by Flora Redgrove
(08/17/05)

It arrived one summer afternoon while Virginia hacked at the blackberry vines that were engulfing the back yard: a taped-up shoebox with a priority mail label and a long-familiar return address, lying on the front steps.

She swept the package into the house and sliced through the tape with a kitchen knife. Inside the box was another box, cushioned in bright yellow confetti, labeled "Do-It-Yourself Dildo Kit." Virginia flushed. He didn't! she thought, but obviously he had. She carried the box into her bedroom, a buzz of excitement in her skin. Nestled in black tissue paper was a full-size, pale peach dildo. No anonymous member, but a perfect cast of the erect penis of the man she had loved and discarded the year before she turned twenty. It was long and thick, exactly as she remembered, though none of its other features brought back memories. Its gentle curve might have belonged to any of a dozen men she'd known. She smiled, recalling witchy rituals she'd practiced long ago, casting love spells with photographs and locks of hair. What an object of magical concentration this would make!

Does he mean this as a tender thought or a cruel joke? She examined the object with wry curiosity. It was just a hunk of silicone, cool and resilient to her touch, scarcely reminiscent of the man she'd had so briefly as a young woman. Decades later she'd learned to love him, far too late to resume their affair. Now they were long-distance friends who exchanged bantering e-mails in which she never mentioned her regrets.

I know what he'd like. With an odd tenderness she took the inanimate object into her mouth, wishing she could do as much to the man himself. A thousand miles away, would he feel a shudder of sympathetic excitement?

But surely he felt nothing. Sliding off her T-shirt and jeans, she said, "He's not getting anything out of this, but I can." She grabbed her bottle of lube from the nightstand, slathered the toy and added a dollop of the cold liquid on her own parts. She spread her legs wide, closed her eyes, and plunged the replica deep inside.

She gasped. The sensation was utterly familiar. It brought back his smell, the heat of his skin, the sound of his voice, even the sight of his old green Fiat, as if she'd soared back twenty-three years to their last night together. She felt a spasm of ancient desire, but her thoughts battered her with regret. I threw him away. If we'd met at a better time we could have been everything to each other, but now it's too late. He's beyond my reach, another woman's husband.

She moved the warming organ gently, relaxing into sensation. She smelled the sweet odor of a vanilla candle. The warm undulations of a waterbed rocked her. What god-damn waterbed? Opening her eyes, she found herself staring at an acoustical tile ceiling in the style of the seventies. Gone were the low bed, the oak dresser, and the French doors of her bedroom. She was not remembering; she was there. She looked down to see her white legs, the fuzz on her thighs and thin triangle of hair on her pubic mound. She felt her breasts, high and firm, her erect nipples. Her armpits were dense with hair.

She propped herself up on an elbow and eyed the mirror. Gold-yellow hair, frizzed from braiding, massed over her shoulders and down to her hips, hair she hadn't had in years. And she was thin, astonishingly thin, her waist narrow, her shoulders delicate.

She knew: the key to what was happening was the dildo now half sliding out of her. She'd left her middle-aged life, the house she'd bought at thirty-five, and her long-time partner, and was inhabiting the body of the adolescent she'd been. Yet she had the mind and spirit she'd evolved through the long years.

Virginia squirmed to keep the thing inside of her. It was dark outside, the glow of a mercury-vapor streetlamp shining faintly in the uncurtained window. A faint layer of frost on the glass revealed the season, a Midwestern November. Maps and backpacking photographs on the wall told of a young man who loved the outdoors. A journal at the side of the bed had a pen stuck between its pages. She opened it to read words dated earlier that day: "I'm dying to see her. I have no idea how someone I know so little could be so important to me. God, I hope she calls. God, I hope I have another night with her." As she read the yearning in those words, she felt her heart drop. She knew what would happen next, and dreaded the harm her younger self would do.

The house was silent. She lay back, teasing herself, imagining that he was there to caress her. The lube was warm now, and her pleasure grew as she recalled the man who'd been so briefly a part of her life, the scant moments they'd spent together.

They'd known each other three months, slept together just five or six times. She remembered walks in Lincoln Park, hot kisses on a cold fall night, shared laughter over bad egg rolls and chop suey. They'd waited in the wind for a Saturday matinee, and when she said she was hungry he'd fetched a huge bucket of popcorn slathered in butter. They'd carried on naïve arguments, passing a joint back and forth, he insisting on scientific rationality and she defending mysticism. Once he'd made them a mushroom omelet, which they ate in bed with fresh orange juice and the excellent coffee he used to order from Berkeley.

Some memories broke her heart. How he'd begged her not to move to the coast until he could come with her, that midnight phone call, the tears in his voice. How she'd left him for a drug dealer with bad teeth whose attractions she no longer recollected. With shame she recalled their worst encounter. He'd shown up at her door after four days on the road, wild-eyed and shaken in the aftermath of his brother's sudden death. How cold she'd been to him, her youthful narcissism at its peak, her interest in him finished. She'd fed him only a bowl of soup, and sent him out into the rainy night before her lover came home from a deal. After that, there was silence between them for more than two decades.

She felt the grief of that ending, yet her body responded to the moment. Now she recognized where she was: it was their last night together. She smiled at the unconstrained pleasure she'd taken, the native wildness she'd later sacrificed for respectability. She grabbed a pillow and rolled up onto her knees, letting the dildo open her completely, remembering how she'd force him deeper inside of her, his amazement and pleasure in her cries of "yes, yes, yes!" as she threw her hair over her shoulders. She tried that move, appreciating the ease of flexible knees and hips, the weightless immortality of youth.

Despite all the noise, she'd never come with him. Her appetites were more energetic than informed, and she came easier by herself. She'd been bold to show off, but too shy to tell him what she liked. Perhaps that was why she'd been so quick to cast him aside -- she'd never really let him in.

She startled. Footsteps on the stairs and the sound of ice clinking in glasses. She smelled the vodka and Kahlua mixture. Only one person could be coming up those stairs -- Lew. Was he the brilliant, awkward, and tender young man she'd once had? The thoughtful middle-aged man she'd come to know in recent years, who'd sent this gift of power? The geek or the magician?

She lay back and closed her eyes, buying a moment of reflection before he stepped into the room. In that flash of time she decided. I don't know if I can change the past. But for now I can do him right -- and myself, too. I can give us both what we really want.

At that she opened her eyes, pretending a languorous awakening. The dildo had slipped out; she couldn't feel it in the bed. But the young man was there, eyeing her in the candlelight, setting her drink down beside the bed. He stroked her neck.

"I fell asleep," she said, wondering if he knew. "Were you downstairs long?"

"Just a few minutes. I threw some stuff in the dryer. Did you see the snow?"

"Yes. It's beautiful." She tasted the drink. "This is wonderful. I haven't had one of these for ages."

He smiled. "Don't you drink these all the time? You had one last week, I saw you."

"Yeah, I mean, that was in a bar -- the homemade version is much better."

He wasn't in on the joke, or whatever all this was. His handsome face was obscured by beard, glasses, and dark red hair. He dropped his blue terrycloth robe and lay beside her, his long pale limbs glistening in the candlelight. She ran her hand down his arm from shoulder to wrist, caressing the silky skin and feeling the layers of muscle over the long bones. "You are one gorgeous man," she murmured, but he turned away with embarrassment, even as his cock shifted slightly. Her intellectual curiosity about time travel was eclipsed by desire -- a potent mix of the ease of her youth, the frustrated passions of her middle years, and the sight of the splendid body beside her.

He stirred as if to climb onto her, but she pushed him back. "Just lie there, baby," she said. "Let me do you."

He gave her a long gaze as she stroked his hip. "You don't have to."

She cut him off. "Lew, I like it. Let me play with you." He shut his eyes. "Okay."

She started with a long soft kiss. When he moved to press his groin against her thigh she pulled away to brush his temples with her lips. She nibbled his jaw through the thick fur of beard, and flicked her tongue over the sensitive spot below his ear. She lingered over his warm throat, reveling in the delicate throb of arteries, the clean smell along the collarbones. She breathed deeply at his armpits where sweat overpowered the odor of Ivory soap, and teased his ribs and nipples under the curly copper hair. Kissing and biting, she made her way down the length of his torso, rubbing her face against the smooth joint of his thigh. He groaned at that, but she continued her exploration along the soft flesh of the inner thighs. He smelled like an animal, like a little boy, like heaven. Her hand strayed under his ass to fondle the cheeks of his buttocks as he lifted his pelvis. She cupped the hard muscles of his calves, nibbled at his ankles.

He was breathing hard; little moans of pleasure escaped him. When he pushed her head toward his crotch she obliged him with a swirl of her tongue around the head of his cock, but pulled away before he could push into her mouth. She moved over him, rubbed her generous tits across his face, and let him suck at each one. Then she slid herself over his torso, pressing her nipples everyplace she'd kissed, and embraced his cock between her breasts. When he pushed against her she put her mouth on him.

Gently at first, she tried the moves she'd practiced with lovers who would come later. She nibbled down his shaft with lips and teeth, attending to his responses, cutting the sweetness of pleasure with sharp little bites. She swirled the head of his dick as if it were ice cream, then swallowed him to the hilt. She tugged on his testicles, and when he gasped she moved down to suck at each, inhaling the heavy musk. Her wet finger caressed his tight, silky asshole, teasing his taboos.

Deep shudders and muffled gasps made his pleasure clear. He's too overwhelmed to be picky about my moves, she thought, grabbing the root of his cock. She let him penetrate her throat, breathing in between his thrusts, and stuck her ass in the air, her cunt wet and hot and cold. She pulled her head back to see if he was watching. Seeing the glitter of his half-open eyes, she tilted her head, knowing that seeing her mouth on him would add to his excitement. A sudden thought intruded on her avid suckling: If he comes, will I still be here?

He wasn't ready for that, though. "Come up here, Ginny. I want to--" he muttered, pulling at her shoulders. She lifted her head and smiled, and slid up to rub her wet crotch against his shaft, grinding against him without letting him inside. She gasped as the big organ heated the length of her swollen lips, and he moaned and lifted his hips. "Okay, baby, here I am," she murmured, dragging her breasts over his face as she climbed up to spread her legs above his mouth. He went at the task with more enthusiasm than skill, and as she clung to the headboard for support the pleasure of his tongue sliding up her clit fought with her frustration at random bites and the bottlebrush of beard against her tender flesh. She pulled away and lay down. When he reached for the condom set beside the bed, she stopped his hand.

"No, keep at it. I want to come before you fuck me."

"I thought you did!"

"You'll know when I do. Would you do something?"

"Anything, pretty much."

"Keep licking me. But focus on my clit, and try not to let the facial hair rub on the sensitive bits."

He grinned and put his hand between her legs, softly exploring her. "You want me to lick you here?" he said, pleased with his boldness, sliding a finger along her swollen vulva.

"Yeah, please do," she said, turning up the yearning in her voice to see if it excited him. It did.

"Are you sure?" he teased again, more confident, circling the hard bud with his fingertips.

"Yeah, I really want your tongue right there." She basked in the heat of his body, surrendering as she never had. It had taken years to learn to ask for what she wanted in bed, and he'd never heard her say it. "Lick my cunt, sweetie. I'm begging you." She breathed the words into the curve of his ear.

He lowered himself over her, working hard as he always did to master a new skill. A little rough now and then, but he was being careful, and the long tongue slid deliciously around and over her clitoris, explored her wet opening, and came back up again to the sweet spot. She spread her legs as far as she could to heighten the tension in her body.

Images of past and future flashed in her mind; which was which she hardly knew. She remembered a high school boyfriend's awkward thrusts under the trees on a Wisconsin summer day, the pain and excitement of the first time. A man she'd met at thirty in a Boston hotel, who murmured soft and filthy promises in a deep bass voice while he fucked her. Lew, with white in his beard, the day they'd met in a café after a year of e-mail, both of them laughing and crying as they embraced each other after so many years apart. She couldn't have him then. Yet she had him, young again, as long as they lay naked on each other's skin.

"Put your fingers inside me, baby. Fuck me while you lick." He slid two fingers into her wet and wide open vagina, licking avidly, opening her up. "Yeah, I like it. Please yes." She was shaking now. She knew what he wanted, what she wanted too. "Make me come. I'm yours; you can do anything you want--" and he found the spot, pressed against it, and she'd never been so desperate to come. "Lover, Lew, please, yes, sweet, you," and the waves of her orgasm pulsed through her like the heat of the sun. She dissolved in that dark light, eyes closed, feeling his big hand deep inside her.

As the heat subsided she put her hand on the back of his neck. "Please fuck me. I want that dick in me." He slid up her body in one move, a salmon leaping the falls, condom forgotten, and his delicious cock slid home.

"That's it, that's what I want," she whispered as he groaned, closed his eyes, thrust against her, fucking her hard now, all his civilized care forgotten. She exulted in his urgency filling her narrow passage, in his hunger to get inside her skin. Her whole body shone with immortality.

"Hard, baby, open up all the way, use me." She kept up her narration knowing that it delighted him. "Fuck me, make me yours. I love this, you have the sweetest dick." He was breathing hard, his rhythm deep and swift, relentless. Every stroke brought her to the edge of another orgasm, the tidal push from deep inside. Even then he pulled back to tease her with a shallow stroke, as she reached up to caress his face. Their eyes locked, both of them shuddering on the brink, and she felt herself falling into his blue gaze, the innocence of the young man, a hint of the wisdom that would come later. Her heart melted with tenderness.

She grabbed his balls and held on tight as he fucked her, as he groaned and opened his eyes to gaze at her in wonder.

"Fuck me hard, come inside me." He was almost screaming. "Hold on to me, Lew, I love you, fuck me, never let me go," and he was really screaming now. She surrendered to the undertow and melted into an ocean of release. He slammed his cock against her with the violence of instinct, and shuddered volcanically, his big body heavy against her as he collapsed into their shared sweat. She floated, heart and cunt wide open, in a sea of surrender in which neither past nor future had any meaning.

"Listen, Lew, don't forget. I'll always love you. No matter what happens, you come and find me, even if we lose each other and it takes twenty years, you find me. Promise." She was crying then, murmuring words he couldn't possibly understand, but he heard the urgency in her voice.

"Yes, sweetheart, I promise. Don't cry, Ginny. It's okay. I love you too." They clung to each other, tasting the salt of tears and come and sweat. How long did they lie there? Five minutes, an hour? A long soft moment, as wax ran down the candle and the snow whispered outside. His cock, soft now, slid out of her and awakened both of them from a near doze. He rolled off her.

As their bodies separated, she felt time shift again.

She was lying on her side on her own low bed, relaxed and comfortable, as if waking from a nap. The summer sun, setting far north, shone through the French doors. The dildo, as warm now as her own body, lay between her thighs. She rolled onto her back to look at the familiarity of the room, to listen to the birdsong from the yard. When the phone rang beside the bed, she knew who was calling.

"Hi there," she said.

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