I have thought about this night for twenty years.  For twenty years I sat in the bedroom window facing yours and made love to you ...and you never knew.  You still don’t.  A shame in some ways.

Tonight you were here with me, sitting only inches away, I could have reached out and grabbed you, kissed you deeply on your mouth, but...I have a conscience and you have a wife. 

I don’t know where my conscience came from, but I know I exercised self-control unlike I’ve felt for....perhaps my lifetime.  I wonder why now I would care enough to ignore my instincts where you are concerned. No, I shouldn’t wonder.

It would not have been right.  Even now I look over at your indentation on the couch and know if we would have made love...it wouldn’t have been right...hell, even if we would have just had "sex", it wouldn’t have been right.  Damn. 

That’s what living to the ripe ages of...well, does it matter really?  We have survived our lifetimes of independent living, good times and bad...and tonight we could have easily revealed to each other how much we wanted each other, but we did not.  We could have slowly come together, urgently popping open the buttons of your shirt...but we refrained.  Our tongues could have wound around each others, our bodies feeling the lust rising up hard in your pants which, in turn, would begin to make my dampness felt in mine.  We could have held and rocked each other together, not content to merely stand there kissing, but it didn’t happen.

You did not encircle me with your arms and tell me you would be a phone call away from coming to my body and mind.  You did not pull my sweater over my head and exclaim, “My God woman your breasts are even better than I imagined.”  No, but I am not sure if I would have stopped you if you had.  Yes, I would have.  No I wouldn’t have.

I know if I could have felt your heart beating inside of your chest, or even heard it pounding with lust against my head nestled on your chest, I would have been helpless to deny the power of it.  Just thinking of it makes me want to go to the window and allow myself to bare my body, indeed my very soul to you. 

What is it about you that I want?  It’s not to hear a love song tumbling out of that perfect mouth.  It’s not to contemplate a future spent lollygagging with you in bed, idly rolling over and feeling your body heat.  It’s not anything like that, really.  

It is me wanting to spend time going over your masculine body with my tongue, my hands, even my feet which I command at will because I am so flexible.  I want to inhale you and your scent, one of outdoors and masculinity.

It is me wanting to know your taste, your smell...even better your smell on me, our smells mingled together, the kind it takes a week to get completely rid of.  Yes, no, yes, no.  

No means no.  Or does it?  It doesn’t matter really, inside my brain you will have me (like every other time I wanted you) my way, since I can never know your way.  Never is a very long time.  Okay, I’ll just say for the next twenty years, and the chances are we’ll both be dead or so close to it to not have to consider the possibilities.  Comforting thought.  Not really.  It is forever away from this exact moment though.  Good enough.  Maybe.

Maybe I am in a dream, one in which when I awaken,  I will find a rumpled bed, evidence of ravaged bodies, ours.  I could find a hickey on my neck, or an errant piece of clothing left strewn on the floor, our names written in the glass window  during the steamy moments which caused the fog of our sexual  reality to appear.  I could hope against hope.  

I’m not going to look now though, it would break my already broken heart again to find I already know the truth.  Nothing happened I know because...you just called and I was not asleep.  I remember all, and worst of all there is no smell of us on me.  Pity.