Melanie

Whilst living in an Upper Arlington Townhouse in David Letterman’s home state of Ohio, I was contacted by a woman via the internet. It seems she was moved by a series of letters I had written to the editor. She was an editor herself and an intellectual. After a sequence of correspondence she appeared at my front doorstep in a long, cowgirl-like skirt, boots, with flowing blond hair. She looked a lot like Annie Oakley. Before I knew what was happening she entered my home and hugged me around the neck. It was a good hug, not a modern hug of control and disconnection. There was full body contact, and I could feel the contours of her thighs upon mine. I asked her out on a “date” as one should. I worried about the date quite a bit and dressed up in brown wide-wale corduroy pants, a pink Oxford-cloth shirt, and pulled my long hair back with an Indian-styled piece of leather and stick. I had long hair back then, and because it was so thick I cut it short in the back and pulled my long bangs back Samurai styled. She drove us to dinner in her dark gray Toyota Camry. I’m not sure why she volunteered to drive, but it was nice being driven around. I owned a Toyota Tercel unibody four-door wagon. It was not the pinnacle of luxury, but it was rock solid and carried my musical gear. We may have listened to the droning of New Age Monk music, and I don’t mean Thelonious. It was rather soothing music, and it was nice to be dressed up and on a date with an attractive older woman. Melanie it turns out was the only real woman I have ever been involved with. She had an Oedipus complex as well as schizophrenia, but that made her interesting. The only reason we broke up was because I didn’t make enough money. I chose to leave the house we both inhabited, because the neighbors got funky and I no longer could work in my studio on the second floor. We both had our problems, and that was one reason we were drawn to each other. Her father, a psychologist, had died of alcoholism having spilt his liver on the living room rug. Her mother died when she was fifteen of Leukemia. Melanie had pain and soul, and I liked her. She loved me, but would not let herself be in love with me because I was still a Mama’s boy taking money from my parents for rent. We had a reasonable life together for over two years. With all its ups and downs and with her inclination to verbally harass me upon acute tiredness, I still loved her. I’m not sure why I left. One reason is because I had an interview for a college level teaching job in North Carolina. She had been pushing me to do more with my life, so I thought moving back to North Carolina and getting this job would look good to her. Because she used to always talk about “going back to school,” I figured if I got the job she could move there and go back to school for free. Isn’t that a noble thought? Her take on it was “You want me to move there so you can @#$% me?” As I expressed in one of my earlier posts, this kind of erroneous projection of intent and feeling is death to a relationship. I guess that sealed out fate right there. I kept in touch with her for a while over the phone and with E-Mail. Because I could be a complainer, and because E-Mail is such an intimate type of communication, she decided no longer to answer my E-Mails. I have never tried to call her, because what would we say? It has been my experience women have difficulty with long distance relationships. When I was in college my first love of seven years strayed. She completely was dismayed when I announced I would be attending the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill. She had not been accepted there. My thought was, “This was college and your future, so you have to do what you have to do. The rest will fall in place. We can see each other on weekends.’’ That did not fare so well with her or my own mother. Prancing back in the house on weekends all up on your high horse as not what my mother had in mind. This was a shock to me. My parents have always been demonstrative in keeping the children in their place, and that continues to this day. While we were able to keep in touch on the phone and with letters, little did I know that continual sex in high school was destined to be replaced by her somehow. For some reason I did not think about it. Strange, I guess. After a few months without her lover, she strayed and put me through hell on earth. Instead of having the decency to break up with me, she allowed her infidelity to continue treating me badly in the meantime. I had a bonafide cold fish on my hands, but I made her make love to me anyway. It is after all your responsibility in a relationship. When you are married, it does not matter that you grow apart from your spouse. When you take those vows that your beloved will be the only person you have sex with for the rest of your life, then you must give it to them whether you want to or not. That’s the deal. She would not explain to me what was going and would not break up with me. It is ironic her philandering gave her a smelly yeast infection. It was only after forcing a visit upon her at her college, that I was able to discover the problem. I found a postcard in her top desk drawer from another man that said, “I love you.” I gave her a tongue lashing, and we proceeded to make up. Later she transferred to my college as a Junior, and as she still tells me, it was the best thing she ever did. UNC was a reputable school, better then the homosexual-laden debauchery that was taking place in Greenville. It was only a few years ago that I figured out those experiences at ECU changed her, and that was the reason we could not be married. These “diverse” sexual experiences including lesbianism changed her into a different person, and I was not involved. We grew apart, and as adults we both knew. We had a teary but peaceful divorce. With that experience in mind it was easier to let Melanie go. She was working for an older man that wanted to marry and have sex with her. While she adamantly resisted his attempts, I can’t be positive he didn’t resume full frontal contact the second I left. I have not kept up with her out of respect, but I still think about her. It is often easier to cut something off clean during a break up. Emotionally it is easier that way, but when a lover is the most recent chapter of your life I think people tend to hold the torch for a while. I did, but as a sane adult realized there was no point in nurturing those memories. You must move on. In this situation our relationship was tied to musical creativity. Living with Melanie allowed me to have a music studio on the second floor of our house. Her love and affection and willingness to have sex with me gave me the fulfillment I needed to be extremely musically productive. While living with her in that house on Billingsworth Avenue, I produced eleven CD’s. In two years of dedicated artistic and intellectual achievement, I cranked out saleable musical product. I will always have her to thank for that possibility. This cowgirl, this waif, this Dolly knew the deal with sex. She was liberal, more liberal than I was, and she forced me to learn things. I had never had a woman suggest I masturbate in front of her. I had never met anyone with self-esteem high enough to take the responsibility to admit they liked certain things. I used to think allowing the other person to be “who they were” was what love was. That is a noble effort and worthy of praise. Taking gratification from another person wanting you? Holy shit man! That is an antiquated concept. Are Scarlett and Rhett in the house? Now I fully believe recognizing someone’s desire for you and channeling that in a positive way is key. Instead of scorning love like we are all conditioned to do out of contempt, we recognize and are turned on by someone’s interest in you. Wow, that is truly romantic. That turned me on, her knowing I liked her and being turned on by that. “Old School.” We had Old School love, and I learned a lot from it. That was the virtue of being with an older woman. Melanie was not shy about stimulating herself, and I respected that. I had never met a woman that was willing to even admit they knew what masturbation was. Most women deny it exists to a man, much less being privy to trying it. Melanie performed better fellatio than anyone I had ever been with, because she enjoyed it. She knew the difference between a man and a woman and was not afraid to use that as a turn on. She would verbally ask me things like, “If you put the chair up in the attic I will give you a blowjob.” She also, in one of the biggest turn ons of my life, said to me, “You can @#$% me, but I am not going to do anything. I am too tired to engage, but I am turned on and you can have me.” This gave new meaning to the term dead fish, and that stereotype was gone from my mind forever. Of course partially through the session, she found her energy! Melanie was not one for small talk or foreplay. While our love-making was deep and long lasting, it did not have to be precursored by adolescent high jinx. Her routine was to shower to clean her body, brush her teeth, lotion her skin and lie down naked in the bed. That was it. Upon having her period she would place a towel on the bed beneath us. It never was a hindrance but instead was an aphrodisiac. More to come.