He arrived every Thursday, punctually, sometimes while our family was still sitting down at the evening meal. A military man, he was usually in uniform.
For me, there could be no more appealing figure than a clean-shaven, triangular-torsoed, protector of the right and true. He was handsome, adventurous, romantic, and a guy my father seemed to almost like, practically trust. Even better, most of the girls who wouldn’t talk to me at school, but permit their conversations to be overheard, knew him and liked him, too. A lot. So much the better, since he belonged to me. Only to me.
He was a hero, with a tour of duty that was never over; he always re-enlisted with the certainty of the rising sun. His many human failings, all forgivable, were tied to the diverse cultures and circumstances in which he found himself. The most memorable of his exploits involved multicultural interaction, which generally resulted in damage to or loss of various elements of his clothing. Replaying those scenes in my mind often interrupted algebra and chemistry, my least favorite subjects, but who would ever need them if I were married to this god. He was mine. He knew it; I knew it.
Later on those nights, I headed for bed knowing that he would come to me, or even be waiting already, his head on the pillow next to mine. Gone were the trappings of military existence, bravado replaced by tender acknowledgement of his insecurity and vulnerability. Bare chested, shimmering in the dark, he gathered me into his sweat-glistening arms, fresh from armed conflict. Always the gentleman, he knew there could be no intimate dénouement, but contented himself, as did I, with the passionate kisses and furtive embraces of those who have little time. How well I knew he shared these same tokens with other women in his ports of call, but only I knew these were diversions for a hero, bigger than life, who would always come back to the only one who truly understood and loved him. Me.
My parents never knew of these trysts, elicit liaisons that would have mortified my middle class family, neighborhood, church. Despite the fact my kisses met a yielding but dry pillowcase in the dark, his caresses no more than sheets entwined about me, animated by desire, it was a torrid affair. No one ever found out, no one even guessed. He left on assignment and failed to return. A full realization of what he took with him, what he left behind, he and his comrades, did not come until many years later.I didn’t speak a word of it until my sister confessed to having the same romance, with the same man – James Tiberias Kirk.
