Soaring Over Hurtles

"No doubt in my mind either," I said, and then turned to Bryson for a quick kiss.

Then mom said this: "Layla's told me how much she loves you, Bryson." She paused and looked at me. "Among other things." We both giggled, leaving the guys looking clueless, like people do when they fail to get the punchline of a joke. "Anyway," she continued, "the age thing bothers me too, though how bothered should I be when my daughter appears so happy?"

"I'll drink to that," Bryson said, and raised his beer. We came together and clinked bottles.

My parents stayed another hour, chatting with us. The tense atmosphere that had hung over us in the diner gave way to one more relaxed. The beer helped and so did steering the conversation away from the reason they came to visit in the first place. Once they left, Bryson asked me about mom's 'among other things' comment. "I told her what a wonderful lover you are," I revealed, careful to leave out her fantasy involving Bryson.

"Really? She squirmed, I bet. I'd be squeamish talking sex with either my own son or daughter."

I grinned mischievously. "Well, I wouldn't define her reaction as squeamish. Not exactly."

He pressed for more. "No? Then how exactly would you define it?"

Mindful in keeping my pledge to mom, I said, "Let's just say that it gave her a cheap thrill. And that's all I'll say."

"You naughty girl, you," he teased. "Your dad and me said nary a word about sex."

"Not surprised. Dad would cringe talking about sex that involved me."

"So, I mean, did your mom become aroused or something?"

"Or something." I giggled and looked away.

"She did, didn't she?"

We both began to laugh. In fact, we laughed all the way to my bedroom. Good thing, too, because I hadn't totally "come down" from my sex talk with mom.

In minutes, our clothes were off and we were snuggled in my bed, going at it like two sex-starved kids. 'If mom could see me now,' I thought, as Brice kissed me with his usual affection and passion, then worked over my 'voluptuous body,' as mom called it, my boobs, tummy and pussy, wet, hot and wanting. I felt almost ashamed, thinking of mom's fantasy with Brice. Regardless, it only enhanced what I was experiencing here, and I became more aggressive, cutting our normally long foreplay short. "Wow, you really mean business, young lady," Brice said, when I flipped myself over and climbed on top.

"I'm on fire."

"I'd never know," he said, flashing a sarcastic grin.

"Well, maybe this will convince you," I said, then grabbed his fully-erect cock, guided it inside me and then made like a human pogo stick, bouncing up and down in rapid half-squats. I'd taken this position before, because I knew how much it turned him on. He loved watching my boobs flap against my chest, loved watching my 'luscious thighs,' as he was fond of calling them, doing multiple reps on his organ, while his hands, placed tightly against my hips, provided extra uplift.

We came together this way. Well, not perfectly together, but close enough. Snuggling afterward, Bryson said, "I'm so glad it's only Saturday. Which means I get another night and day with you."

I rolled toward him, stroked his mustache a few times and then kissed him. "If only it was more than a couple days. I'd like more time, a week at least. It's become more difficult saying goodbye."

He nodded and pulled me closer. "Winter break is coming up. Maybe we could go away together, to a ski resort perhaps. Or, we could just spend it at my place. I've got a working fireplace. Can you picture us making love in front of a crackling fire?"

"Bryson Kobin, you're the most romantic man I've ever met. Yes, I can picture it. And yes, I'd love that because...because I'm so hoplessly in love with you."

*****

Bryson

We were both hopelessly in love. As I told Melvin Moretti, breaking up with his lovely daughter, even though it might be for the best in the long run, was damn near impossible. It sure as hell was that weekend. On Sunday, we bundled up in winter bike riding gear, and took a blustery, fifteen-mile ride through the backroads of her region. Already, we were looking months in advance to when we could once again ride in warm weather clothes. In Starbucks over cups of hot chocolate after our ride, we talked about the future.

"I'll be graduating around then," Layla said. "And I'll hope you can come to my graduation."

"Of course. You won't be embarrassed? Because your friends that don't know about us will assume that I'm an uncle or something. Like Dylan did."

She chuckled. "Not embarrassed at all, although my parents might be. I can imagine one of my parents' invited friends asking about you and then them stumbling over an explanation. 'Oh no, not an uncle,' mom might say. 'He's, well, um, he's Layla's boyfriend.'"

We both laughed, though I sensed there was a more serious underside to the humor, and it had everything to do with the future. Our future. It's something I wanted to talk about and began with this: "During our chat, your dad asked about my intentions, and I told him I didn't have any. Well, that wasn't exactly true because..." I looked down, scratched my head. "This isn't easy for me to say."

Layla drew me a reassuring smile and held my hand. "We've always been candid with one another. Don't be shy, say anything you wish."

"Right. Well, last month, after you left my house, Alan asked me if I was considering marriage."

I paused, not sure if she wanted me to go on. Then she said, "And you said...what?"

"I said maybe, because the fact is, Layla, that I have been thinking about spending the rest of my life with you, knowing full well how unrealistic that is."

She looked away and dropped a tear. Then, looking back, she said, "When I told you I was hopelessly in love with you, I was trying to tell you the same thing. I love you that much. But, like you, I'm well aware of this great big hurtle of ours, that someday we might have to part ways. And that makes me sad, Bryson. So damn sad."

She shook her head and began to cry. Leaning over, I draped an arm around her, and moments later, we were standing next to our table, hugging each other, with me struggling not to break down also. But then she sniffled, wiped her eyes, and managed to chuckle at the patrons who looked at us with concern. She grinned and said, "It's okay, folks. He doesn't always make me cry like this."

"It's only in Starbucks," I said, and that got some of them laughing.

*****

My visit ended with a few more tears but also hope for the future, at least the immediate future. Come winter break, Layla drove to my place for that week we both wanted. She brought her bike but never got to use it, not so much because of the cold but because it snowed for a couple days. We spent two of those days at a ski resort in the mountains of Western Maryland. We rented a cabin, and tried our luck on the shallow slopes—neither of us had much experience on skis. And yes, we made love at my place on the sofa (and on the floor) next to a crackling fire. Words can't adequately describe how beautiful Layla looked, with the way the flickering light bathed her face and body in a lovely shade of chiaroscuro. "If I never live to see another day," I said during those moments in front of the fire, "if I suddenly die right here and now, my life would still be complete."

Layla snuggled closer, resting her head on my chest. "Let's talk of living, not dying," she said. "We have more to do, more to see, and I'm hoping we can do it together. I'm hoping..." She raised her head, took a deep breath and looked me in the eye. "I'm hoping that we can find a way to do what you've been thinking, about spending our lives together. And I don't mean commuting back and forth."

I came so close to proposing, so very close. The words remained stuck on my tongue and in my heart, struggling to come out, but kept in place because the realistic, rational side of me held sway over my emotions. "I hope we can find a way, too," I said, without having any idea of how it could work. It was that damn 'big hurtle,' as she had described it, one that apparently could not be breached. My own thoughts came back to me: enjoy her while you have her.

And I did. We spent a quiet New Year's sipping champagne by the fire, snuggling, making love. Layla would be going back to McKeesport for the remainder of winter break before returning for her last semester at Penn State. She'd also be very busy, helping out in her dad's medical office and taking a course during the so-called mini-mester. In short, we'd be away from each other for most of January. I actually looked forward to teaching starting that first week after New Year's. I needed to keep busy also. On Saturdays, I still worked at the bike shop, though, as expected, business was down during the winter months.

We kept in touch through phone and email and then, the second weekend in February, I once again made the trip to Penn State. No bike this time; too cold for that. But, as she had suggested, we extended our snuggle time. Our conversations turned to reports about this virus out of China that had apparently spread to other countries, including the United States. Cases had been reported in California and Washington State. "Something awful this way comes," Layla said over breakfast on Saturday morning.

Something awful indeed, as Covid-19 spread across the globe, altering civilization in ways not seen since the Spanish Flu a century earlier. State governors issued shelter in place orders and wearing masks became the norm. Businesses closed, but not all of them. Those the governor deemed essential could stay open, including bike shops. Thus, Kobin Sports, which sold ski equipment as well as bikes, remained open. The schools shut down in early March, so my working life was confined to the store, making repairs and trying to keep up with the sudden uptick in demand for bicycles.

"Riding that Cannondale you sold me is the only thing keeping me sane," Layla told me during one of our face times. She said her dad had limited in-person office visits to emergencies only; others got virtual visits. Penn State held a virtual commencement in May. "Here I am with a master's degree in computer science," Layla said, "and no place to use it at the moment."

Through spring, we talked about returning to Ocean City, the place where we met the summer before. However, with the virus spreading and quarantine requirements, the possibility of that appeared slim. That is, until late July, when hospitalizations and death rates in many states slowed, and more testing sites opened up. We both got tested, we both stayed healthy, and by August, our trip seemed doable. By renting a condo, we could buy our food and thus avoid the risk of eating in restaurants. One of my aunts and her husband had recently purchased a two-bedroom condo just a block off the beach. After my aunt assured me that the place had been thoroughly fumigated, we rented it for five days in the third week in August.

Lyla drove from McKeesport to my house and spent the night. Other than face-time, we hadn't spent any time together since February. "If I had any doubt that I'd miss you terribly if we parted ways, this virus put that to rest," she said. In sync with her feelings, I could barely keep my hands off her. The season of crackling fires had passed, and we were into the so-called dog days of August, hot and humid and wonderful because the seashore beckoned.

We drove to Ocean City, New Jersey the next day, taking our bikes with us. The condo was on the south end of the island, far from the boardwalk—a good thing because we didn't feel comfortable strolling on it anyway, masks or no masks. No surprise, tourism was down, which made parking a lot easier and lines at the grocery store a lot shorter.

That first night, wearing shorts and sweat shirts, we strolled along the water's edge, barefoot and holding hands, talking about lots of things, including that day we met. "Little did I know that when this hot, middle-age guy approached me, that months later, I'd be in love with him," Layla said.

"I was a little surprised that you and Alisha didn't blow me and Brent off when we approached you."

She chuckled. "Well, we were looking for some companionship too, you know. And after meeting those jerks in Wildwood the night before, you guys were a breath of fresh air."

I stopped walking and held her. "Layla, you'll always be a breath of fresh air to me, and I hope you can always say the same."

"Right now, at this moment," she said, "I can't imagine not always feeling that way."

We kissed and then headed back to the condo, a decades-old wood duplex with a wide porch in front. Inside, the previous owners had renovated it, installing stainless steel appliances and central AC among other things. A queen-sized bed sat in the master bedroom, and it wasn't long before we were in it, naked and grinding and humping, a nightly ritual during our stay.

We felt safe on the beach. It wasn't crowded where we were, and you could relax and swim, keeping many yards from other beach-goers. We spent two of our mornings on our bikes, cycling as far south as Wildwood, and then riding a tailwind back. Dressed in shorts and pull-overs, we spent the last night lounging on the porch, peering over the white picket railing, watching the world go by and sipping wine brought from Maryland (Ocean City had been a dry town since its founding as a summer resort in the late nineteenth century) and talking about our future together. Layla wanted to one day have kids and therefore wanted to marry. "No rush yet, there's still plenty of time on my biological clock," she said. "Besides, I know you love me, but I doubt you relish the idea of having more kids at this stage in your life. Am I right?"

She was right, I didn't. But still... "I've heard of men marrying for the second time in middle-age and starting new families. If I was one of those men who could do that..." I took another sip of wine.

"Yes?"

"Well, let's say I was. Then what? I mean, would you consider making a life with me?"

"Yes, but I don't want you to feel pressured into doing anything you're not ready for. I would never put any pressure on you." She paused. "So who do you think you'll choose for your best man?"

I howled, almost spilling wine on my black Nike sports shirt in the process Then I said: "Not Alan Fariss, you can be sure of that. Don't worry, a couple candidates come to mind."

Layla half-grinned, looked like she didn't know if my response was an extension of her joke or something else. "Like who?" she asked.

"Well, like Sam Pierson or Pete Sommers. Good friends I've known for years. They know about us."

"I hope they've given you more support than Alan, he with the lean and hungry leer."

"They've been supportive in the sense that they've been non-judgmental, unlike Alan. Either one of them would be glad to be my best man."

Layla slid to the edge of her lounge chair and did a half turn to look me in the eye. She brushed back her hair, then dropped her jaw in a look of bemused skepticism "Are you...I mean, are you talking serious here?"

You mean about Sam and Pete? Yes. You mean about wanting to spend the rest of my life with you? Yes to that too."

"What about those hurtles we talked about? My parents, your kids, our age gap and the fact that I'd want kids. Just to name a few."

"I haven't forgot about them. They're legitimate issues. It's just that I'm at the point now where I'm not going to worry about them so much. Because in the end, this is more about you and me and what we want and how much we want it."

Gleefully, she hopped on my lap just as a couple around Layla's age walked by. They looked and giggled. "They're probably wondering what a grown woman is doing sitting atop her daddy's lap," I said.

Layla clamped her bare thighs against mine and rested her hands on my shoulders. "Let them wonder. Meanwhile, not to be presumptuous, but are you, um, are you trying to propose to me?"

"I don't have a ring."

"A minor detail. Just answer the question."

"I can't get down on one knee with your sexy butt pressed against my lap."

"Then I'll do the proposing. Bryson Kobin, will you marry me?"

"Hell yeah!"

The couple looked back at us kissing passionately on that porch, with Layla still on my lap. Lord knows what they thought, though I could imagine. As I told Layla, those hurtles still loomed large, but in that magical moment, they didn't matter. What mattered was the love and passion that coursed between us, that no thing and no one could deny or take away. We'd need to face those hurtles later on; but not yet and not here, where we could cocoon ourselves from all that.

Soon, we were under the sheets indulging in celebration, uninhibited in our joy, unrestrained in our love making that had suddenly taken on new meaning. We came to Ocean City to celebrate our meeting here a year ago. Now here we were, celebrating something that neither of us would have guessed on that fateful day in August 2019, when a Gen-Xer guy and a Millennial gal came face to face for the first time. Here we were, on the cusp of merging our lives against difficult odds, determined to make a go of it, determined to soar over those hurtles.

While I rested my head on her chest, Layla said, "You're so right, Bryson. This is about you and me, what we want and how bad we want it. And I want this to work more than anything, more than my parents can understand. But I'll work on them. They'll come around. You'll see."

I wasn't so sure but I didn't argue. Instead, I focused on savoring those last few remaining hours away from home with this amazing young woman who had become the love of my life.

*****

Layla

Driving back from Maryland to McKeesport, I thought it best to call home. After all, I was still living under my parents' roof.

"You what?!"

"We're engaged, mom. I mean, I don't yet have a ring but we're engaged."

"He actually proposed?!"

"He, well, he was about to, but I'm the one who popped the question." Then I added, "I know, wait until my father gets home."

She didn't laugh. After a long silence, she said, "You realize that under more normal circumstances, I'd be jumping for joy, congratulating you and your intended."

"Except you have a problem with my intended."

She sighed. "Look, you know how we both feel. We'll discuss this more when you get here."

Hours later, we did. The three of us sat around the dining room table rehashing what we had discussed at Penn State. "Bryson's a fine man," dad said, "but he's too old for you."

"Too old for me or too old for YOU? Look, if this is a mistake, it'll be my mistake, and I'll move on, I'll survive. What isn't a mistake is the love that Brice and I feel for each other. No mistake there at all."

They looked at each other, mulling that over. Moments later, mom turned to dad and said, "She seems very happy, Melvin. Have you ever seen her this happy?"

"Happy and now twenty-five years old," I said, "capable of making my own decisions and taking responsibility for those decisions, whatever the consequences."

Then dad said, "Your mother's right. I've never seen you happier. Anyway, it's your life." He then asked for Bryson's phone number. They both got on the line, doing what they knew was the right thing—giving Brice their congratulations—despite their concerns. My eyes misted up listening to them, knowing how much they loved me unconditionally.

*****

It's the Saturday after Labor Day and I'm staying with Bryson for the weekend. We're taking a shower together after returning from a forty-mile bike ride. We've done this many times before, making out while warm jets of water pour over us. He's fifty-one years old, though it's at moments like this when his age, like the water, runs down the drain, gone and forgotten. He buries his head between my boobs while he presses his hands against my 'sexy butt' and I wrap my hand around his muscular, middle-age cock. No Viagra needed for this Gen-Xer!