Robert Frost.

Thinking about Elaine, all that comes to mind now is Robert Frost. That poem we all read in high school, “The Road Not Taken”. I’m not going to quote from it now. I’ll leave it to you to look it up if you’re not familiar with it.

But the words come to mind as I think about her now, thinking back around one year to when she first came into my life. More precisely, thinking back to the time when I first followed one road and not another.

I’ll get to the story.

I had just met her two weeks before. I missed my old lover desperately after a very bad break-up, so I had posted a Missed Connection on Craigslist. A sappy, romantic poem, hoping she would read it and somehow know it was from me. Somehow hoping it would make her contact me and all would be right in the world.

She doesn’t read Craigslist posts. Who was I fooling?

But lots of other people do. At least thirty replies, all thinking I was writing about them. All being dead wrong.

And then there was Elaine. She didn’t think I was writing for her. She just liked what I wrote, and she said so.

I wrote back and thanked her, and that was the beginning of a good dozen or so email exchanges. Which then led to exchanging cellphone numbers with a view just to chatting. Nothing more contemplated. Nothing more desired.

A week after the chats began, I found myself out on a Saturday afternoon bike ride, near the neighborhood she said was her home. I decided to call, and found she was going for a walk. We met. She walked. I rode slowly beside her. We talked. We clicked. And when we parted and we kissed. But not on the lips – that was her rule. Never, never on the lips. So we did it like on the continent, as they say. A kiss on each cheek, and then goodbye.

The next week (that brings me to the start of my story, where I said I had just met her two weeks before, for those who care about a timeline), it was early Saturday afternoon. I was out in my car, running some errands and had the day to myself. The family was otherwise occupied, so time was no object. I called her up and she was free, so I suggested we get together and grab something to eat.

We met. We talked. We shared a tuna sandwich on a lovely baguette at a small patisserie. She drank water and took her half empty bottle with her at the end. I think I had iced tea.

She mentioned that she didn’t drive anymore since getting rid of her car, and it had been a while since she visited her parents at the cemetery. I asked her where, and realized it was only a fifteen minute drive. I offered to take her. She accepted.

Off we went.

There are different types of dishonorable behavior, and having an affair is considered pretty high on that list by most people. But it’s a fact of life, and I long ago stopped judging people, including myself, on simply seeking a human connection when home life fails to provide that. I long ago stopped judging people, including myself, on simply trying to feel needed, desired and loved.

So on a one to ten scale of dishonorable behavior, where does having an affair in a cemetery rank?

I didn’t set out to have another affair. I thought mine was over and done. As far as I could tell, I wasn’t embarking on one anyway. I was simply with a new found friend, having shared lunch, simply doing a good deed as I took her to visit her parents’ graves for the first time in years, helping her to find some wild flowers to lay on the grave and watching her use her half empty water bottle from lunch as a makeshift vase in which to put those flowers. Touching. I said a prayer along with her as we stood at the graves.

Back to the car. We sat in the quiet of my car for a few minutes talking, and looking back I can’t for the life of me remember how we got onto the topic of breasts, but somehow we were talking about them, and somehow my hand ended up on one of her breasts.

Then the other breast.

And then somehow my hand began to stimulate her nipples, and then somehow my hand ended up inside her blouse and inside her bra and I felt an absolutely lovely feeling. Her breasts were not too small and not too large, being full and very soft, and my hand could knead her luscious flesh easily. Her nipples were hard, yet not very large, and I simply sat there massaging them under her bra as we sat parked along the roadway inside the cemetery, still within sight of her parents’ graves.

I unbuttoned her blouse and managed to pull her left breast into the open from inside the protective shell of her bra, and I saw her pale, milky flesh topped with a very dark and lovely nipple. I leaned forward and took it into my mouth. I forget the conversation we shared exactly, but by this time I recall it had included discussions about how long it had been for both of us since we had been with the opposite sex in an intimate way. Ok, I’m being coy. The actual words were probably about how long it had been since we had been fucked by someone.

Her breasts were delicious. I sucked hard on her nipple, and found that she enjoyed it somewhat on the rough side, asking me to suck harder and even to bite a little bit. I stayed with just her left breast, simply due to logistics inside the car, and she closed her eyes and leaned back in the seat as I continued to lick circles around her nipple and then take it in my mouth and suck it hard and bite on it, and then return to gently licking it.

My left hand was free. I ventured south with it onto her crotch, outside her pants, and felt the warmth of her pussy radiating through at least one layer of fabric – I didn’t yet know what she wore beneath. I could feel the damp warmth of her arousal through her pants, and it beckoned me to unzip the front and to slide my left hand inside, finding that she did wear something beneath, but not too much – a silky thong, which allowed my hand to easily find the bare flesh of her shaved pussy, and to slide my fingers in between her damp labia.

I continued to suck on her left breast as I began to massage her down below, every so often picking my head up from the action to look out the windows to ensure that we were not being watched or seen by some other cemetery visitors.

After seeing we were in the clear, I would return to her breast, also continuing with my hand’s exploration of her sex. I gently played with her clit, rolling it between my thumb and forefinger, and I would slide my fingers along her moistened lips, and then gently probe between them with my thumb. She was very wet, and her arousal was apparent both from that sign and also in the way she kept her eyes closed and smiled a wry and knowing smile, inhaling deeply and holding her breath as she relaxed beneath my attentive mouth and hand.

Decorum. This is not what people ought to do in a sacred space. In a cemetery. But if countless teen movies are to be believed, we were not the first to desecrate the sanctity of a burial ground, and we would not be the last. We were in a car anyway, so it was not as if we were horizontal and naked on top of “Here lies the last remains…”

I loved the way her body felt. So soft and so feminine, so damp and so fragrant too, so sensuous and inviting. I continued to play with her pussy as we sat there, and by now I had broken off from sucking on her nipple so I could sit upright and concentrate on her wet pleasure, probing deep within her with my fingers.

I slid my right hand into the back of her thong, and found her ass, and I slowly slid a finger into her hole, finding it hot and tight, surrounding my right middle finger and contracting hard upon it. I fingered her from both front and back at the same time, watching her face contort in pleasurable ways, watching her breathing go from the deep inhalations of moments before, into a more rapid and irregular rhythm, almost matching the rhythm of my fingers as they did their dance within her warm openings.

I watched as she came for the first time in front of me. I watched as her body writhed beneath my touch and as she came and my hand was soaked by her arousal leaking from her pussy. I watched as she gently sighed and moaned and raised her hips under my hands, and then as she lowered them again and relaxed in a final spasm of climax.

I took my hands away from her, slowly pulling my fingers out of her spent body. I leaned down further and pulled her thong aside, and licked at her swollen lips, tasting her arousal, fresh from her orgasm, and licking along her lips and sucking softly on her nub, sucking softly on the clit that only moments ago was one of the trigger points for a beautiful moment where she came and where my own arousal was not her concern – it was just for her, that moment. It was just for her.

I tasted her and savored her for the first time, marveling at the clean and fresh bouquet that was her pussy. She tasted refreshing, if that is possible to say about a pussy. She had a light and airy quality to her aroma that was intoxicating and inviting, and I continued to lick her for a few minutes before she tried to reach down to my own arousal, running her hand over the bulge of my erection inside my jeans.

I broke off from tasting her, and lifted my head and looked at her, saying “Not today,” pushing her hand away, “not today, because this is just about you. It’s just about your pleasure and your needs.”

She looked into my gaze and simply said “Thank you,” and she smiled, sliding back in the seat and letting her body completely relax.

We sat quietly together, side by side, for about five minutes before I helped do up her pants and her blouse, making herself presentable again, and as I reached into the back seat and found a package of wet wipes, so I could clean off my hands and face a bit from her juices. The car smelled like her pussy, like sex, and we both opened our windows as I turned on the engine and began to drive out of the cemetery and back toward her home.

“Thank you,” she said again, “that was so much fun. I forgot how nice it is to have someone just take care of me and not feel pressured to return the favor. I forgot how nice it is to feel important, like someone else cares about my pleasure.”

I just smiled. I didn’t want to say anything because I didn’t know where this was all going to end up. I didn’t intend to be intimate with her, and simply had wanted to be a friend by taking her to the cemetery. A good deed, I thought, and one that would have meaning for her, seeing her parents’ graves. A good deed, I thought, simply because it was the right thing to do. Anyone else would have done the same.

As for what happened in the car as we sat there together, it also seemed like the right thing to do. Sometimes it isn’t about how we can get pleasure for ourselves, but it’s about how we can take an ordinary moment and turn it into an extraordinary moment where we can bring real pleasure into someone else’s life.

My own pleasure? At least physically, that was the road not taken.

That day was all about her. And as I dropped her off at her home, and we said goodbye, there were no kisses on the lips, maybe a bit odd after having been through a shared moment of such intimacy, but that was her rule. No kisses, just a touch of each other’s hand and a goodbye.

And a promise to meet again soon, maybe to share another meal, or maybe for another walk if I was out on my bike.

That day was all about her, and not about me, or even about us.

And that has made all the difference.