So she gave me her number. I was jazzed, as I always am when I get a date with a gorgeous woman. What guy wouldn’t be? And boy, was Joan beautiful. One of the loveliest women I’ve ever seen.

   We wound up going to the lake. I don’t drink, but she did. And plenty. My refraining from imbibial indulgence isn’t from religious conviction, it’s for self preservation and defense of honor. It’s the oldest trick in the book–women using alcohol to get a guy drunk so that she can have her way with him.

   And I was so looking forward to giving her my way with me.

   Actually, the reason I don’t drink is because I hate the taste of the filthy stuff. I would have to be drunk to drink alcohol. I’ll just stick to my heroine-crystal meth cocktail for my social gatherings. I don’t really do those either…they tastes even worse!

   Anyway, there we are at the lake, the moon shining off of the water, her walking back and forth in front of my car, chatting and giggling, me leaning against the hood of my car, wondering what color her panties were. I know, I know, I’m suppose to be a Christian, but at that time, I was…well…a non-observant Christian. I was kind of hiding from God.

   Ha! Hiding from God. That should give you an idea of my I.Q.

   So, in my, as the Southern Baptists would say, backsliding stage, I’m just sitting there, looking at her and slavering at her beauty. She’s slavering a bit too, but it’s because she had an entire bottle of wine in her.

   Now, I’m wondering if I’m going to be able to find out her underwear of choice, when she tells me she’s being kicked out of her house. My first thought is, What does that have to do with your underwear?

   But I didn’t ask that.

   Instead, I was the bigger guy, and told her that if she needed a place to stay, she’s welcomed to come and live with my cousin and his wife…and me of course. I was staying with them because at the time, I didn’t have a place to stay myself.

   So, yes, she moved into my room with me, and I did get to see the color her panties…and her T-shirts, and her socks, and her make-up, and her brushes and powders and bath oils and tampons and facial scrubs and shampoos and crème rinses and nail polishes and every other damn thing that women have to have just to be…women. I tell you. I’d hate to be a woman if for no other reason than all the necessary tools, tackle, and trinkets it takes to just to maintain.

   Well, it was my first time living with a woman, in the intimate sense, and I didn’t really know how to work it. I will admit, it was kind of nice for a while, but after a few hours, I was tired of the whole thing. Nothing against her, I’m just not cut out for cohabitation with the opposite sex…even when I get sex. It actually lasted about three weeks, but that’s about all I could handle.

   So I devised an elaborate scheme to remedy the situation.

   My plan was as follows: Slowly make my way to my car, then drive away.

   And what do you know, it worked. I called back to my cousin’s house and told her…something. I think it was…a friend, an accident in Dallas, physical therapy, spoon feeding, no one else to help, whatever. She didn’t seem to be too put off, probably because of the weirdness of the situation. Now, just so you don’t think I’m some evil jerk of a bastard, she told me she had plans to go back to Alabama anyway, so neither of us were head over heels, or anything. And I set it up so that my cousin would let her stay there as long as she needed. I think the only reason he agreed was because there would be another woman flitting around the house in a skimpy little nighty, but regardless, she had a place to stay.

   But either way, I was free. Like they say, there’s lots of panties in the hamper, why dwell on one pair? I was through with panties, anyway. I needed a break.  I was staying out of the laundry room completely for a while.

   Now, being the sensitive guy that I am, I called my cousin a week or so later to see how she was doing, and he said she was packing to leave. So I came over to say goodbye, wish her well, and told her that if she needed anything, to let me know. I didn’t have a phone, but she could get a message to me through my cousin. She thanked me, and I watched as she drove off into the sunset, heading to her own destiny.

   That night, I fought back the tears as I chopped the onions for my famous fried rice (it’s the only thing I’ve ever cooked that tasted good) and thought of Joan.

   As I was putting out the skillet with the fire extinguisher, I considered the real probability that I would never again see my beautiful Joan, gaze into her piercing green eyes, hear the tinkling sound of her musical laughter, feel her luscious, long, thick hair running through my fingers.

   Little did I know…

                                  

        (To be continued)

 

   Keck