We slept late the next morning, then had a big breakfast. There was a
suspiciously high level of traffic on our quiet street that morning and
cars full of kids were parked across the street at times, but no one rang
the doorbell. My little speech had apparently had some effect, but I
worried anyway. I could envision the house being under siege for a long
time after John left by those who hoped he might still be around and by
those who simply wanted to be where he had been, walk where he had walked.
After my stay in England, I was only too aware of the damage dedicated fans
could do; trampled grass, walls, and sidewalks defaced with messages of
love, bushes defoliated for leafy mementos.
The prospect of being approached by demanding fans every time I went out
the door was not pleasant either. We decided we would smuggle John in and
out the back door and tell the fans out front they had the wrong address.
That wouldn't work with my classmates who were leaking the location out to
friends, but it would give them the message. So while John called a florist
and arranged for flowers to be sent to Sue's parents along with a note
apologizing for any problems his presence had created, we moved the
refrigerator away from the unused back door. It opened out to the little
back porch and the stairway for the other apartment. We never used the back
stairs because there was only space in the alley to park one car and the
woman who had the other apartment used that, of course. The plan was to
have John meet us out in the alley after we went out the front, got in the
car, drove away, and then backtracked to pick him up.
In the daylight, I was embarrassed by my dreams about John. I excused them
as being the result of a couple of beers, a slow dance, and a lack of a guy
in my life. He was my friend. He came here because he was sick of the
phoniness of Hollywood not because he was hot for my body. He was only
teasing when he made suggestive remarks, just as he always had. Of course,
I didn't think he would turn down a chance to get me into bed. Well, maybe
he would. Maybe he still saw me as Paul's property and, for all his
teasing, wouldn't cross that line. All that was too confusing to try to
sort through and it didn't matter anyway. I wasn't about to come on to him.
He was my friend and I wasn't about to screw that up for a few minutes of
sex. Besides, I couldn't take round two of Beatlemania. I needed a
boyfriend, not another go-round with a man who had been too many places,
seen too much, lived too much.
We had not made any plans for the day. We simply couldn't figure out how to
entertain our visiting celebrity. Bowling was our usual weekend
entertainment but even if it had been feasible to take John out, that
didn't strike us as something a Londoner, late of Hollywood, would find too
thrilling. Brenda was stuck working that evening. She couldn't find anyone
to take her shift and was far too conscientious to call in sick even if
John Lennon was visiting us. Sandy suggested a drive-in movie. The idea of
sitting in the back seat with John while she and Chuck made out up front
was mind-boggling. Thankfully, the phone rang before I had to respond to
that suggestion.
It was my mom. She had not been feeling well last weekend, so we had not
celebrated my birthday and she wanted to go out to dinner tonight. I had
not expected this and didn't know what to say. I wasn’t about to leave John
alone, and an evening with my parents was something neither he nor they
would be interested in.
I hadn't told them that John was coming this weekend. They had not reacted
well when I told about his last visit. Mom wanted to know if he was the one
I had gotten involved with, a logical question, and I'd told her he wasn't.
Regardless, she was concerned about what people would think about my
friendship with him. She hadn't even seemed as concerned about the fact
that he was, as far as she knew, married, as about his views on religion. I
think she regarded him as something akin to the Anti-Christ. Her concern
kind of amused me because when she worried about what people would think,
she meant her relatives and neighbors. I had gotten used to the idea that
the whole world had an opinion on everything John said or did. I had hoped
his visit would be like the last, unnoticed by the press, but last night's
visit from the police made that unlikely. Now I could only hope the press
wouldn't make a big deal out of his visiting me. The fact that he had left
Cyn was no secret and if they chose to misinterpret his visit they could
have a heyday, Brian would have a stroke, and furious fans would vandalize
my car, but all Mom was thinking was that her friends would talk!
Well, I'd handle that if I had to. Right now I had to handle this dinner
invitation. I wanted to give my sisters a chance to meet him but was sure
he wouldn’t appreciate being paraded out for my family. I knew he hated
being forced to meet people just because they had connections. I hemmed and
hawed and John asked if there was a problem. “Hold on a minute, Mom,” I
said and put my hand over the receiver to explain the situation to John.
“You never told me it was your birthday!”
“Last weekend.”
“So you are what? Seventeen?”
“Twenty-one!”
“Old hag. We need to go out and celebrate and I'd love to meet your
family,” he said.
I laughed at him. “Sure you would.”
“Straight up. I'd like to meet them. Unless you don't want them to meet me.
I promise I will behave. I'll even use silverware.” He sounded sincere. He
had to be. John simply wouldn't offer if he didn't want to. I had no idea
how they would react to him, behaving or not but I didn't care. He was my
friend and they would just have to adjust. Besides, Anne had just about
killed me when she found out he had been here and I hadn't let her meet
him. We could meet at a restaurant outside of the city where security
wouldn't be a big problem.
I looked at Sandy. “We'll need Chuck. Will you two come along?”
“Sure!”
“Mom, that will be great. Where do you want to go?” We agreed on a
restaurant near Belle Plaine and set a time. I would make reservations and
she would call my brother and let him know. “Make sure Anne comes, and try
to get the girls to come, too,” I told her. Anne probably would come, but
my two younger sisters were, at thirteen and fifteen, not big on dressing
up and going out to restaurants where you couldn't get hot dogs or pizza. I
didn't want to set Mom off by telling her who would be with me. “Tell Anne
I need to talk to her,” I added as we said goodbye.
Mark came over and we played cards until Brenda had to leave for work.
After that, Sandy disappeared into the bathroom to begin her date night
ritual soak in the tub, manicure, pedicure, and God knows what else. I
needed to do some studying and John flipped through my nursing textbooks
until he picked up the psychology book. He was soon sprawled on the couch
reading.
About six, we got ready to go. I put on a dress and John asked what he
should wear. I had been surprised that he was even willing to go and his
apparent wanting to make a good impression was touching. He hadn't brought
that many clothes with him so the choice was between a red turtleneck
pullover and a leather vest or a plain shirt, tie, and dark sports coat. “A
tie?” I asked with amazement as he pulled it out of the suitcase.
He grinned. “Brian insists we take a coat and tie wherever we go. Just in
case we have to act grown-up and responsible. Do you think I need the
mustache? It itches.”
I didn't think that the small town dinner club we were headed for was going
to have more than a dozen people who recognized him, much less any
screaming fans, so I didn’t think the disguise would be necessary. As for
the clothes, my parents still considered people in turtlenecks to be
beatniks, but John in a shirt and sports coat was not John, at least not
the John I was used to. I hadn't seen him dressed up since the night of the
party at the New York hotel.
“You don't need the mustache and you don’t have to act anything,” I told
him, and he ended up wearing the turtleneck with the sports coat. He looked
great. We picked up Chuck and headed out of town. John enjoyed the drive
out of the city even though it was getting dark and he couldn't see much of
the countryside.
When we arrived at the supper club, I spotted my older brother Steve's car
in the parking lot. Chuck and I went in to reconnoiter. The hostess said it
would be a few minutes before the large table was ready for our group and
invited us to wait in the bar. My brother and his wife, Jan, were there.
Steve looked up when we walked in, looked a little surprised and poked Jan.
She looked, grinned, and whispered something to him. They didn't know Chuck
and assumed he was my date. I could see them plotting ways to tease me.
Chuck and I conferred and decided quickly that since the bar was small and
dark and populated by middle-aged farmers scrubbed up for a night on the
town with the wife, it would be all right to bring John in. We went to get
him, leaving Steve and Jan looking bewildered. We came back with John, Jan
stared at him in disbelief as we joined them at the little table. She made
a squeaky little sound, Steve looked at her, then back at John. Recognition
dawned and he sat back in his chair.
“He is speechless, John,” I said. “and my brother is never at a loss for
smart-ass remarks.”
“Shall we go out and come in again?” John asked.
Steve laughed. “Wouldn't help.” He stood up and shook hands with John, and
I introduced Sandy and Chuck. We ordered drinks from a middle-aged waitress
who was too busy to wonder why this customer's face was vaguely familiar.
John explained about being in California to do a movie, and when he
mentioned he had been here a few weeks earlier, Steve and Jan looked
surprised. Mom apparently had not said anything, a bad sign but not
unexpected. Mom did not discuss unpleasantries, even with family members,
except on a need to know basis. My continued association with the John
Lennon of Bigger than Christ fame was certainly an unpleasantry.
We talked for a while before the waitress said our table was ready. Mom and
Dad arrived a few minutes later with all three sisters. Anne grinned ear to
ear the minute she saw John. She was the only one not surprised. Mom looked
stunned, then upset, and finally settled into polite dismay. Dad shook
hands with John and didn't know what to say. Rose and Kay were in an agony
of teenage self-consciousness when I introduced them. When I got to Anne,
John grinned and said, “Sorry I am not George, Luv.”
Everyone laughed at that, knowing Anne's favorite. That broke the ice and
we sat down. The waitress brought menus and took orders for drinks, looking
at John with an “I know that face” puzzled look that intensified when he
spoke up to order a Scotch and Coke. She left and we settled into
conversation. John was quiet, listening with interest but being cautious
around my parents. I should have worried more about Sandy. By the time the
waitress came to take our orders she was enthusiastically telling all about
the party the night before and our rescue by the police. She was a born
storyteller and everyone was roaring with laughter.
Well, not everyone. Mom and Dad were horrified by the police involvement.
John looked at me apologetically, but I just laughed and got him to tell
stories of being mobbed, trapped in stadiums, hotels, and, in Dallas,
unable to get off a plane for hours. He made it sound like a big game. I
knew better, but it got Mom and Dad laughing.
When the waitress took our order, she kept staring at John, uncertain if
her suspicion could be correct. When he ordered, the voice was the final
giveaway. “You are one of the Beatles!” she exclaimed.
“Yes, I'm Harold and I'll have a steak,” he said. Then, as he had at the
pizza place, he asked her not to say anything so we could eat in peace.
Over dinner we talked about school, Steve's job, and the latest antics of
Jenny, Steve and Jan's baby.
Mom ventured, “I understand you have a little boy.” John said he had a
three-year-old named Julian and provided the required cute kid story about
Julian. I was a little surprised. John seldom talked about Julian, and as
much as he was gone, I didn't think he knew too many cute kid stories to
tell about him. Things were going fairly well even though Mom remained
cool.
By then word had spread and people were coming to the entrance of our
dining room to stare and whisper. Chuck, who never did get to finish his
dinner, got up and stood by the door, stopping anyone who tried to approach
the table. John barely glanced at them but, of course, everyone else at the
table was distracted by being stared at.
“Just in case I have to leave,” John said, “I want to say something.” He
was looking at my parents. “I was glad you called today because I wanted a
chance to meet you. To thank you in person for letting Tess—ah, Terry come
to England with me this summer. I know you had some real reservations about
that and I don't blame you. I just want you to know it was a bad time for
me and I needed someone I could trust. Thank you.”
Mom and Dad nodded uncomfortably, not knowing what to say since they were
obviously regretting that they let me go in the first place, but the
sincerity in his thanks was obvious. Now I knew why John had agreed to come
along tonight.
Inevitably, the discussion turned to music. Jan asked if John had been to
Haight-Ashbury in San Francisco. The area was just beginning to come into
the news as the Mecca of the new cultural fad, hippies. John said he hadn't
but hoped to go there before he went back to England. Dad said he heard it
was nothing but a bunch of drugged-up runaway kids. John said it was also
the center of a new trend in music. Although there might be a lot of drug
use, they weren't hurting anyone.
“Besides,” he went on, “marijuana is less dangerous than the alcohol. Pot
makes you mellow instead of crazy and there is no hangover.”
Mom cooled another twenty degrees. Steve stepped into the silence with a
great story of his worst hangover ever. John looked at me, not apologetic
this time, but well aware he had said something that would not sit well
with my parents. I just grinned at him. I didn't want him to be anything
but himself and if that meant expressing an opinion they would not agree
with, so be it. Mom and Dad could stand a little exposure to another school
of thought.
John followed Steve's story with tales of living on beer and cornflakes in
Hamburg. Everyone was laughing again. Being drunk was acceptable, being
high was not, and John, never one to leave people to their illusions,
pointed that out—at length. Dad just shook his head in amazement that
anyone could classify a few beers as drug use. Steve argued that alcohol
was fine if used in moderation and John replied that drug use required
moderation, too, saying that drugs like LSD should be used for inspiration
and exploration, not as a daily routine. I saw that as a bit of a warning
to my raptly listening younger sisters, but Mom and Dad didn't see it that
way. To them, it was still a pitch to use drugs. Mom and Dad all but
stopped talking and Mom definitely stopped talking to me.
Conversation went on, a little constrained with everyone trying not to lead
us into any other unpleasantness. Toward the end of the meal, Jan asked
John how much longer he would be in the States. He said he would be leaving
in about three weeks. Jan said, “I bet your wife will be glad to have you
home again.”
“My wife and I are separated,” John said after a heartbeat of hesitation.
I could see Mom come unglued. If she had been swallowing, she would have
choked. Dad looked distressed. Steve and Jan exchanged looks. I changed the
subject. Things went from bad to worse after that. Mom dropped below
freezing and both parents quit talking altogether. I signaled to Anne and
we escaped to the ladies' room.
“Mom is having a cow!” she exclaimed.
“Oh let her,” I replied regretting letting this evening happen. “I am
twenty-one and don't have to have her approval of my friends.”
Jan popped in just then. “Wow, Terry. What is going on? Is he really
leaving his wife for you?”
“Good grief! No! He is just my friend. I told that to Mom weeks ago and she
refuses to believe me.”
“Oh,” she said, disappointed but believing me.
“Maybe you should tell her what happened with ... in England. She thinks
you got involved with John,” Anne said.
“No. She knows all she needs to know about that. I've told her it wasn't
John. I thought she believed me but now she is all upset because he is
getting a divorce. I am associating with a divorced man and 'What will
people say?'”
We talked for a while, or at least I did, ranting about how mom was
overreacting, but I couldn't hang out in the bathroom much longer. I'd left
John out there in the cold. Thankfully, dinner was over and we could leave.
Once in the car, John said, “I don't think your parents are wild about me.”
“They don't have to be. I am.”
He laughed and settled back for the ride home.
It was only half-past nine and Sandy was eager to make a night of it, but
there was just no place it seemed safe to take John. She and Chuck had
originally planned to go to a U. of M. football team party. I suggested she
and Chuck go without us. We hadn't had much time to talk since he arrived
and we would settle for a night of TV. She was disappointed but Sandy
hesitated and I encouraged her to go. I knew she didn't want to give up a
night in John's company, but I did want to spend some time alone with him.
She read that clearly, no doubt reading a whole lot more into it than was
intended, and she quickly decided a football party was a great idea. Once
back at the apartment, she also decided that since the party was in a
suburb north of the cities, she would spend the night up there at her
parents.
I caught a big amused grin on John's face as he realized that Sandy was
playing matchmaker and just rolled my eyes at him. “A hopeless romantic,” I
informed him as Sandy zipped into her bedroom to grab a few things.
“Now how do I get rid of Brenda?” he asked.
“You won't,” I assured him. “She will be off work at 11 and straight home.
And she is a staunch believer in proper behavior.”
Within minutes of our arrival back at the apartment, Sandy and Chuck were
out the door again. John laughed, saying Sandy was doing a reversal of the
old spending the night with a girlfriend trick. He said all the talk about
sex last night had made her see the light and she was going to be spending
the night with Chuck.
“Nope. She is a flirt and a tease, but to get her, the guy is going to have
to jump through all the hoops. Down on one knee and propose, diamond ring,
engagement party, a long enough engagement to plan a big wedding, and he
will finally get lucky at the honeymoon suite at Niagara Falls.”
I made tea and we kicked off our shoes and settled down in front of the TV.
We hadn't had much of an opportunity to talk privately since he arrived,
and he filled me in on what was going on with him. Cyn still wouldn't
discuss the divorce with him. Brian was calling him frequently and he was
completely irrational half the time. He wanted John to drop everything and
come back one day, and the next he didn't seem to care. He hadn't talked to
any of the others and he gathered from Brian that none of them seemed ready
to get back to work, at least not together. Paul was busy working with
George Martin on the movie score, and George was ignoring most of Brian's
calls. He said he was working on the sitar and would call Brian if he
wanted to talk to him. Ringo had just agreed to co-host a TV special with
Cilla Black.
In California, the movie was getting behind schedule and the producers were
screaming at the director who
in turn, screamed at everyone else. The female lead was hot after John but
she was such a bitch he wasn't having any. He had been seeing one of the
script girls off and on since he started on the movie, but she started
hinting about going back to England with him and he had dropped her cold.
He had never intended or implied to her that she was anything but a bit of
fun and it pissed him off the way she wanted to latch onto him.
When he asked how I was doing, I told him all about school, another check
that had come from Tony, and generally rattled on about nothing.
John listened, then interrupted. “That is not what I asked. How are you?”
I just shook my head. I didn't want to talk about it. He let it go with a
sigh and we went back to watching TV.
I was fine until a singer on a variety show did a version of “Yesterday”.
Tears puddled up in my eyes. John looked at me and got out of his chair to
sit beside me on the couch.
“Just like one of Pavlov's damn dogs!” I said, furious with myself. I wiped
my eyes with my sleeve and sniffed resolutely. “I am so tired of this!”
He put his arm around my shoulders and leaned back, pulling me comfortingly
against him. “It's early days, Tess. It will get better.”
“God, I hope so. I am so tired of feeling so empty. I tried, John. I really
did. I went out with guys and tried to find some reason to get interested
in them. Like last night. I danced with all those guys and I couldn't even
scrounge up a little bit of interest. I just can't seem to even begin to
care about anyone. You would think for as much as I dream about sex, that I
would at least be interested in that part of it, but I don't even want to
kiss them. I just don't feel anything.”
“I know what you mean about wishing you could care and just not being able
to. That's the way I felt about Cyn for a long time. I never had trouble
wanting sex though!”
I laughed at him. “Not even when you had to find a way to get me out of the
hotel to get it!”
“You knew about that?”
“Not until I got back to the hotel.”
“Neil told you?”
“No, Neil was quite happy with the arrangement. In fact, he had hopes of
the same for himself.”
John laughed, but I was remembering kissing Neil and enjoying it. I sighed.
“Those were the good old days. I liked kissing Neil. I liked him, and the
same with Terry. Then Paul came along and... ” I laughed ruefully, “I guess
once you have been kissed by a Beatle, no one else compares.”
John was quiet and I wiped my eyes carefully, aware that my mascara was
going to give me two black eyes if I cried. Once satisfied I didn't have
raccoon eyes, I glanced at him. He had a speculative look on his face.
“Shall I say it, then?” he asked.
“Say what?” I had lost the thread of the conversation.
“No one else compares. Except maybe another Beatle.”
He looked steadily at me, awaiting my answer. It was the steadiness of that
look that undid me. I would have expected to see a teasing gleam in his eye
or a challenge there, a sexual dare, but he wasn't teasing and he wasn't
looking for a sexual conquest. He wasn't being funny or implying only a
Beatle would be good enough. He was offering. I knew it was a real offer.
All I had to do was say yes and I would be having sex with him momentarily.
I looked down at my hands, feeling dizzy. If I had thought of this
possibility at all, I had expected it to develop out of a teasing come-on
from him, one that I could turn down as I always had—and secretly cherish
as I always had—or boldly challenge him and accept and see what he would
do. But this! He was being so open, so straight forward. My morning resolve
was evaporating. Being with him made more sense than he knew. I really
cared about him. He was capable of making me want him, I knew that for
certain. Of all the guys in the world, this one was the best bet for
breaking the hold Paul had on me.
Of course, that was the worst reason in the world to do this. You don't use
your friends that way, and whatever else he was, John was my friend. I
wouldn't risk ruining that.
I sat up straight, lifting away from the comfort of his arm around my
shoulders and turned to face him to tell him I needed his friendship more.
“You know I adore you,” I started to say. The look on his face changed in
an instant. Instead of the quiet acceptance of my decision I had expected
to see, I saw a little flinch of embarrassment on his face as he looked
away.
Oh, geez. He had made two trips to Minnesota to see me and, in spite of all
his teasing and suggestive remarks, was he just now getting up the nerve to
ask for what he had been hoping would happen all along? How could he be so
shy with girls? I recalled something Paul had laughingly said once about
meeting girls as a Beatle. “We don't pull the girls. Mal just delivers
them.” John was not used to having to ask girls to go to bed with him. He
didn't have to do the chatting up, charming, luring them in. That's what
they were there for. Like the girl on his lap at the party last night, he
didn't have to ask, they made it clear. I was different. Not better—I had
been just about as obvious and easy for Paul—but my relationship with John
was different. It was more normal than those one night, one chance, one
purpose meetings. Now, like any guy, he had to ask and I was about to
reject him. For the first time, I realized what courage it took a guy to
ask a girl out, make the first move. The fact that I was learning that from
a guy who had only to shake his head to send girls into hysteria was way
beyond ironic. The fact that he was offering out of friendship and a simple
desire for a roll in the hay and not out of overwhelming passion didn't
matter. Rejection was rejection and even a Beatle was not beyond
insecurities. I had to do this gently.
Humor. That was the way out of this. Give him a chance to turn it into one
of his usual teasing come-ons so we could both pretend that was all it had
been in the first place.
“ ... and another Beatle might just be what I need,” I said lightly. “but
first I would have to find one who is willing to undertake such a thankless
task!”
“I am,” he said firmly, slamming the door on the escape hatch I had
offered. His hand moved from the back of the sofa to the back of my neck.
His fingers threaded through my hair and his thumb stroked me just behind
my ear. “More than willing. You know that.”
He took my breath away with his voice, his look, his touch. “More than
willing,” he'd said. This wasn't just an offer to help a friend or a bid
for a quick romp. He wanted me and he wanted me to want him. He cared about
me and he wanted me. That was all it took. All I wanted was to be wanted by
someone who cared. I knew right then I was going to do this.
The next thing I knew I was moving toward him, closing the gap and kissing
him. I forgot about evaluating the kiss, monitoring myself to see if I
liked it, to see if it was going to be enough to hold my interest. I just
kissed the man who meant so much to me. He pulled me closer and I eased
into his arms, comfortable and safe, and so much more. He went on kissing
me and I stopped thinking entirely and gave in to feeling. The icy, empty
spot in my chest warmed and I could feel my heart beating. Slowly my heart
and body came back to life.
Time slipped backward and the moments when I had felt so close to him, the
times he had been there for me, all came back to me in a rush of warmth and
tenderness that made this feel so right. It felt so good to hold him, be
held, and I knew within the first few minutes that this was going to be
good. When his hand touched my breast, I didn't even consider stopping him.
Everywhere he touched me it was like my body went from shadow into
sunshine. If he touched me everywhere, I would be myself again.
Brenda would be home in just about an hour. That was plenty of time and yet
not enough. I didn't want to waste any of it. I moved onto his lap,
straddling him. As I leaned forward to tell him with a kiss that I wanted
more and I wanted it now, he stopped me, holding me away from him.
“I don't play games,” he said, and the warning in his voice was clear. “If
you start, you better be prepared to finish. Are you?”
“Yes. I need this.” And I did. As soon as I moved onto him, I had felt the
heat and melting desire that haunted my dreams. He pulled me down to him,
and I moved against him, turning heat into fire. He was hard and I was wet,
his kiss was warm and as hungry as mine. As John had told me, sex didn't
have to mean true love and happily ever after to be good. I was already
falling away into that other world where there was only the warmth and
wetness of his mouth, the pressure of his hands as he touched me, pulled me
tight to him. I was climbing fast up to the top, up to the point where the
roller coaster ride of release would begin.
We were both breathing hard, lifting and pushing together, wanting
everything all at once. Our mouths breathlessly tasted the softness of a
neck, tickled an ear, and went back for another deep kiss. Our hands moved
restlessly, touching, squeezing and, no longer satisfied with just that,
wanting to feel the bare skin under the clothing.
It wasn't until he unzipped my dress that everything started to fall apart.
I remembered standing in Paul's bedroom as he unzipped my summer yellow
dress. Desire was pushed aside by a flash of pain. The roller coaster
stalled, the anticipation died, and all I felt was a sudden emptiness. The
image of Paul's face, his eyes, his smile, the scent of his skin, feel of
his hair, the memory of his body was as strong as if I had been with him
minutes before, not months.
I clung to John, letting the shock wave of memory flood over me, waiting
for the hurt to ease. John sensed something was wrong and pushed me away
enough to look at my face. I looked at him, confused, and slowly replaced
the fading image of Paul's dark eyes, dark hair, sweet face with that of
John's warm
brown eyes, auburn hair, the strong lines of his face. John's ever-changing
face. Intense eyes that could cut you in two or warm you all the way
through. A smile that could be so sweet one minute, teasing or sarcastic
the next. Coming back to reality, I touched his face, thinking of all I had
seen there. Uncertainty, even shyness. Pain, anger, outrage, hurt, and now,
desire. This man didn't keep his feelings to himself, wouldn't play games
with me.
Anger replaced pain. I wasn't going to let memories of the past ruin the
present. I was going to be rid of Paul tonight.
I pushed away from John and stood up. He looked at me with unfocused dismay
but that was brief. I was pulling my clothes off. I was out of my dress and
pantyhose when John reached up and pulled me back down onto his lap, right
back where we had left off. Holding me, kissing me, he slid his hands up my
thighs, lifting my slip up over my hips. It felt so good and I was shaking,
shivering with anticipation of how it would feel when he touched me all
over.
Slowly his hands moved up, and I raised my arms so he could lift my slip
off over my head. He unhooked my bra, tossing it aside. Soft touches by
fingers with guitar calluses. So familiar. I shuddered and forced myself to
open my eyes and look at John. Not Paul. John. John kissing my neck,
lifting me to bring my breast up to his mouth. John moving his hands down
over my thighs and up the back of my legs, holding me there while his mouth
found my nipple and teased it. The feeling, the fire, did not come back. I
slid back down so I could feel him hard against me again hoping to reignite
that first rush of feeling. It wasn't working and I began to move against
him, riding him, but I was still not feeling it.
I lifted away just enough to work the zipper on his trousers and he slid
his fingertips under the leg band of my panties in response. There was a
moment when I thought that the touch of his fingers and the feel of him,
hard and ready, in my hand would be enough to bring it back. A jolt of
electric pleasure flared, but with it came another flash of Paul, the way
it was the first time his fingers touched me, the first time I touched him.
The desire of the moment was washed away by the flood of painful memories.
This time John didn't sense my emotional and physical backslide. He was too
far gone for that. He was so ready and I wasn't and wouldn't be. The
sensation was gone.
This was not how I wanted it to be with him! I wouldn't let memories of
Paul ruin this! I made a sound, a cry, and threw myself into kissing him,
grinding against him, trying to force my body to respond. The embers were
there, but the harder I tried, the harder I kissed him, moved against him,
the more my body resisted. He misread my desperation for passion at the
breaking point. Tipping me down onto the couch, he stopped to reach for the
lamp on the end table.
“No. Leave it on,” I said. “I want to be able to see you.”
He smiled, misunderstanding that, too, but it didn't matter. Things moved
quickly. I stroked him while he finished undressing me. He touched me just
the way I thought I needed to be touched to make it work, but it wasn't
happening. I pulled him down on top of me, thinking only “Hold me, just
hold me and it will be all right.”
He was right there, hard and ready and pushing into the softness. The
desire I could feel reaching a peak in him should have been enough to carry
me along. When I moaned with frustration and lifted up to him, desperate to
make the feeling come back, he thought I was coming and thrust into me.
There was nothing to do but simply let him. I wouldn't make it, but I would
shatter the barrier of Paul being the only one.
Tears were burning and I was struggling not to cry as he pushed deep
inside. He groaned and I hoped he would just finish it right then, but he
held back, waiting to feel in control again, then began kissing me as he
lifted away and came back in a slow, careful stroke intended to prolong the
pleasure. All it did was give my tears time to escape from my eyes.
He stopped abruptly as he felt my tears on his face and lifted his head to
look at me. I wasn't thinking of him at all or I would have expected him to
feel upset at knowing I wasn't thinking of him at this moment. I wasn't
experienced enough to anticipate that these tears could kill his desire on
the spot. “Oh bloody fuckin' hell,” he said, but there was no real anger in
his voice on or his face.
“Don't stop, just do it!” I pleaded. “I want you to do it.”
He sighed, “No, Tess. Not so fast. It isn't enough to just do it. You have
to make it. Then he will be gone.”
He knew. He knew exactly what was holding me back, making me cry tired,
disappointed tears. He pulled away from me and gently began again,
caressing me, touching me, moving me toward what I wanted to feel. As he
kissed me, he told me how warm I was inside and how good it had felt and
how it was going to feel when he did it to me. He didn't just whisper sweet
things the way Paul had. He used language I had always thought of as dirty,
but somehow that helped. It made it something that didn't bring back
memories of Paul. The voice was not Paul's, it was distinctly John's, and
soon so was the touch, the pulse beating in the soft curve of his neck, the
deep kisses. Paul was a hazy memory, and the present was John touching me
and my body reacting. The fire came to life, the world slipped away, and
this time I was ready.
The physical release was everything I remembered. Explosion and tidal wave
and soaring flight altogether. John was lifting me to him, moving in me,
rocking me with his thrusts. “Yes, do it!” I said again and this time I
meant it, for him and for me. He groaned and once again I felt the feeling
of tenderness mixed with power that comes when a man loses control. As he
collapsed on top of me, I wondered why they talk of the woman giving
herself to a man when it is he who gives.
That moment of wonder was short and followed by an emotional release that
was absolute pain. It was as if he had unlocked a vault of pure misery that
I had saved up deep inside especially for this occasion, as if his thrusts
had battered open the door to that boarded up room in my heart. One more
time, John was the one to hold me as I poured out the hurt in gasping,
wrenching sobs. I tried to say “I'm sorry,” but he kissed it away, saying,
“It's all right, Tess.”
Finally, when the storm was over, I lay quietly for a few minutes, sorting
out how I felt. Not ecstatically happy. Not particularly happy at all but
not sad either. The empty, aching feeling of loss and regret was eased.
When I opened my eyes, it was John that I saw. Paul was yesterday. John was
right now and John was all I needed. When he asked if I was all right, I
managed a smile for him. “Yeah, I think I am finally all right.”
He laughed. “Was that sex or an exorcism?”
“Sexorcism,” I concluded and we laughed.
We exchanged a few sweet kisses and I tried to apologize. “I'm sorry I was
so ... distracted. It wasn't what I thought it would be like if I ever did
it with you.”
He laughed and, ignoring the apology, said, “So you had thought about it!
And me thinking nasty thoughts about what I would like to do to you were
one-sided! All those months of lusting for your body and thinking you only
had eyes for Paul and all the while you were thinking about boffing me!”
“Months! I've wanted you since February of 1964! It was lust at first
sight!”
“Oh yes. Your fave of the Fab Four.” He sounded a little disappointed.
I stroked his cheek and kissed him. “Then I met you and found out you were
more than just another fave rave. You are so special.” I kissed him again
and again.
It was getting late and Brenda would be home soon so there was little time
for holding each other, talking, easing back into the world, and definitely
not enough time to do it again as John suggested. I wanted to. I wanted to
do it just with John and for John with no spirits to exorcise but there
just wasn't time. I headed for the bathroom.
When Brenda got home, we were sedately and primly watching TV. As
roommates, Brenda, Sandy and I had made lots of rules about hogging the
bathroom, cleaning up, late-night TV, but we had never set rules for having
men in our beds. It simply was not anticipated. Even if we had agreed that
it would be all right, this situation, this man, was not something I wanted
them to know about. It was far too complicated and private. So when Brenda
walked in, I was in a granny nightgown, slippers, and robe. John was
dressed—he never really got undressed!
When I crawled into bed that night, alone and only too aware that John was
only a few steps away, my head was full of confused thoughts. What had I
just done? How did I feel about it? If anyone ever found out, how the hell
was I going to explain it?
In the '60s there were only two types of girls, those who did and those who
didn't. The fact that it was done in a meaningful relationship didn't allow
you to stay on the “girls who don't” side of the fence. So, having already
put myself in the category of “girls who did”, this didn't change things
all that much.
If I needed to, it would be easy to find excuses. My ego needed the boost
after being trampled by Paul and a pair of pink slippers, I needed to erase
Paul, I was lonely and so was John. Besides, guilt is manageable. You can
usually find an excuse for what you did, explain it away somehow, or, as a
last resort, plead temporary insanity. Even if you can't rationalize it,
you can always do good deeds to atone for your transgressions. (That kind
of thinking is the result of being raised Catholic in a Protestant society.
Guilt and the Puritan work ethic blended!)
Excuses aside, there were some big reasons why I shouldn't have done it and
I slowly and carefully worked my way up that list. At the bottom of the
slate was the undeniable risk of catching
something from John. In the perception of a Midwesterner, Hollywood was
Sodom and Gomorrah, rife with syphilis and gonorrhea. We hadn't used a
condom but I had been to the student clinic once and survived the
embarrassment. I would do that again when John left. That was a minor
detail. The Pill and Penicillin. All a girl needed.
He was leaving. It had been quite literally a one night stand, or, more
accurately, a forty-five minute one. I had said I wasn't about to crawl
into bed with just anybody just for sex, but I had done just that. I had
said it had to be someone I cared about, someone I loved, but I wasn't in
love with him. Was I? I cared about John, cared a lot, but in love with
him? No, not in the way I had loved Paul.
I felt like I had just made a major decision in the direction my life was
going to take, and not because I thought there was any chance I was going
to marry John and live happily ever after. Quite the opposite. I didn't
think that was likely at all. What had changed was the whole image of my
life as being a straight line that led to “Mr. Right” then went on entwined
with his. I had seen the time I spent with Paul as a little bump, a short
but painful detour, in that line (“ ... this is all a dream. In a few weeks
I'll wake up and go back home, finish school, live a normal life.”) but
nothing that really changed the course of my life. The next guy I had sex
with would be Mr. Right. My husband to be.
John had just derailed that happy little scenario and I had an unwelcome
vision of myself bouncing from man to man. The road to Mr. Right had just
become a pinball game. I didn't like that feeling, not at all. I didn't
want to sleep with anyone else. I just wanted someone to love me.
For the first time, it occurred to me that the kind of girls we considered
tramps and trash may well have started out this way with one guy who was
worth the price followed by another to erase the pain followed by another
and another in hopes that each would be the last one, the right one. It was
a horrible thought.
Of course, there was the other reason I should never have done this, the
big one. I had just had sex with a married man. He was separated yes, but
still legally wed. Worse, he was wed to someone who had welcomed me into
her home, confided in me, been a friend. I gingerly poked at that whole
idea, expecting a stab of guilt, but found that all that bothered me less
than it probably should have. A lot less, I had to admit. I had seen their
marriage up close and it was a shell that held only Cyn's sad, lingering
love and John's despair. I hadn't done anything to try to take John away
from her. That was a laughable thought anyway. John hadn't come to see me
because he was hot for my body, much less falling in love with me. He was
just homesick and tired of the Hollywood hype and phoniness. I was not a
siren luring him, just a safe and comfortable friend.
In spite of that, I couldn't deny that since the beginning there had been
something there, something I resisted because he was married, something
that got drowned out the minute Paul turned on the charm. Maybe... No. I
wouldn't let myself consider it. If I fell in love with John, romantic,
happy ever after love, I would just get hurt again. He just wasn't husband
material, not for someone like me anyway. John Lennon was too wild, too
impulsive, too strong, too weak, too angry, too unpredictable, too needy.
Just too much.
Besides, he was leaving tomorrow, going back to England in a couple of
weeks. The End. But the image of his face as he made love to me, his
caring, his patience while I cried came back to me. I remembered the night
before I left London, how he held me while I cried then, and the time I had
held him when he cried. I remembered laughing, arguing with him so many
times, being angry with him when he was drinking, frightened for him when I
knew he was using drugs, hurting for him when the end of the Beatles and
his marriage seemed imminent, touched by the way he cared about me. It
seemed like we had been through so much together in such a short time.
Maybe I had it all backward. Maybe what I had with John was more the stuff
real love, long-lasting love, is made of than the head over heels, high
flying thing I'd had—or thought I'd had—with Paul.
So how did I feel about having sex with John? A little confused, a little
guilty, a little worried about the kind of person I was turning into,
scared silly that someone might find out, but, on the whole, glad I had
done it. As shameful as it might be, my biggest regret was that I hadn't
made it better for him. I had wanted to impress him and bawling over his
best friend was not the way to do it.
As I fell asleep that night, I took my nightly walk down the path that led
to the cottage, but tonight, at last, I didn't stop and stand outside
wondering if the cobwebs were taking over. I walked on by.
The next morning, I listened as Brenda got ready for church and, as soon as
the door closed behind her, I was out of bed. I grabbed my hairbrush from
the dresser and tamed my hair a little. As I did so, I caught a look at
myself in the mirror. A pink and blue striped flannel granny gown was not
the look I wanted. I wanted so much to make up for his less than wonderful
experience last night. I stripped the gown off and stood there naked. For
all the nice things Paul had said about my body, I don't think I had ever
seen it, but this morning in that mirror, I did; Rounded curves and sloping
planes that wanted to be touched, dark nipples and a darker triangle of
curls standing out against the soft ivory pink skin. I thought of walking
out to John just like this and took a step toward the door, but stopped.
What if he was having second thoughts? What if last night had been bad
enough to convince him he didn't care for a second helping? I shivered and
picked up my terry bathrobe and pulled it on. If he did want me, it would
come off easily enough.
I went to John. He was awake and sat up as I came into the room. He watched
me warily as I approached him. Without his glasses on, he couldn't see me
well enough to judge the look on my face, and his expression was that of a
man who thinks he might be in trouble with a woman. As he fumbled for his
glasses on the end table, it was obvious he was worried about how I might
be feeling “the morning after.” I stood at the foot of the sofa bed,
uncertain how to proceed to find out how he felt about what had happened
last night.
Regardless, I wasn't going to let him leave with that as his memory of me.
In one impulsive move, I tugged the loose belt of the bathrobe and shrugged
it off my shoulders and let it fall to the floor.
He didn't need his glasses to get the message and I didn't need to ask what
he was thinking. His smile said it all. “More?” he asked.
“Yes, please,” I said.
“Come 'ead, then,” he said.
I slid under the blankets, and he reached for me and pulled me against him.
It was kind of a shock to feel his body. Last night he hadn't even taken
off his shirt. I was familiar with his body, having bathed him several
times, but knowing what he looked like was very different than knowing what
he felt like. He felt good. So good. I snuggled closer, wanting to feel
more, wanting to touch every inch of him with my bare skin. I could hear
him take a sharp breath as I fitted myself against him head to toe. Then I
just held him and let the feel of his body saturate my skin and mind and my
memory. His body was leaner, smaller boned, a little lighter than Paul and
for that reason a little less overwhelming. That was a first! In every
other way, I had always felt a more than a little intimidated by John, but
here in bed he was gentle, almost shy, waiting for me to make the first
move. I didn't want to rush. It felt so good just to lie here with him, but
we didn't have long. I ran my hand down over his ribs, his hip, his thigh
and back up again, then began to move against him, arching my back, rocking
my hips. He was right with me and when I finally tipped my head back to let
him kiss me, he pulled me tightly to him and devoured me with his kisses.
Determined that this time he would be pleased with me, I reached down under
the covers to take him in my hand, but he stopped me. “We should talk,
Luv.”
I waited and he kissed me softly. “You know I can't be what you want. I
can't love you the way you want to be loved.”
“I know. I am not ready to fall in love again, anyway. Besides, Beatles are
only good for music and sex. Everybody knows that!”
“Oh, really?” he asked laughing. “Since Brenda won't be gone long, I
suggest you let me do what I am good at.”
“OK, as long as it isn't music!”
It wasn't music and it was good. I had intended to try to impress him with
my repertoire of sexual skills but once we got started I forgot about
showing off anyway. I was so turned on from the first to the last, just
loving every touch, and completely at the mercy of how good this felt. No
need for pledges of love, no promises, nothing to give or hold back, just
pure sexual abandonment. If I could have made love to myself, it would have
been no less selfish than the way I took his body. I used it for my
pleasure, demanded more, and took it, knowing he was doing the same with
mine. It was good. Very good.
This time I was in the shower when Brenda returned.
John had to be back in L.A. on Monday morning, so he had to be at the
airport at four. We read the Sunday paper over breakfast, Sandy came back
at noon, and then John and I slipped out the back door, through several
alleys and went for a long, chilly walk. It was cold and windy but that
kept the fans out front huddled in their cars and made it possible for us
to get away unseen. We walked to the park where months ago, a lifetime ago,
I had brought Paul. I hadn't been back since. It was a very different place
on a cloudy, late fall day. The trees were bare and the
water was gray and choppy. I didn't tell John about bringing Paul here. It
was enough just to be able to be here with a feeling of an aching,
bittersweet memory instead of anguish. To stand here looking out over the
water with someone's arms around me made it easier.
As we walked along the shore, little snowflakes began to skitter down,
caught in gusts of wind. I shivered and said something about Minnesota
winters. John again asked if there was any way I could come to California.
He couldn't promise sunshine, but it was certainly warmer than here.
“I don't have any breaks until Thanksgiving.”
“When is that again?”
When I told him, he thought for a moment, then said, “I won't be ready to
leave until the week before that. If you'll come, I'll stay on the extra
week. I could come here, but I want to be alone with you for more than
forty-five minutes at a time!”
I wanted to go. I wanted to see him again, have sex with him again, hold on
to him just a little longer, but I didn't know how I could get away with
it. I explained that my parents would never stand for it. Going to visit
him in California wasn't like going to stay with him and his wife! Brenda
and Sandy would know there something between us. The only way I could stick
to my “just friends” story was to invite them to go along and they would,
which would ruin everything. The other choice was to be honest with them
about it, but for all their sympathy when they thought he might be the
cause of my misery when I came back from England, I didn't think they would
approve of that at all. Separated or not, he was still married. They
wouldn't get past that unless I pleaded to being hopelessly in love with
him, and maybe not even then.
“So do the old night at the girlfriend's thing. Tell them you are going
home to your folks and tell your family you are going to Brenda's or
Sandy's parents.”
“That would probably work, but someday they might happen to mention
Thanksgiving to each other.” A better plan was forming in my mind.
“Brenda and Sandy will both go home for the weekend. If I said I was
staying at the apartment and working the whole weekend, no one would ever
know I didn't. Then if the subject ever comes up between them and my
parents, they will both be believing the same thing. Nurses are always
looking for someone to work holidays for them, so they wouldn't question
that. Brenda won't double check at the hospital, and if anyone calls or
stops in, well, I worked that shift or I didn't answer the phone because I
was trying to catch up on sleep.”
John was laughing at me. “You are really good at this. Sure you haven't had
other affairs?”
I stopped dead in my tracks, rocked by the word.
Affair.
Last night could be excused as impulse or friendship, and this morning as
sort of my thank you to him, but going to California for more was something
different. Not an impulsive moment, not a weekend of bad judgment, but an
ongoing thing. An affair. An affair with a married man!
He put his arms around me. “Sorry, Luv.”
“That's what this is, isn't it? I never thought about it that way, but it
is. Oh, God.”
He kissed me and we walked along the lake in silence.
“It doesn't feel like an affair,” I protested. “That would feel wrong. This
doesn't feel wrong at all. There is no reason we shouldn't be together.”
“Just narrow-minded people.”
“Screw 'em, “ I declared. “I feel good about being with you. You are
exactly what I need right now.”