June 02, 2007
Originally published June 9, 2006
Years ago, I got a call from a friend to alert me that someone we both knew had died. It was an odd revelation, because I once dated his wife back in high school. She gave me my first French kiss after a Junior High sock-hop, and I played football with her husband for eight years.
I went to the funeral.
After that somber occasion, Nancy asked me to come home with her. I did, thinking that a good friend might be able to console her after a traumatic life-experience. I ended up sleeping with her that night.
That's NOT what I was aiming for. Yeah, we had sex. But I held her all night long while she cried in her sleep and left salty trails all over my bare chest. She twisted and moaned, NOT from the touch of MY hand, but from what was running through her mind. I didn't sleep much that night. I just held her.
In the morning, she cooked me a good breakfast of scrambled eggs, grits and bacon. She wore a flannel housecoat, and as she walked by me once, I grabbed it and opened it up. Yep. She was nekkid underneath. That was a wonderful sight.
We dated for a while after that, but she eventually moved to California and went all crazy-liberal. She married a Chinese-American guy and lived happily ever after, I suppose, because I haven't heard from her in more than 10 years now.
Damn! Would YOU feel guilty for layin' the widow on the night of her husband's funeral?
I don't. MY mistake was lettin' that natural blonde girl get away when I had the chance to catch her.
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