Summer Romance Never Forgotten #06

With her stopping to bend and pick up a seashell, walk down to the water, rinse it, and place it in her bag, it wasn't difficult for him to catch up to her. Not a very efficient process, instead of having to walk back and forth to the water, he remembered wondering why she didn't have two bags, one for sandy seashells and one for clean seashells. Yet, just as there was no explanation for love at first sight, there was nothing efficient about spending a day at the beach, especially when spending the day with her. Maybe walking back and forth, going from the sand to the water and back again, was relaxing to her. Seemingly what else did she have to do?

He just wanted to reach her before someone else did. Not wanting to miss his chance of seeing her up close, meeting her, talking to her, and maybe even walking with her, it would be enough for him just to see what she looked like when standing next to her as he walked by her. God, he was so pathetic when it came to talking to a beautiful woman. Nervous and with his pulse racing, his hands were sweating.

Not thinking he could ever get someone who looked like her to kiss him, he never imagined he could get someone who looked like her in bed. He lacked the confidence he needed to talk to her, never mind romance her and seduce her. Yet, if he didn't try to talk to her, he'd be kicking himself. If he just walked by her and allowed someone else to hit on her, he'd regret that decision for the rest of his life.

The least he could do was say is hello. Then, from there, depending on her reaction to his hello, he could say something about the beautiful day. He didn't have to ask her name and hit on her. He could just act normal and talk to her. He could tell her something of interest about Revere Beach or about the Atlantic Ocean, only he didn't know anything interesting about Revere Beach or the Atlantic Ocean other than the beach was sandy and the water was cold.

* * * * *

Yet, no matter how he remembered her, there was no denying that she was a good looking woman, the hottest and sexiest woman he's ever seen and yet to meet. More critical of women now than he was in his mid-twenties, maybe if he met her now instead of before, he might not even look twice at her. Yet, he doubted that. He couldn't imagine any man not looking at her twice and then staring at her. In the way that Kate Upton or Heidi Klum would always be beautiful, she was undeniably beautiful back then and no doubt still was.

He remembered that she was better looking than any Hollywood movie star and sexier than any celebrity he knew. Better looking than Jacqueline Bisset, Diana Rigg, and even Mary Tyler Moore forty years ago, she was the prettiest women he had ever seen. Yet, it's funny how Robert's memory helped to cooperate for him to paint pleasing, sexy pictures of her when, perhaps, he imagined her to be more beautiful than she was. Yet, no matter how he remembered her, there was no doubt about it, she was indeed beautiful.

Perhaps if he saw her now, he might not even recognize her. Yet, then again, no matter what she looked like now, he'd still remember her big, beautiful, violet eyes, her warm smile, and her fun sense of humor. Unless she had lived a life of pure and utter misery or had been stricken with ill health, he enjoyed imagining, her good looks never changing very much with age. In the way that Vanessa Williams looked when she was denied the Miss America crown because of her nude photos, she still looks good now. Beautiful woman have a way of looking beautiful their whole lives.

In his mind's eye, with him having to suffer living his life without her, she was the one who got away. He always wondered how different his life would have been had he married her and had children with her instead of marrying his wife, Lorraine, and having a child with her, may she rest in peace. It was so very long ago, a lifetime ago, forty years ago, the first time he saw Emma and fell in love with her. Love at first sight, not truly believing it then, with him never forgetting her and always thinking about her, he certainly believed it now.

Not one to believe such a thing before seeing her standing off in the horizon, indeed, it was love at first sight on that hot summer day in August. Even after he was married, whenever he thought of her salaciously and sexually while masturbating himself with the thought of her naked and having wild sex with her, he always felt guilty. As if he was vicariously cheating on his wife for even just remembering her name, remembering her kissing him and remembering her topless, naked, and having sex with her, he wished he had married Emma instead of Lorraine.

Forever looking over his shoulder, he always imagined bumping into her on the street, seeing her go by on a bus, in a car, or running through the airport to catch her flight. Only, he never did. Always disappointed when thinking about her and wishing he could run into her, he never saw her again. He had his chance and he blew it.

Yet, something he'd never know, if he did see her again, he always wondered if he'd leave Lorraine for her. What about his daughter? Would he leave Cynthia for her too? Just how high of a price would he have paid for true love? Just what would he have given up to be with his beloved Emma?

Then the realism of his lost love replaced his sexual fantasy and he felt sad. If he met her now, would she even remember who he was? Even if she did remember him, would she still want him after forty years? With them changing into two different people, just as she wouldn't know who he was, he wouldn't know who she was. Perhaps having the sexual fantasy of her is better than having the reality of living the rest of his life with her.

Maybe she never wanted him in the way he wanted her. Maybe she never thought of him in the way he thought of her. With him drinking a lot back then and stopping cold turkey, maybe she was nothing more than a figment of his imagination. With the bright sun shining in his eyes, maybe the woman he thought he met on the beach was old and decrepit instead of young and beautiful. Maybe the woman he met on the beach was a witch who cast a spell on him. Maybe her spell was for him to forever remember her after being with her that one time.

How could he love a woman so very much and allow her to leave without a fight, not even a protest? That was a question he had been asking himself for four decades. Somehow he believed that it was not meant to be. Somehow he believed that she was too good for him.

Yet, why didn't he go after her? That's the question. Why didn't he try to find her? That was something even he couldn't answer.

In the way that F. Scott Fitzgerald's Great Gatsby held parties in the hopes that Daisy Buchanan would attend one of his extravagant affairs, he could have taken ads in the newspapers. Only, how would that look posting ads to find another woman, the supposed love of his life, when he was married to Lorraine? If he had any hopes of finding her, too late now, he should have tracked her down when she left for Europe forty, long years ago.

He was young, too young to know any better, and she was so much younger than him to know what she wanted for the rest of her life in the way that he thought he did. Compared to him, she was a child, an immature teenager but that didn't stop him from falling in love with her and that didn't stop her from having sex with him. He remembered thinking that someone better and more his age would come along but no one did, not even Lorraine. Even though he felt as if he loved her, truly loved her sometimes more than he did other times and more than he did other women, he never loved Lorraine in the way that he loved Emma.

Without a doubt, Lorraine was no Emma but she made a good wife. Even though she ruined his life and obviously he ruined her life too, they stayed married. Even though she truly loved him, he never really loved her. Going through the motions, he played the loving and attentive husband. With his heart already given to Emma and broken, he never had room to love Lorraine in the way she deserved to be loved.

He felt bad for using Lorraine but he never felt bad enough to tell her that he didn't love her. He didn't feel bad enough to leave her. Feeling that his life was already over, sadness ruined his happiness and depression controlled his moods.

He remembered thinking that his life could have been worse if he was in prison or had some sort of medical affliction. While preserving his love and his sexual thoughts for Emma, the only time he was happy was when masturbating over the memory of having sex with her. Forcing himself to be happy, even when he wasn't, he just relegated himself to being content even though he wasn't while married to Lorraine.

His heart was split in two. He loved two women, one more than the other. If only Lorraine knew that he still held a candle for Emma, she wouldn't understand. She wouldn't be happy. Only he never told her about Emma. He didn't dare.

If he had told Lorraine that there was another woman on his mind and in his heart, she would have seen through his façade. She would have known that he didn't love her and had never loved her. She'd be angry and would probably ask him to leave. Yet, having known real love, he didn't love his wife in the way he loved Emma, his love at first sight and his true first love. He never loved any woman in the way he loved Emma.

* * * * *

The funny thing, after having a difficult time meeting women, the right sort of women, and tired of going out of his way to meet the wrong kind of women, just before meeting Emma, he had no intention of meeting anyone. He was done with women, at least for a little while. With his work as a market research analyst and with his goal of becoming the marketing manager one day, he allowed his weekends to interfere with his weekdays in detriment to his work. He made obvious work related mistakes that he wouldn't have made if he hadn't been drinking the night before and gone to work hungover. Lucky he still had a job, especially after having met and was preoccupied with Emma, he now made it his personal mission to be more focused on and more successful his career. Maybe if he earned more money, her father would accept him as a potential suitor for his daughter.

He needed to concentrate more on work and on his career than on going out drinking after work with the guys. Wanting to get away from his horny, immature friends, who just wanted to spend their Saturday nights bar hopping while hoping to hook up with sluts and whores, needing some time to himself, he just wanted to be alone with his thoughts. Today was the he day that he started a whole new regimen of diet, exercise, and no drinking. What better place to find the solitude and the motivation he needed than to walk the beach early in the morning before the crowds ruin the quiet with children, noise, and litter? Before the sun was too hot to bear, what better place to think while drinking in the beauty of the ocean than a brisk walk along the beach?

That was the day he met Emma. It was a hot, August day when he met her, the hottest day of the year. She was pretty, probably prettier than she was compared to how he remembered her to be or even than she really was back then. Actually, now that he remembered her, forget about her being pretty, she was beautiful. Without a doubt, with the memory of her still clear in his mind, she was even more beautiful when first seeing her than he remembered her being now, even after forty years of not seeing her.

Now with her always on his mind, he compared every woman he dated, saw, and met to her. Even though he was still so very young, only 25-years-old, he was already fed up with getting drunk, picking up women, and playing games. He was done with wasting money on drinks, dinners, and movies for him to never call or see the woman again. He needed a break from dating and especially from drinking.

A good place to dry out and to clear his head, he loved the beach. He loved the white sand and the blue water that seemingly went on forever before disappearing in the sky far in the horizon. If ever he had money, he'd buy a house on the ocean. If ever he had money, he'd never work again and just become a beach bum.

Only why wait to retire when this is something he could aspire to now? If he couldn't afford to live right on the beach, he could certainly afford to live closer to the beach. Only, with the prices of housing, even those homes not on the beach but in close proximity to the beach out of his financial reach, he couldn't even afford to rent a place never mind buy a place. The tourists jacked up the prices each summer to make his dreams of living at the beach more unrealistic. He'd have to win the lottery to afford the rent to live on the beach.

* * * * *

In was the summer of 1975 and her name was Emma. A half Italian and half Irish beauty with long, lush, blue black hair, olive skin, and violet eyes, she was amazing. The contrast of her light eyes against her black hair was something he'd never forget and would always remember. A sexy cross between Sophia Loren, albeit without the Italian accent, and Maureen O'Hara, albeit without the red hair, if anyone looked like a younger version of Elizabeth Taylor, it was she.

Other than some of the literary classics that used Emma as the name of the main character, he didn't know anyone with that name. As much as he loved her, he loved her name. So easy to say, he could just whisper it in her ear while making love to her, utter it in his dreams at night while sleeping, scream it out loud while cumming when masturbating, or say it while driving his car.

"Emma."

He loved her name as much as he loved her. A feminine name of two syllables and four letters with two vowels and two consonants, he couldn't even imagine how many times he wrote that name over and again on bits of scrap paper. From that day forward, haunting him for the rest of his life, Emma became his favorite name. There was no other name he liked better than Emma. Even Lorraine's name took a distant back seat to her name.

"Emma."

Whenever he was horny and found his hand tightly gripping and slowly stroking his cock, instead of breathing out his wife's name, Lorraine, he breathe out Emma. Instead of breathing out Lynda Carter, Miss America of 1972, his idea of a truly beautiful woman, he echoed Emma over and again. Now that he remembered her, he was enamored with Lynda Carter, Wonder Woman, back then. With the two women looking so very much alike, tall, sexy, shapely, and beautiful, Lynda Carter could have been Emma's older sister.

"Emma."

As if he was on top of her with his cock buried in her shaved pussy or if she was on her knees pleasuring him with her mouth, he thought of Emma. He always thought of Emma. He never stopped thinking of Emma. Even at the most inopportune moments, whether he was driving his car, making love to Lorraine, or reading a book, Emma would invade his thoughts in the way of a ghost haunting him.

"Emma."

Always on his mind and never quite able to forget her, he always wondered where she was, who she was with, and what was she doing.

"Emma."

How different his life would have been had he married Emma instead of Lorraine.

"Emma."

* * * * *

He spotted her from afar. She was walking the beach alone and stopping to pick up seashells, study them, rinse them in the foamy saltwater, and shake them dry before depositing them in her plastic bag. Even from that distance of nearly a football field away, he could tell that she was a rare beauty. Just by the way she walked, just by the way she moved, and just by the way she carried herself with such perfect posture as if she was a prima ballerina or a runway model, he couldn't stop staring at her. He couldn't help but think of the song, The Girl from Ipanema.

"Tall and tan and young and lovely, the girl from Ipanema goes walking, and when she passes, each one she passes goes 'A-a-a-h.' When she walks she's like a samba that swings so cool and sways so gentle that when she passes, each one she passes goes 'A-a-a-h.'

Oh, but I watch her so sadly. How can I tell her I love her? Yet, I would give my heart gladly but each day as he walks to the sea, she looks straight ahead, not at me.

Tall and tan and young and lovely, the girl from Ipanema goes walking and when she passes, I smile, but she doesn't see. She just doesn't see. No, she just doesn't...see me."

He wondered if she'd see him. He wondered if she'd notice him. He wondered as he walked closer if she'd be like the girl from Ipanema and would just pass by him without even noticing him and being aware of him.

"Tall and tan and young and lovely, the girl from Ipanema goes walking and when she passes, I smile, but she doesn't see. She just doesn't see. No, she just doesn't...see me."

Maybe in the way he looked through the priest at his own wedding when marrying Lorraine and while imagining marrying Emma, she'd look right through him while thinking of someone and something else. As tragic as that would have been had she not noticed him then, it would be even more tragic if she didn't remember him now? As if he was someone that she would have easily forgotten instead of someone she would have always remembered, how painful that would be if she didn't recognize him and know who he was?

If only by her eyes, by her smile, and by her laugh, he'd still remember her no matter what she looked like now. Perhaps what happened between them didn't mean to her what it meant to him. Perhaps, sorry that she started a sexual relationship with him, with her not realizing the everlasting impression she'd make on him, she was glad when her father forbade her to see him and him to see her again. Starting her life anew, perhaps she was happy that her father shipped her off to Europe to further continue her studies abroad.

While watching her walking slowly along the beach looking for seashells, he remembered looking at her as if she was part of the seascape scenery and she was. Hoping to catch up to her before someone else staked their claim on her and stopped her to talk to her in the way he hoped to do, he walked closer. In the way that the legendary mermaid is queen of the sea or in the way that a sexy siren of Greek mythology safeguards the beach from advancing ships, he watched her as if she belonged there.

Her sexy profile complemented and seemingly completed the beauty of the sky and the ocean. The beauty and the artistry of her made him feel artistic, even though he wasn't. Yet, if he was a painter, inspired by her beauty, he'd paint her. If he was a sculptor, inspired by her shapely figure, he'd sculpt her. If he was a poet, inspired by the essence of her, he'd write a poem called Emma. If he was a song writer, inspired by her joy and happiness, he'd write a song called Emma. If he was a writer, inspired by the story he hoped to have to tell, he'd write their love story but he was none of those things. He wasn't a painter, a sculptor, a poet, a song writer, or a novelist. He was just a regular guy and an average Joe who happened upon a beautiful woman walking along the beach as if she was a mirage and his sexual fantasy.

* * * * *

A natural beauty, he could tell she was beautiful even from that great of a distance. He had watched enough movies and lusted over enough leading ladies, from Natalie Wood to Claudia Cardinale to Julie Christie and everyone one in between on the silver screen, to know a beautiful woman when he saw one. Only with so very many women who were attractive and even pretty, it was uncommonly rare to see a truly beautiful woman. Without a doubt, no matter how he remembered her, she was truly beautiful.

She was the kind of woman he never saw without being accompanied by a handsome, well built, young man or under the protection of a burly bodyguard. If he saw her out and about today, she would have been the kind of woman who never would have been seen in public without a crowed of paparazzi surrounding her. Had she attended a Cannes Film Festival, some famous movie director would have taken the credit for discovering her while some famous actor would, no doubt, have tried to bed her. If she attended the Grand Prix race de Monaco, she would have attracted the love interest of every Formula One driver and the sexual interest of every millionaire playboy.