And he was a priest no less, associated with courtly love, bringing up a sea of reminiscence.
There was the chef who, rather than flowers, brought me bouquets of mint and dill. Was I nuts about him, as much as any girl of 18 can be nuts about anyone. It didn’t last though, those long lunch shifts, interfering with sex and sex, and, did I mention sex? But even now, when the smell of mint wafts my way, one can still get damp between her pots and pans.
We had the Englishman, when finding out I didn’t own a TV, bought me one, carrying it up 5 flights of stairs. He was rich and famous (now, now, I never kiss and tell), sweet, sexy, generous and married, but that was in my 30s.
We’ve grown up since then.
Can’t forget the male model who liked wearing my pajamas, a plumber, one could say, unstopped my drain, an investment banker, a dentist, a drunken dress designer, and there was that gambler who played a helluva game of Liar’s poker.
If only I had known.
I’d be remiss not mentioning my musicians that, if we had a reunion, would make up an entire symphony orchestra.
I’ve always been musical, what can I say.
Toss in a fireman, felon, cop and a soldier because, even now, she’s still dazzled by any man in uniform, including a Police Dog named Skippy.
We’ll end with Bill, my romantic from Texas whose boots I can still hear clicking on the parquet floor, who’d write me love letters laced with lust leaving me puffing and panting in an impassioned swoon, I wish could repeat itself, like a carnal chorus.
I wish…I so wish.