I was walking with Mads, my Norwegian companion, the other day around Newbury Street, just killing a little time while buying things. An attractive woman caught my eye, and I felt my heart sink: I knew her.
Mads recognized my sudden distress and asked if I was all right. I nodded in the affirmative, then directed him to follow me to the Starbucks nearby.
"Did you see that woman with the leopard print bag?"
"The chick with the two kids on her arms? What of it? She was a tad on the overweight side."
I sighed.
That slightly overweight mom with the leopard print bag was once a stunning girl who I had my eye on when we went to high school together. She was a fine Jewish girl with big tits and this cute little smile that made me melt in my 17-year old Air Jordans. I finally managed to get her attention, and we dated some. She would talk about sex incessantly, and one night, when her parents weren't home, I hoped to seal the deal.
I remembered that night like it was yesterday. She had on this tight dress and her hair was sufficiently teased as was the style back then. I had on some form-fitting acid wash jeans that made it difficult to get comfortable on her parents couch. Anyway, after some fooling around, she burst into tears when I made an attempt to go further. She was a virgin. She was afraid to go all the way.
I stuck it out with her for a few more months, but we didn't have much in common: me being a poor Brockton hockey player, and her being the daughter of an upper-middle class accountant. But seeing her again brought back memories and what-might-have-beens. I felt the same ache I did on that night twenty years ago.
"Well," Mads said. "Unless she went the Branjelina route, she ain't no virgin anymore."
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