Lordy, Lordy. I spent five years of my life getting away with it; or thinking that I was anyway. What do you do when you fall madly, passionately in love with your swim coach? When the way he arches one eyebrow in question makes your breath shallow; when the touch of his hand on your bare arm leaves the faint smell of him and you don’t want to bathe and lose it; when he kisses you and then has to hold you up because your knees give out; when you are a university student with no money and he is a cop with no money – because he has a wife and children to support. What do you do?
If you want to be together, you have to be creative. We wrote each other long letters and spent hours on the phone. We shared the same hopes and dreams so that is what we did best: hope and dream. But the passion wasn’t willing to wait for some future promise of fulfillment. I was living at home, going to a local university, so I had to deceive my parents. Suddenly, I was spending a lot of time with my best friend, or so I told them. In reality, I was off hiking in the mountains. We would carry a picnic of bread, cheese, wine and the all important quilt. We would meet in the strawberry fields at midnight and the smell of strawberries on the summer air would surround us. The quilt went many places: the football field, the baseball field scoreboard, the beach and the desert. There were a few times that a police car spotlight would shine on us – the time we were on top of a picnic table in a park was particularly memorable because I got my panties back on in such a hurry that they were backwards, inside out, and both my legs were scrunched through one leg hole. I had to hop back to the car.
Somehow, we were never arrested or caught by my parents. We were eventually found out, of course, but we got away with it for years.