some of us wistfully remember the one who got away; the person we pined for – usually secretly – and with whom we experienced one missed opportunity after another.
Sometimes, the object of our desire was already involved romantically with another person, and was not interested in an “open” relationship. Sometimes, they didn’t even know that they were the object of our desire.
This is the true tale of a man I first met in 1973 in a big East Coast city, where he, my best friend, and I lived at the time. He and my best friend were what we used to refer to as “an item.”
I’ll call him Terence – to protect his privacy. He was one of the best punsters I knew, and we had a blast, shooting one quip after another at each other. Oh – and his puns were usually wicked ones, delivered in his gorgeously husky baritone.
One day, he introduced me to a man he had befriended in Paris, when they were both living there. This guy had left Europe and moved back to the States. He was temporarily in our big East Coast city for business purposes. The arrangement was to last for three months.
I was at the tail end of a May-December romance and in no mood to be fixed up with a blind date. But Terence figured that the way to change my mind was to tell me that his friend was French. I speak the language, and didn’t get the chance to use it much. So, this got my attention.
On the appointed evening of the double date, they all kept me waiting three hours.
This was long before cell phones and email, and no one was answering their landline when I called. I was alternately worried and pissed.
When they finally showed up at my door, they were all stoned. And I was stone sober.
I was furious and almost sent them packing. But my curiosity got the better of me.
I quickly discovered that my date – I’ll call him Sebastian – was from Portland, not France, although he did speak French.
Long story short, I ended up marrying Sebastian, on the rebound from my ill-fated affair. Throughout this time, Sebastian and Terence remained as thick as thieves.
Terence and my best friend would come to our home in another big East Coast city for New Year’s Eve parties, and the fun and quips -- and teasing -- continued.
In short order, my marriage went sour, as did the relationship between Terence and my best friend. However, we all kept it cordial and kept in touch.
Years later, Terence moved to the Southwest for a job. He and I had phone conversations from time to time, and his quick, racy wit always had me cackling with glee.
I should interject at this point that my best friend used to go into raptures, telling me about her sex life with Terence. And I knew the ladies were fond of him. He also was the first person I ever knew to visit Plato’s Retreat. If you don’t know what that is, it’s a story for another time. Suffice it to say that only the open-minded dared to visit the place.
But his sexual cachet rocketed with the news of this adventure. Especially when he told me about it. In detail.
From then on, when we were each between relationships, we’d burn up the telephone wires, in a seemingly innocent way, but always flirting and spicing things up. He’d ask when I’d be out his way (probably never). And I asked when he’d visit the East Coast again. (Probably too expensive.)
Out of the blue, I accepted a high level volunteer position with a non-profit, which sent me out to the Southwest on their business. The locale was only a couple of hours from my friend Terence, and I convinced the non-profit to cover the cost of a flight there, before returning home.
This gave Terence and me several days to actually spend together, on our own.
I was breathless, imagining the tantalizing possibilities.
Alas, I wasn’t prepared for him being in a long-distance relationship with a woman he said he loved. Neither he nor that woman would move to the other’s city, so they were doomed to have a limited romance. However, he felt loyal to her.
At this point, it was 20 years since we had met. During that time, we had consoled each other through our divorces, and through Sebastian’s premature death. We felt at ease discussing the most intimate subjects – frequently including each of our sex lives.
So, the fire had been on a low simmer for a long time. Now, it was time to raise the temperature…
I was torn between honoring his valiant attempt to keep things platonic, and the realization that this might be the only chance we’d have to act on the chemistry we felt for each other.
He gave me his guest room. I proceeded to put on the filmiest nightgown I owned, and invited him in for a chat. His eyes got huge and he gave me a burning look. I could see the wheels turning in his head; he was warring with his better self. Remarkably, he controlled the lust he clearly felt, and I was sorry to see my most seductive attempts go nowhere.
The next day, he took me for a farewell breakfast. As they say in romance novels, the electricity was palpable. When we arrived at the airport, he took me up to my gate (in those pre-security days, you could do that), and led me to the most remote corner of the waiting area. We sat down, and without a word, he proceeded to give me the most torrid kiss I’d ever experienced. We didn’t even come up for air. That kiss was more erotic than any wild sex I’d ever had.
When we finally came apart, we were both gasping and my chest was heaving with those ragged breaths. We just looked at each other for a long moment and both asked,
“Why did we wait so long?”
Soon enough, I had to board my plane. I didn’t trust myself to stand, unaided, and he helped me to the check-in area. We both stared at each other mournfully, regretting all the lost time; knowing it might be years until we’d see each other again.
Epilogue: Terence still lives in the Southwest city and I live in an East Coast city.
He met a woman through online dating and fell in love. They’ve been married for 10 years.
I’ve been divorced twice, have a grown son, and haven’t met anyone who’s lit my fire the way he did. Last year, my son and I visited Terence and his wife. Our relationship had become purely platonic, and I marveled at the feeling that we’d had two separate and distinct lifetimes. If I had it to do all over again, I never would have wasted all those years.