Inside my memory cache, I summon the Saturday night following my incredible first kiss with Jenny.
I spent an evening paddling time, preparing a meal, eating, and viewing television alone before I decided to read Hemingway. Then, close to eleven o'clock, Jenny arrived unannounced.
She gave me a measured greeting accompanying her unheard footfall, and we shared an open-hearted conversation; these are the facts.
Yet because our relationship bloomed from this moment, I wish for a unique scene structured with art's golden ratio. I fancy imbuing fundamental attraction layered in soul-stirring significance, glittering like gold leaf.
Jenny's appearance created a mix of emotional surprise and perplexion as I thought I would see her on Sunday evening or Monday. But, instead, here she materialised, late on Saturday night. My share-house mates left the back door unlocked, and I adopted the careless habit that allowed Jenny to enter the house and advance to the lounge room—unexpected.
No knock, no steps heard. I sprung up and greeted her, placing aside my novel, For Whom the Bell Tolls.
We exchanged 'Hi's' and hovered near without touching; Jenny was within easy reach. There was no immediate embrace between us as she spoke fast.
"I came back. I left Geelong and drove here," she swayed on the spot, rubbing her hands.
Her words reeled heartfelt towards me as Jenny watched for my response.
The reason for her pace came as she said, "I went there to be with someone. I agreed to it a while ago. Arriving it didn't feel right."
Jenny divulged a personal visit to somebody else. I was stunned, a jab of internal numbness without showing the physical signs, no slumping or grabbing the back of a chair for support. I coped because she cascaded honesty. She opted to confess, shunning the fib. Later, knowing her better, I never doubted Jenny's compass for the truth. She wore her soul's direction on her sleeve, the equivalent of a plain sight tattoo.
In conversation, whatever Jenny said persisted as bold and forward. Her directness amplified her revealed considerations as thought-provoking. Her engaging quality was flux. A young woman free of static moments, Jenny lived life as a continuous, active evolution.
She perceived my calm listening and unloaded in no backward step fashion. I let her talk uninterrupted, my reserved nature to the fore — a composure that reinforced her decision to unload the events in Geelong. Jenny moved closer to me, making eye contact as she kept chatting.
Then, she was direct and courageous.
"I wanted to be here."
We squeezed into and held each other. Then I closed my eyes, and my body released the hidden tension generated by Jenny's confession.
She continued, "I came back after talking," her head resting on my shoulder, "The vibe wasn't there."
I ignored jealousy or surprise as my calm temperament anchored me in her company. Jenny had set her direction, and it included me. To her, my nature embodied unruffled. My unknown and unnamed rival consigned to omission as I honed in on Jenny.
In hindsight, analysing our conversation, I give myself 'the third degree.' Jenny organised time with another guy, even before we first danced. Yet she chose me after visiting my nameless contender. Could she have cancelled on the guy? Had our kiss rippled through Jenny's mind and ripped the opportunity from an unknown guy?
Jenny said, "You know."
Explained as a vibe to return to me. In my intent on listening, I refrained from questioning her words, especially pressing her, you know.
Instead, I cuddled her. Jenny and I smooched. I engaged in making out and snubbed, reflecting on what brought us together as we kissed. Or events in Geelong that denied a different pairing.
We eased backwards and down onto a beanbag. We flexed to chic, dry humping, jeans to jeans. Rousing, stimulating and intense, more than nice. Yet, nice is the word we use, even for experiences more than pleasant. I like nice, a favourite Jenny word. As we petted, we eliminated inter-spaces, exploring earlobes, necks and stroking thighs.
Any mental self-grilling on this evening loomed decades away.
No jealous pangs because I confronted no immediate intimacy with another to process. Jenny never said she kissed him. Or what determined her vibe?
I never asked. How long had they known each other? Perhaps they had lived in the same neighbourhood or attended college together? What connected them? Was my kiss in a car park compared to his pash efforts? What is a reasonable explanation of your feelings?
I never badgered Jenny to explain or made her weigh her word choice — to clarify the vibe. She may have believed I inferred her meaning through my eyes and nods. Her account was a thumbnail sketch, a spec plan outlining enough for me to construct the substance of her venture.
Her words delivered speed effusive to hasten forward, her self-exploration and decision back to me. Jenny's feelings, I deduced, were undivided as she entered the lounge room. Her kissing keenness defined her intent. A highway drive gave her time and distance to make me her choice as we cuddled in the beanbag, fondled and mushed mouths.
Jenny caught her breath and captured my attention.
"He agreed with me. He said I should go."
I am sure she added this to reassure me.
Jenny expressed no excitement in her remarks as I nestled her in my arms as she talked about another man. Instead, she focused on the release.
Jenny's words are analysed by passing years and distance.
He let her go? Did he confront the powerlessness to influence her to stay? He positions braver than me, manful and resolute. I ponder how his libido dodged the bending into male ego selfishness and attempted everything his body urged to coax Jenny into staying. Yet he withdrew his opportunity to undermine our kiss. For unknown reasons, his seeking for Jenny dissolved.
Our car park kiss perhaps contained the possibilities of her new longing. Everything coalesced in my direction, somewhere in Jenny's mind. Confidence lies within the beholder; I embraced Jenny. We compacted fervent kisses as our lower bodies arched jointly and compressed into a rhythm, pelvis to pelvis. Mutual delight crushed us together in a beanbag—outercourse before intercourse as my hands learned her shapes—her soft neck and slender wrists, whilst Jenny's fingers grabbed my butt.
A prologue of anticipation ensued. We were adventurers on a tour of each other's outlines, previewing the attainable global body foray. Fingers ambled on fabric; they locked and bonded. They sashayed without effort, braided in sensual collusion. Jenny enjoyed the body-to-body press. A dry humping body romp as our bodies drew on prior sexual experience to fuel our grind—mutual zeal till we lay side by side in a beanbag, exhausted and renewed. At the same time, memory whipped and shrouded previous partners. Hidden, but not without an X marking their contribution to our life wayfaring onward. Memory is not kind enough to bury experiences unmarked.
Jenny and I meshed in the chemical sex surge beyond memories' immediate control. However, in the background, memory collated. It filed our past sexual selves, allowing us to flee genital judgment as we entered a sexual regeneration. We re-learned whatever we thought we knew about sex. Neither of us needed to know where the other had slept. Also, we ventured forward, unaware of what our combined future privates would unleash.
Jenny and I entered each other.