Tribute to a Hero

She noticed him when she put down her book to visit the powder room to freshen up. He was sitting at the end stool at the bar. Balding, a bit of a paunch, but his shirt and jeans had sharp creases in them, fresh and ironed to perfection. His shoes had a gossamer shine. He was like a well maintained shrine in a war-torn zone.

He was conversing with no one. Yet his eyes missed nothing.

When she walked back through the bar on her return from the powder room, she observed him nod to the bartender. The bartender immediately poured him a new soda, adding no alcohol to it. After adding a lime, the new drink was set before the man. She paused as she walked by him. His eyes looked up at her, then cascaded down her front, caressing her body without apology. After their obvious salute to her beauty, his eyes returned to fix upon hers. She did not look away.

As she watched him steadfastly, unapologetically, his eyes suddenly filled with tears, shimmering there on his lower lids, shimmering in the harsh light that came from behind the back-bar.

She stood there before him, transfixed, her own windows to her soul open and transparent before his shimmering yet inquisitive gaze. She sensed, then saw the deep unremitting pain in his eyes. She saw his hand tremor as he turned back to his drink, as he picked it up in an attempt to regain his composure. He tried to nonchalantly sip his soda.

She continued to stand there, her own lonesomeness, her own pain equally visible to him.
After a few eternal moments, he turned back to her, his steely eyes asking her “What?”

Gently, she took his hand, lead him from the bar out to her car, and got in to the driver’s seat. She sat there silently, back ram rod straight, her hands on the steering wheel, looking straight forward, yet watching him from the corner of her eye, obviously waiting for him to get into the seat beside her.

He stood there, hesitant. He could see her breasts move seductively as she breathed. He could see the perfection of her lower lip, as she waited for him, her lips slightly parted, expectant, full of promise. Somewhat bewildered, and certainly at a loss as to what was happening, but daring to hope, yet a little afraid at the same time, he slid into the soft, leather bucket-seat beside her. She started her perfectly maintained Porsche Boxster. He wore no aftershave or cologne, she noticed with satisfaction as she drove. She could smell the clean wholesome scent of the soap he used.

She drove for only a few moments, then pulled discreetly into the driveway of a well maintained home. Her finger had caressed the button to the garage door opener as she was turning into the driveway. Her car came to a gliding, silent rest beside a silver Mercury Mountaineer. Her eyes large, scared, yet trusting, she turned to look at him. Deliberately, perfunctorily, she then pressed the garage door button again, then opened her car door, got out, and strode to the garage door. The garage door descended and whoomped to a close. She beckoned to him as she inserted t he key and opened the door to her home. She made not a sound as she kicked off her shoes and took his hand, leading him to her immaculate bedroom. He stood there, uncertain, confused by her absolute silence, confused as to why he was here, in her most private of places. He watched her even as she watched him.

She stepped to him.

She kissed him softly, gently on his lips. Her kiss carried no constraint. He inhaled the delicate scent of her perfume, a hint of lilacs, so soft, so her. She put her gentle hands on his shoulders, pushing him backward toward her large bed. When the back of his knees were against it, she pressed down on his shoulders, encouraging him to sit. She kissed him again, even more gently, first is lips, and then briefly his forehead, then turned and walked to stand facing the full length mirror in the corner of the room.

He could not see her image in the mirror, his view was blocked by her small, trim, shapely body. He could not help but wonder ‘Why? Why me? Why has she picked me to bring home to her bed tonight?’

After a moment’s pensiveness, he asked himself ‘Why did I come?’

His rising fear was almost palpable. He detested his fear. It made him feel weak, unworthy. He asked himself, ‘What will she think when she sees me, without my shirt, without my pants on? Will she be disgusted? Will she have “that look” on her face that shows she thinks I am a freak?’ He struggled to contain the cocked-and-ready-to-strike cobra of his fear.

The woman stood for what seemed like a long time, looking at herself in the mirror. ‘Am I ready for this?’ she asked herself. It had been three years. Three long lonely years. Three years of crying herself to sleep at night, of missing him, of wanting him back beside her, with her. She knew she still loved him in that way that only she could. Her only lover in her life. Her darling husband. Her life.

Gone in only a month. Cancer. Pancreatic cancer. She resolutely squared her shoulders. She turned half toward him so he could see her movements. She struggled as she removed her wedding rings. It was the first time in thirteen years she would take them off her finger. Finally they slipped off. She placed them in a deliberate manner inside her jewelry box, then firmly losed the lid. Caressing the lid softly, briefly, she turned back toward the mirror. He watched her closely, trying to guess what was transpiring in her mind. She had removed her wedding rings. That much was clear. He looked at the bed stand and saw her in a picture with a man. The man’s back was ramrod straight. His face was proud, and full of steel. The couple in the picture had both obviously much younger when the picture had been taken.

‘Semper Fi!’ he saluted mentally, solemnly, without apology or arrogance. The woman’s hands were now busy in front of her. He watched her draw a breath for courage, then slip her blouse off, down over her shoulders. She let it drop to the floor behind her. His eyes, restless and watchful, followed it to the floor, where it lay as if in a huddle, . . . . . . . tired, . . . . . without resolve.

Her hand moved to her front. Her elbows moved up and away from her slim waist as she worked the clasp to her bra.

Her pretty face turned to the right side as her hand slid her bra strap down her right shoulder. Then her head turned to her left side as she watched her own hand slide the left bra strap down off her left shoulder. She stood there for a brief time, gathering her courage, her hands cupping her bra cups to her full breasts.

She closed her eyes as she turned toward him, standing there full frontal as she forced herself to look him in the eye as she let her bra fall away from her body.

“SHHHHEEEEEEEEEEEEZUSSSSSSSSS!” he moaned as he saw her perfection, the sacred twin roe that were her breasts. His eyes were filled with adoration as he stared at her beauty.

A slight, relieved upward curl appeared at the corners of her mouth as she watched his mouth and eyes. She walked slowly toward him, her perfect cones jiggling slightly as her movements sent chills up his spine. Her eyes watched him watch her. She smiled in relief.

She stood before him, allowing him to feast his eyes on her perfection. Finally she took his hands and placed them on her, reveling in the sensations of his hard calloused hands gently reverently touching her silky skin.

As he carefully fondled her, she slipped her thumbs under the elastic band of her skirt and panties. As his eyes followed her movements, she lowered her dress, her last bit of privacy, of secrecy, and allowed them to drop from her fingers. She stood there, before him, vulnerable, totally naked.

He began to sob.

She pulled his head to her plump breasts and held him there as he let the pain of loosing his wife of forty years flow out of him in huge, racking tear stained sobs. As she held his head, she also cried for her husband of ten years. His arms around her waist as if clutching a life preserver, her arms around his head in complete acceptance of their separate griefs, she kissed his head and ears, he began kissing her taught belly and firm full breasts.

When their tears subsided, there was nothing left but passion. His mouth found her ripe plums, she showered the smooth soft skin of his bald head with her kisses. Her nipples joyfully responded to his attentions even as his arousal tented his perfectly pressed jeans.

She pressed him back onto the bed, draping herself on top him, her naked crotch insistent against his clothing.

Her lips kissed their way down his head across his forehead, caressing his eyelids as they traveled down to his lips. There her sensuous, hungry mouth paused as she invited his tongue to pleasure hers. He esponded until he felt her begin to unbutton his shirt.

He panicked, holding her hands, his eyes full of the very fear, that as a warrior, he detested. Her eyes immediately peered into his, once again looking deep into his soul, visually reassuring him that it was OK. He relaxed a bit as her gentle caring fingers gently revealed his chest. Her fingers traced the scars he wore in shame. Her eyes filled with tears as she traced each scar, each war caused pock mark. She looked at him with a question mark in her eyes as she softly traced a particularly long and deep one.

“Nam.” he explained softly. She kissed the scar from top to bottom, her tears christening it, absolving it. She traced another, looking into his eyes, her face expectant.

“Panama.”

Again she traced it with her tears and kisses. She moved from scar to scar, learning his history, his bravery, his valor. She heard the familiar names of wars fought, of battles, whether one or lost. She heard of wars in places she did not know of. During her tender caring journey across his body, she removed his starched jeans, revealing his imperfect manhood. Her lips moved to kiss the scars even there and again christened them with her loving tears of absolution. Her mouth found his sudden softness, and suckled until his warrior was proud once again, standing at attention, ready to serve.

She reached between her thighs, guided his imperfect implement to her, then settled onto him with a sigh of completion, her soul healing as her unaccustomed tightness accepted his impalement within her body. She reveled in the sensations of his imperfectness rising and falling inside her hungry body.

She rode him. At first she rode him gently, softly. But as her passion rose, her actions became frantic, until they both collapsed in spent exhaustion. She was satisfied beyond any expectation. He rolled her over and took his measure of her. She responded to his sudden dominance as he pounded her with his scarred and imperfect lust.

Finally, spent beyond their passions, they slept together, him holding her small back to his scared chest, proud of each mark of valor now. He realized that he was unafraid of intimacy for the first time since his beloved wife had died.

She dreamed of her beloved husband. In her vivid, Technicolor dream, her husband fondly kissed her goodbye.

When she woke, she was alone. As usual. Then she remembered the fulfilling night before. She smiled, stretched languidly, realizing she was naked in her bed for the first time in a long, long time. She grinned as she rolled out of bed. Her body felt so alive. She felt so complete. She smiled at the twinges of erotic pain that reminded her of their mutual ardor.

There on her nightstand was a letter from him, penned in his clumsy, masculine hand.

“My dear, dear sweet Lady,
I don’t even know your name! I have never even heard
your voice! But last night, you brought me back to
life. You restored my hope. You gave me a reason to
get up, this morning, and to go workout for the first
time since my wife passed away.

I cannot thank you enough for you kindness last night.
I thank you for your unselfish acceptance of what my
body is now.

Thank you over and over, sweet loving woman.
I do not dare to presume, to even assume that you want
to see me again. But if you do, my name is Alex, and I
will put my contact information on the reverse side of
this letter for your convenience.

Dear sweet gentle sexy woman, I would love to see you
again. I would love to get to know the you that is
under that passionate gorgeous sexy body. I would
love to know what makes you tick, what makes you
happy, what makes you sad, what makes you the
incredibly loving woman that you are.

I hope you call or write,
Alex”

She clutched the note to her bare breasts as her eyes stung with happy tears.