shit out of me. The only other women that kissed me was my mother and an aunt Josephina who
kissed me out of guilt apparently, because she couldn’t help pulling my cheeks away from my
head so hard it threatened to tear my face off.
So I stood on a chair, (I was quite a bit shorter than Cheryl) and puckered my lips, and
she showed me how to kiss. I remember her sighing and being patient with me, she would laugh
that tinkling little laugh she had and I can remember the power I felt when I realized I was the
one who could make her laugh. This type of power was an incredible intoxicant to a 12 year old,
with braces on his legs, gangly limbs and thick black glasses. I was a target for bullies, not a guy
accustomed to making a beautiful girl like Cheryl feel good. This was one of the most fabulous
times in my life, up to that point. One of the few times, that I had exited the strange autistic,
emotionless mental area I was in at that time in my life, probably a direct result of all physical
anomalies. I remember it so fondly, and this is the feeling I get when Lydia is around; it is like a
kiss; sweet and tender. Kind of scary, when you think about it but when I remember myself
standing on the chair with my lips puckered, I can imagine Lydia leaning in for a kiss and the
feeling is exquisite. It’s not sexual; it’s not really sensual, it happens to be small, innocent and a
little sugary.
So I have detailed how she makes me feel and how she slides deliciously along my
consciousness; but the question becomes, where did she come from? I have asked psychics about
this presence, and they either scoff or say that I am too inexperienced, or they are genuinely
interested and want to know more. Well, this is why I wrote this, perhaps as a way to tell the love
story that is Lydia and I. I just thought I would have to get this out and yell the tale that is Lydia.
I had done my research into her, as far as her Scandinavian years, the name Lydia sticking in my
mind like cosmic glue. Lydia is a very common name in Germany and Scandinavia, so I figured
this was going to be harder than it looked. I was in the Morale, Welfare, and Recreation
computer lab the other day, on the base I am stationed at in Afghanistan; it is a large open space
with several rows of at least twenty computer stations in neat rows, fronted by book shelves that
contain all manner of hard cover, and paperback books. The place is made like a library, with a
counter in the front manned by a guy and a sign in sheet. On the counter, there is a series of
pigeon holes containing small wooden blocks written with numbers corresponding to the
computer one chooses. I always choose number eleven, it’s a lucky number and its right in front
of the middle set of bookshelves and the privacy wall that surrounds all the computer stations; on
this particular one the little privacy wall is broken and affords me a perfect view of the middle
book shelf, the top of which is a perfect perch for Lydia when I am there writing my blog or
describing our tasty romances. Right then, I had my brows furrowed in concentration trying
desperately to find the websites that may point me in the direction of where she came from; the
plethora of genealogy sites is absolutely staggering. I could see Lydia sitting there on top of a
book shelf quietly giggling at my frustration and I scowl at her shooting her a fuck-you sign and
this elicits a mock hurt look and she actually laughs harder at my trying to figure this out.
“You know, you could help me.” I say out loud, hoping no one is listening.
“Not on your life, lover” she says as she winks and blows me a kiss, she puts an emphasis
on the word ‘life’ which elicits a new round of laughter. I love her, but I hate her sometimes. She
closes her eyes and I see she is deep in concentration. Just then, a movement on the screen, the
curser is blinking there right above a website about her and her last name in Scandinavia which
is about three thousand pages long, precisely the reason I was so despondent. Just then, the
cursor moves and words magically appear,
‘Keep looking, lover, I LOVE YOU!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!’
