Jenny accepted a dinner invitation and proposed I tag along. The occasion she indicated was informal to cheer a girlfriend after a breakup. We melded into a large group at a seafood restaurant, sharing drinks at the bar. Jenny left me casually chatting while she did the same, surrounded by the girls. Most of the company present, I understood from Jenny, were single.
We received the call to sit at our reserved table as a group. In the movement, I remained separated from Jenny as everybody sat down, a couple between us. The seating arrangement formed a semicircle couch to one side of a round table. Everyone filled the seating 'in the round.' Jenny glanced at me, her eyes saying 'sorry,' yet she didn't ask anyone to move so we could sit together. I didn't question, either. Again, we lacked a shared label to introduce ourselves.
I enjoyed the evening, even as I cocked my head occasionally to glance at Jenny. I observed her in a role where she excelled in comforting others. She sat next to her girlfriend. She would have liked me on her other side. I watched her care about her friend's feelings, including hugging her friend. I engaged in conversation with those seated nearest to me. The night meandered social; I remember drinking and chatting and Jenny doing the same. Everyone enjoyed eating and being affable.
The gathering concluded, and everyone separated, and Jenny and I paired again.
She started to apologise, "I wanted to sit next to you."
I cut in fast, "I liked how you supported your friend."
We held hands.
Returning to my share house, relaxed, my bedroom light remained on as we coupled.
Jenny questioned, "Why do you shut your eyes?"
I became aware she preferred her eyes open when coupling.
I didn't answer.
Instead, I gave her an upward, lingering smile. I learned to keep my eyes open as Jenny desired me to look at her. Now, I would say I shut my eyes to internalise us together. And to concentrate, hold the male rush and pleasure my raven-haired maiden.
We were yin and yang. I internalised first and next embraced the external. My amber lass welcomed the intoxication of the physical first. Her inner gems about our shared sex came post-coitus.
There is a phrase, 'best sex.' I know Jenny and I engaged in plenty of 'great sex.' A journey engaging two has many shared highlights.
In particular, I recall an unforgettable night in October 1979. Our combined desire became heightened as we locked hands while we coupled. Our hands collected and joined, palm to palm. They held in compression, like to like, equal to our mutual grinding sexual purpose. Two centres of self overlapped, bracketed like a Venn diagram.
"God, you are good," Jenny stated after a sigh of satisfaction.
We knew each other's rhythm and paired it to the max. A dual orgasm, if not precisely together.
Thank you, God, near enough.
Our climax companionship came without either of us demanding it. Jenny glowed. We nailed it for each other.
I contemplate whether this night exemplifies our most balanced moment in sex even as our relationship balance continued to evolve.
I beheld my pink cheeked lover.
The words came from me, "I love you," clearly if quietly spoken.
Nothing else; I let the words stand alone. Unplanned, they emerged, and equally, her response was not anticipated.
A spoken truth contains measured ease; it makes external a felt internal obvious to the speaker.
I paused, waited and let her head, heart or both process.
My composure in Jenny's amber moment.
Her eyes focused on me: shiny, translucent, molten. Jenny's reply came without a gap after my soft-spoken words.
"I love you, too — you bugger."
Jenny poised atop of me, her legs straddling my body.
I expressed it: I love you.
Whether the words are hard or easy to say, they carry weight. As a boy of few words, I found them in a smitten state. I released it as I meant it: unrehearsed and genuine. Still: part of her reply; You bugger. It echoed both far away yet intimately close.
However, most of her reply, I love you too, endures as Jenny's unguarded moment. Saying I love you and hearing I love you back should be a summit of togetherness.
Jenny qualified it, You bugger.
I did not repeat the word love to Jenny. Not again, that night, nor into our future. Maybe, I grasped what she meant by, you bugger. I seized a vulnerable after-sex moment to deliver: I love you. Yet, I meant it. Never having uttered it before, I expressed it honestly. The words we use to explain how our heart wants to beat in time beside another and mutual climaxes are a bonus.
Hindsight makes me unpack even my sincerest words. I love you. Her body or the inner Jenny? I believe the mesh. Love reciprocated. I want to make love to you. I said that once. Did this equate to, I love you, Jenny? Sex with Jenny was sex, but it became more than sex. Yet, I love you wasn't pledged in a tantric moment of vision. I couldn't say our joint sex lives felt analogous to a sacred cosmic, out-of-body experience. I loved her flesh on earth. Still, I hold my words from my heart because when you love another's soul, you say, I love you.
So, neither Jenny nor I said, I love you, lightly. We navigated the words. I wonder if the words equated to a first for Jenny by her sighing tone.
I now ponder the questions of timing and place. Had I chosen the right moment to express my inner self? Jenny could have left me unanswered or paused longer. You bugger. I penetrated more than her body. Only time would tell our finished form. Jenny and I expressed it: we loved each other.
I mulled an insight into a poem I shared in the company of Coral and Josh years ago. As a boy, I was with my girl, neither needing anything more—Jenny and I together, written into an E.E. Cummings poem: young, sharing and glad. Our minds orbited one another.
Yet by nature, we think independently as Jenny released an unfettered thought the same night we grappled with, I love you.
It came as a query; her body still relaxed over mine.
"I can't take limits. Please don't limit me," Jenny declared.
They were spoken slowly, softly and carefully caring.
She tilted her head, perhaps unsure or curious, seeking my reaction.
Doubt invaded my head whilst my body stayed calm. I confronted my independent girl, stating her independence.
I introduced love to our equation. Jenny joined my communion in the name of love, adding only a mild guardedness. Bugger.
Love hears what it wants. Jenny never heard my doubts openly expressed. Nor read the insecurity in my look. I spoke the truth as I sought to reassure her.
"It's okay; I'm not going to hide you away or closet you or keep you in a cupboard for myself. I can accept your freedom."
Jenny's body was calm; her eyes affirmed her approval of my words. She took me at face value. Still, she had to be aware of the male beneath her evolving bonding complexities. Here emerged our lives beyond genitalia, confronting Jenny and what she sought from life.
The wisdom of time confronts me: two young people unprepared for the implications of I love you.
Her warning, 'Don't limit me,' caused one disturbing thought.
I told myself: Harden your heart; this won't last.
Deep into a relationship, what sort of message was this to self?
I immediately left it where it belonged, in memory's lost luggage.
My ego told me I could hold the moment. I needed to stay in the present and keep Jenny there. To keep stealing from time.
If fault lines existed within our coupling, they remained unrealised. Great sex keeps a lot at bay. Jenny exuded a passionate expansiveness in life. She displayed a high degree of free will. I knew my bible: paradise can unravel quickly, as rapidly as taking one bite from an apple. Jenny flitted, a butterfly beyond netting. The door to her future required to be left open.
I held her then, and Jenny held me.
Life is about holding on, holding in, and holding close, and holding your half and holding together, both in and out of bed.
These thoughts direct me to Kokoschka's The Bride of the Wind or The Tempest. It is a painting about unreciprocated love. The artist is awake; his beloved is asleep. Kokoschka gazes intent. Around the pair are storm clouds or a wild tsunami sea. The tempest is a metaphor for their relationship. The artist cradles his beloved. They are twined in a sheet, twisted around and under like a small coracle. Kokoschka knows the centre of their love will not hold.
Jenny told me: I can't take limits. Did I listen? Yes and no.