Our hands were everywhere and then C said, "Oh, we should go somewhere," and Jane said their campsite, but I said, 'No, my hotel.' It was, literally, 5 mins from the grounds. We held hands walking there, got in the elevator of the lobby-- being high it was all so glittery-- and rode to my room. We walked in, and, truth be told, I felt a little spinny. "Okay, naked!" said C, and within seconds, it seemed, she was undressed kneeling on the bed. She had nice breasts with long dark pokey nipples and a lovely bush and creamy skin. "Okay, you next," said Jane, heading to the mini-bar. "Yes, you," said C, pointing at my crotch, which, I imagined, was poking through. I got off my shirt and pants down to my briefs, and, as I did, Jane, having grabbed and popped a bottle of beer, came up beside me, full clothed, something that, for some reason, really turned me on. "Hmmmm," she said, touching the band of my underwear and looking down, swilling from her beer. By now, C had reclined on the bed. It told me also that she was not capable of seeing me in the role of “boyfriend.” In order for me to be her boyfriend meant terminating the special friendship we had, at least in her mind. She couldn’t bear to lose me as a friend. That’s what she eventually told me, when I finally summoned up the courage to tell her outright that I loved her. Over the decades since, I’ve gone over our strange relationship in my mind thousands of times, trying to figure out just what was really going on. If I’d become a psychiatrist, maybe I’d have a chance at coming to a retroactive diagnosis for what this really was, and a possible solution. But I wasn’t a shrink and those days were far in the past and never to be relived. In the present, I was happily married, a family man, and had to admit a indulging in a small guilty pleasure that Ruth was not only still single, but still living with her parents to this day. She’d never been able to commit, not to me, or anyone else apparently, and as far as I.
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