2013 Get in the Closet #2
1987 Get in the Closet #1
2012 The Panties
1985 Arthopod Mengele
Since I'm entering the last third of my life, it seemed like a good idea to start my memoirs. The plan is to record all the funny stories of my life as I think of them, then organize it later.
I met Enn in the second year after my divorce. A freckled, buxom redhead, she was intelligent, emotional, and about ten years younger than me. She didn’t have many friends, and she was cautious and suspicious about dating. Like many redheads, Enn had a mean streak. Her husband, having discovered that he had a thing for Asian girls, had abandoned her and their young son. She ended up in Fort Collins, Colorado, and we met on Match.com.
I didn’t actually like her as a person, and I don’t think she liked me. We were on opposite sides of any given subject or even object. In fact, we so rarely agreed on anything that I kept a list. It was very short: glitter and dark beer.
Our mutual dislike fueled the ridiculously hot sex that made our otherwise tumultuous relationship bearable. Because we were both parents, we could only get together two or three times a month. We set up a date night for mid-December, 2012, and planned to sleep over at my house for the first time.
That night also saw Colorado’s worst blizzard in years. It was snowing heavily, it was bitterly cold, and visibility was almost nonexistent. Enn came down anyway. I took her to the nicest tapas restaurant in Loveland. The roads were so bad we were surprised the restaurant was open, and we eagerly gulped down a couple of dark beers to get the chill off. We ate some excellent small dishes, vaguely arguing about Obama and the Harry Potter movies.
We almost didn’t make it home. The snow plows couldn’t keep up with the dumping snow, and it was sticking to my truck’s windshield as we crawled across town to my house.
At home, we took off our coats and watched a movie on the couch to warm up. We shared a six-pack of Fat Tire and got to feeling pretty loose. Halfway through the movie we started kissing, and then my clothes were coming off.
“Lesh go to bed,” I slurred.
“Sure,” she said, laughing because I was already naked except for my socks.
That’s when the doorbell rang.
I looked at the clock. It was midnight.
I looked out the window. It was snowing even harder than before.
My mind raced. Who would brave this weather and ring my doorbell at midnight? I tried to think, but the alcohol was getting in the way.
After a moment I realized it must be my ex-wife, and it must be an emergency, perhaps about our boy. I started to panic.
I was on my socked feet in a second. I ran to my bedroom and threw my robe around my shoulders, then rushed back to the front room.
Enn was standing in the foyer. She still had her clothes on, thank goodness, but I didn’t want my ex-wife to see her.
“Who is it?” she asked, concerned.
“I dunno! It must be an emergency!" I said, looking around.
“Quick, get in the closet!” I said, pointing to the coat closet next to the front door.
I regretted the words the instant they left my lips.
Enn’s face twisted into a snarl of fury and disgust. “You did not just say that. YOU DID NOT JUST TELL ME TO GET IN THE CLOSET!” she said, her voice rising and her face going red.
The doorbell rang again. It was probably a minute or two now since it had rung the first time; surely an eternity to whoever was on the other side in the blowing snow.
I yanked the front door open. The cold air rushed in, reminding me that I hadn’t closed my robe.
It was my neighbor, Bethany. She was shivering despite her white down coat and gloves.
She looked at me, then over my shoulder at Enn, who was standing there with her hands on her hips. And then she looked down.
I snatched the robe around me, but it was too late.
“Bethany! Ish everythin’ okay?” I slurred.
“My dog jumped over the fence into your yard. I have to go get him,” she said, not meeting my eye. She walked right past me through the house and down the stairs to the backyard door.
I stood there like an idiot, not knowing what to do or say. I couldn’t wrap my head around the fact that it wasn’t, in fact, my ex-wife.
Bethany was back a minute later, dog in tow. She still didn’t look me in the eye as she said thank you and walked out through the front door. I closed it, and turned to look at Enn.
“You thought it was your ex-wife, didn’t you!” Enn spat accusingly, her hands still on her hips.
I said nothing.
“You’re still in love with her!” She had made that accusation before. So had my previous girlfriend, Bee.
I said nothing. I walked to the fridge. There were two Fat Tires left. I opened them both, and handed her one.
As I drank the last beer, it was as if my mind turned off. I honestly couldn’t tell you what happened the rest of that night.
Enn and I dated for another six weeks. We were getting closer, and she wanted to take our relationship to the next level, but I didn’t. It ended the day before Valentine’s Day, when she said “I love you” and I said “I like you, too.” But I didn’t, actually.
© 2018 David Holmes
In the months following my divorce, I dated a wonderful woman from my new neighborhood. Let’s call her Bee. Bee was about my age and also divorced, with a son about the same age as mine. She was blond with bluish eyes, three inches shorter than me, and warm and compassionate. She volunteered for her church a lot, and she loved beer and dancing.
Sometimes, when both our boys were with their other parents, we’d spend the night together at one of our houses. Bee and I had a lot in common, and if I’d been a little further along in my grieving process, our relationship might have lasted longer than six months. But I was still looking for validation from other women, and eventually succumbed to the promiscuous lifestyle that so many recent divorcés experience. Though she was hurt by what happened, Bee and I parted amicably.
We never kept toothbrushes at each other’s house, but after we stopped dating, I did find a pair of the most beautiful, sexy panties I’d ever seen. The front was a triangle of see-through pink mesh with a delicate floral design bordered by fine black lace. The lace came together at the bottom, merged, and continued a single lace G-string up the back. The tiny panties were an intricate marvel of taste and design. They were delightful.
So delightful, in fact, that I couldn’t bring myself to return them or throw them away. As men do, I considered them both a memento and a trophy, and I kept them at the bottom of my underwear drawer. As laundry day approached each week and the drawer emptied, I would catch sight of them and smile in remembrance.
About a year later, Bee and I bumped into each other again. We had some drinks and discovered that we were both in between lovers. After a few more drinks, she ended up at my place.
In the morning, as we were dressing, I reached into the drawer for some boxers and saw The Panties. I pulled them out and held them up.
“You forgot these panties here a year ago.” I said quietly. “I’ve kept them because they reminded me of you; of how sexy you are but also your good taste and spirit. And of the good times we had together. I hope you don’t think that’s weird.”
I had been imagining this tender conversation with Bee for a year. I looked into her eyes expectantly. I wanted to see if there was a reaction that would tell her heart.
She said, “Those aren’t mine. I’ve never seen them before.”
I never did figure out who abandoned The Panties.
© 2016 David Holmes
Read more from my memoirs