After a long, cold, difficult winter, it was — finally! — the first nice day of spring. Lo put on her white short shorts and looked out the window (topless), inhaling deeply — taking in everything that glorious day had to offer: the smells, the colors, the light, the promise.
“Let’s go for a walk, Daddio!” she said, turning abruptly to me.
“I’m all for that,” I said.
“What should I wear?” she asked, holding a few blouses in her hands.
“I think you look fetching just the way you are.”
“Really?” she asked, seductively, dropping the blouses, caressing her breasts, pulling at her nipples.
“Oh yeah,” I replied, soaking her in, the way she was absorbing the day moments ago.
“Well, I’ll wear something very special for you,” she said, as she picked up a pink, semi-transparent blouse and buttoned it up over her braless torso.
“That looks good too,” I said.
Not to be out done, I tried on my shorts from last season. Hmmm, they seemed a bit tighter than I remembered them.
Lo took one look at me and said, “It looks like you packed the face of an elephant in your pants!”
“What?” I asked.
“Look, there,” she said, and she pointed out how the shorts were so tight on me that the entire shape and curve of my cock bulged out from my inner thigh on up. “You’ll scare people if you wear those,” she shrieked. A change of attire was in order.
Soon we were out the door and walking briskly with the other Sunday strollers.
It had been a long, long time since Lo and I had had the opportunity to walk anywhere together. It had been a long time since we had the chance to talk — really talk — about our lives, our thoughts, our dreams, hopes, desires, plans, and experiences. We had been growing apart, not due to a lack of interest in each other, but due to the sheer overwhelming nature of life. Living life lately was like trying to take a drink of water from an open fire hydrant.
I told her of my renewed interest in reading David Foster Wallace.
“Who?” she asked, petulantly.
“You know, the young author who was the hot new star ten years ago and his popularity shot to the stratosphere when he killed himself at 46.”
“Killed himself? That’s what gained him fame?” she asked with sarcasm, “Big whoop! Who hasn’t done that?”
I laughed despite myself.
She asked me about my writing, adding, “Are we in a rut?”
“What do you mean, ‘In a rut’?”
“Well, you haven’t told me anything about the blog. I don’t even know if you’re writing it any more. Maybe you’ve fallen out of love with me,” she said, overly dramatic, sounding like Lucy from Peanuts.
“So you’d be upset if I stopped writing the blog?” I asked, trying to figure her out.
“Of course,” she insisted, “it’s the only way you show me affection.”
“Oh, oh!” I called out, as if mortally wounded, “that’s a low blow.”
“I can blow low,” she quipped without missing a beat.
On this lovely spring morning as she and I were getting our first post-winter exercise, we passed by a crowded restaurant with outdoor seating. Yes, alfresco was back! How could we pass that up? It wouldn’t hurt too much to supplement our healthy walk with a cool beverage of the beer variety. I mentioned this to Lo and she said, “You are Homer Simpson. You know that don’t you?”
“So you’re saying it’s a bad idea?”
“No, I’m saying it’s a great idea — for a cartoon character.”
“Oh,” I said, confused.
I took her lead and luckily for me she led me right in the front door and to the bar where she ordered us two tall Hefeweizens with orange.
“I like the orange,” I said. “It’s like breakfast.”
“Whatever makes you feel better about your choices,” she said.
“This is just what the doctor ordered,” I said, taking my first thirst-quenching sip.
We sat outside and watched the pedestrians saunter by.
She pulled out her phone and took a picture of her beer next to mine on the table in front of us. Then she passed the phone to me and said, “Take a picture of me here in the sunlight.” As I fumbled with the phone camera, she added as she tossed her hair, “Isn’t it amazing that you and I like the same things?!”
“Yes,” I said, “I love you and you love you. It is amazing.”
“You love yourself too,” she responded in between flashing her pearly whites.
“But I don’t have sex with myself quite as often as you do.”
“What can I say?” she asked, “I’m a very amorous person and when I like something, I show it. . . with my whole body.”
After our beers, she was ready to continue our workout routine. She was impatient with my slowness of standing.
“I need a little time to get up,” I said.
“Why? What did you do today?”
“It’s not today,” I complained, “it’s the 365 days times 54 that came before today that has done this to me. One day you’ll understand.”
Soon enough we were back on our stroll about town and Lo was admiring the gardens and houses. About one, she commented on its farmer’s porch: “I love big decks,” she said, “especially nice dark ones. Basically, I just like a lotta wood. You know, something I can just sit down on, kick back, and enjoy.”
“Lo,” I sighed, “you’re the master of the single entendre.”
After a moment of thought, she asked, “Would you say you’re straight, bi, or bi-curious?”
“I’m sapiosexual,” I said.
“What?” she responded, not expecting that reply.
“Sapiosexual, turned on by intelligence.”
“No, darling, I’m the sapiosexual one.”
“Have it your way,” I said, pleased with her reply. “Why do you ask?”
“Because I was talking with Julien about. . .”
“Julien? Who’s Julien?”
“Oh, you know Julien — the guitar player in that band I love so much.”
“When did you see him?”
“Last weekend, when I went out with the ladies.”
“You didn’t mention that,” I said, suspicious because I know how much of a crush Lo has on this boy Julien.
“Didn’t I? Oh, well, I’m mentioning it now.”
“And what were you talking about with Julien?”
“About how I identify as ‘queer’ since it’s a lot easier than trying to explain how I’m in a relationship with a guy and I identify as cisgender, but I have other relations with women and. . .”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah, I get the idea. And?”
“Oh, I don’t know. I was just thinking about it. But, do you know what he said?” she asked with enthusiasm.
“He said, ‘This summer, when we are doing the festivals, you can be a roadie.’”
“I told him I don’t want to be a roadie. I want to be a groupie.”
“Groupies don’t get paid.”
“I know,” she said, “they get laid!”
“Lo, what am I going to do with you?”
“I don’t know, but let’s go home and find out!”
[Excerpt from the story, “When Spring Sprung,” from the blog: mysexlifewithlola.com]