Regrets
by Jonathan Quince
Thursday, December 18, 2003 00:17:25
Regret is usually a waste of time. That’s why regret is ordinarily against my personal policy. So today, I won’t regret; but I may allow myself the decadent luxury of a moment for reflection on events long past and people long gone.
It seems like a lifetime ago. The first thing I noticed about her was her radiance, the radiance of youth not yet jaded, the glow of someone who hasn’t lived enough to be regretful. But when I think back, the first thing I remember about her is her hair.
Her hair was silky smooth, long and flowing, cascading over her shoulders like a shower of umber ringlets. I had never found curly hair attractive before; this was folly begotten by the small fact that I had never touched it. One night, while we were chatting at a party full of teenagers, I found myself stroking it. I was an instant convert.
We were young and in love. It was the only normal relationship I’ve had in my life, or at least, the only normative one. For this, I am quite thankful; looking back, I consider it a first and a last, a cathartic experience that answered my old childhood questions built up in my mind from years of watching young couples stroll through the park arm-in-arm. It helped me to know myself and inoculated me against the foolish delusions of a congenital romantic. About what happened, I have no regrets but one.
She was naïve and virginal. I, while barely old enough to legally purchase liquor, was the experienced old pervert; she had literally never been kissed. The age difference between us was such as is only significant when one party is a high school senior. It was an incongruous match, which is probably why it lasted for as long as it did. But herein lies the regret — and the lesson learned.
Once I started to show her the ropes, she caught on quickly. Yet for all her natural skill, her enthusiasm was not unbridled. With today’s wiser mind, I realize how confused she was; all of her girlish fantasies lay one short step across a line in the sand, a line she was desperately afraid to cross. I didn’t do more than nudge her, a nudge she resisted intransigently. I told myself that I respected her boundaries like the nice guy I certainly am not; in truth, I was more afraid of her than she was of me.
The last time I had the opportunity to check, she was possessed of something exceedingly rare in today’s modern world: An intact hymen. Much as she enjoyed what I did for her outdoor equipment, I could not fit my pinky finger inside of her. For all the times she swallowed my seed, I never mixed my fluids with hers. I never left my mark on her body; sometimes I wonder if I left one on her soul, then quickly hope that I did not.
In all probability, I shall never see her again; and this is just as well. But like every fool for love, I never quite expurgated myself of every regretful heart’s daydream. I honestly could not wish it — a thousand times, no! — but I can still quietly fantasize of stepping back through time and tapping a younger me on the shoulder, whispering some sense into my own former ear.
If I did, I would reach out through the younger me and tell her, I want to live with you. No, no, I’m not spouting some ungodly foolishness about getting an apartment together; I want to live with you, to fulfill the promise of all that life offers.
I want to take her and own her. I want to use her for my own pleasure, to take her in every way possible and systematically fill each of her orifices with symbols of my own vitality. Were she wet clay, I would pound her against the kneading board of carnality and reshape her into my own image of her perfection. I want to descend into primality, to carry her backwards to her animal roots and let her know only passion and fire; I want to be methodical, calculating, coolly and deliberately elevating her to a higher status of being. I want to fuck her silly, to send her flying and leave her neither knowing nor caring which way is up. And she had better enjoy it — not acquiesce, but welcome it, yearn for it. If she does not, then I have nothing to talk to her about; talk is too cheap to substitute for life, and words are too expensive to waste on those who reject life.
She did not; and I do have nothing more to say to her. And again, regret is futile; the past is done and gone, there only to enrich us with experience if we are daring enough to learn from it. Instead of regret, I can learn, and I can parlay the frustrations of the past into actions of the future.
For all I know, she may be married with children. Wherever she is, I hope that she is well — and nothing more. I am free of her, and she of me. As for myself, I have settled my ghosts; I have my future to attend to.
I’m going to live.