That fateful day high on old Miller’s Hill
had left me shaken. I hadn’t expected what had happened, and it had left me a
changed woman. Indeed, a conflicted woman. But it wasn’t just Jack’s doing, it
was mine as well, and deep within myself I had discovered feelings that I
didn’t know I had. He had made me bloom like a flower, and now my petals
yearned for more.
After that summer, we’d both left our small
town to attend separate schools. Mine was a little Christian college, and Jack attended
a large, secular university where he’d received a scholarship. He’d promised to
remain true to himself, and I believed him because I’d seen his virtuousness as
I’d gazed deep into his eyes. And yet, I worried – I’d been given a window into
his nature, and there would be so many temptations far from the safety of our
pure and wholesome community.
My first semester that year had been fairly
uneventful. I focused on theology classes during the week and Bible studies on
the weekend with a couple of like-minded young women. We shared a common desire
to live our lives the right way, and, with their Milky-white complexions framed
by flaxen hair, they embodied a purity that I knew was right.
One weekend, after we’d been discussing faith,
family, and morality, I’d stepped out to the powder room, but when I returned,
I’d caught the two of them whispering and giggling. “What are you laughing at?”
I asked, blushing. They looked at each other conspiratorially, and then looked
back at me, caught, with guilty looks on their faces.
After a short, uncomfortable silence, one of
them broke it: “It’s something that Schwartzmann said to me,” and I cringed.
That horrible, odious, little, swarthy boy had somehow wormed his way into
our college and would say the most inappropriate things. Unspeakable things.
She continued, “As I was leaving the Quad, I
heard a whistled catcall across the grass. I reflexively turned and looked, and
he shouted at me ‘Hey baby, you cold or just happy to see me?’”, and then, her
voice dropping to a whisper, she said with eyes wide, “He asked me to join him
in the ‘Winnebago of Love’!”
The blood rushed to my face. How dare he! Prancing
around with his shirt unbuttoned halfway down, shouting these unspeakable
things across the Quad for everyone to hear! But what on Earth could have
possessed my companions to find any humor in this? I asked them.
The other answered with a question: “What,
pray tell, do you think goes on in the ‘Winnebago of Love’?”, and gave me a
knowing smirk, and I blushed as I felt the bloom of my petals rise again as I
imagined what Schwartzmann might have meant by the temperature reference.
We finished up our studies, but I was unable
to focus – I couldn’t stop thinking about the “Winnebago” that that odious
little Schwartzmann was talking about, and I yearned to ask Jack. With his unfailing attention to my emotions
and the flowers he always brought me, I knew that Jack could make these
feelings of anxiety disappear.
And, as if on cue, no sooner had we completed
our meeting and these fine young women left, when a knock on the door came.
“Who is it?” I called out. In a husky
voice, I heard, “It’s me, Jack” through the door, and my heart skipped a beat.
It couldn’t be! His secular university was hours away by car and we hadn’t agreed
to meet. But he appeared in the flesh, and I was overcome with what I now know
as an older woman to be the return of those deeply romantic feelings I had felt
on old Miller’s Hill.
I ran to him, and, after a moment’s
hesitation, warmly embraced him. I looked deeply into his eyes and said, “It’s
wonderful to see you again, Jack! How are you?” as I chastely grasped his firm biceps.
His manner surprised me: He seemed shy,
almost ashamed of something. He wouldn’t, or couldn’t, hold my gaze, and I felt
a nearly uncontrollable desire to minister to his needs.
And then, as if releasing a great burden, Jack
began to reveal it all: “I’ve made so many mistakes… And now my mother has lost
everything,” and gave me a look of dread. He continued, “I’ve sown my magic seeds
…”
The room seemed to spin slowly and I could
only hear the pounding of my heart, as my worst fears seemed to be coming true…
But he held me close against his
sculpted abs and pleaded, “It’s not my fault – I’m a red blooded American,” and
with a hopeful smile he said something about an endless supply of “golden Fabergés”
and my heart melted… And then, over angelic harp music, I heard him say with a
sexy determination “It’s huge and thick, and grows to the sky”, and I felt
myself losing control as I felt the thrust of
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