Memory is a funny thing. Its discretion defies reason. I laugh when one claims to have forgotten last night’s dinner while serenading me with a spot-on version of Paradise by the Dashboard Light from ’77.  I can appreciate those people. I am those people. Certain memories don't have lasting power. Others, however, have the strength to last decades. Sometimes their relevance is obvious. Sometimes we’re left guessing. A select few of my memories span thirty-five years and in my eyes, in my mind, there's no mystery why they still float around my consciousness, easily accessible whenever I need them.

The autumn of ’86 was my rebirth, or more accurately, my genesis. Eighteen years of a sheltered life beneath the roof of strict parents left me no choice but to escape to college. I high-topped into my freshman year fearful of the future. Denim pockets stuffed with a mixture of naiveté and ignorance that can only be labeled as immaturity. It was a surreal movie set, and I was just a stagehand. I was ill-prepared to deal with what the next four years had to offer. I was weak. I succumbed to one temptation. Then another. None of these sins were especially horrific, certainly not deadly. On a scale of one to seven, my worst offense would probably rate a three. Nothing to be proud of, no matter how you looked at it. The real shame lay in the simple truth that it wasn't strength or loyalty that kept me from desired taboos, it was fear. I could hide behind the façade of honor or integrity if asked why I didn't satiate certain hungers, but the simple truth was I followed a compass needled by fear. Morality was not my beacon.

It was the summer of ’88, a hot July night when one of my strongest memories evolved. A night filled with regret, but before you draw any conclusions, let me set the stage. I'll do my best to keep it brief, but accurate. I won't claim to protect the identity of those parties involved. Maybe I’ve changed some names, maybe I haven’t. It's irrelevant. Identities and locations are inconsequential. What I'm sharing are my memories. Memories of feelings. Memories of actions and regrets. Memories that have lasted thirty-five years. Hopefully, you’ll enjoy the story. Hopefully, it resonates within you for a long time.

I’ll introduce the players and how they acquired their positions. We met as virgin coeds (some figurative, some literal, and some both) in our freshman dorm, the autumn of ’86. It doesn't roll off your tongue like Mr. Adam’s Summer of ’69, but I can guarantee you it was better. The clique melded in the corner room where too much booze was binged, too much pot inhaled, and too many classes missed. As unique as it was anonymous, our circumstance kindled a flame that's been flickering for more than three decades. Bonds were forged, inhibitions dropped, and tears shed; all because, and in spite of, friendship. Freshman year breezed through the summer of ’87 and blew us across the lawn to a different dorm sophomore year. The group augmented and adapted.

Juniors could not be confined by dormitory life. Selections were made and we lived off campus. Roommates became best friends. And vice versa. Some hook-ups developed, some dissolved. Some remained desired. I was one of eight in a house not yet condemned. We occupied two of its three floors, three of the four if you included the basement, which we did. I lived on the third floor in a room for three. The severely angled ceiling stunted movement through the inconvenient space. Two tiny windows opened out above the busy street. The neighboring bar and all-night diner at one end led to a hospital at the other. Ambulances screamed along the street all night, as did the drunken frat boys waiting for greasy burgers and sloppy sorority girls. The stairway separated my room from another. Downstairs, two bedrooms shared the floor with the kitchen, a rec room, and the living room. And two bathrooms.

Paul had the single. Our girlfriends lived together in their own apartment, a bar-tempting walk away. We spent plenty of time together; the dining hall, the bars, and parties at Paul’s during the summer. Our cares were few and the good times were plenty. Occasionally, tension rose to the surface. Things weren't always perfect. But the love and admiration were genuine, and the more time we spent together, the more we realized there was something else. Well, two of us did.

Like I said, memory is a funny thing. I can’t tell you a particular moment when things changed between Rachel and me. I honestly don't remember sneaking a kiss in the stairwell. I can’t say when I first squeezed her cute ass behind the cover of the fridge when we reached for a beer. I don't recall what was said, but I'm certain I flirted with her every chance I got. I remember stolen moments during a party; created opportunities to hug her or steal a peck on the cheek. Just to be near her. To feel her. I know I was attracted to her when we first met and it escalated from then on. I remember how excited I’d get to be in the same room with her. The way I'm getting excited now, just thinking about it. Yeah, memory is a funny thing.

One of my first, and strongest memories, is that night in July, 1988. I spent the summer at college. I can't remember why, but Rachel wasn't staying at her place. She came to live in our house. She stayed in Paul’s room. Across the hall from her was Bob’s room. I don’t recall why he was there for the summer either, but you guessed it, memory is a funny thing. Although the three of us were friends, it wasn't a situation where we were just hanging out drinking, smoking, and chilling. We each had jobs (I vaguely remember taking summer classes, too) and personal agendas occupied our evenings and weekends. Sure, there were times we hung out, but not as frequently as you might think. The fact we hung out that night wasn't special, in and of itself. What happened after most definitely was.

We ended up going around the corner for some dinner and drinks. Nothing special, I'm guessing beers to wash down an assortment of fried apps. It wasn’t a late night, but we weren’t rushing to get back. Once the food rendered us heavy and the beers left us lightheaded, we swayed back to the house. My mind was buzzing. I can't speak for the rest of my party. We said goodnight and sought seclusion behind closed doors. Once I fell into bed, I realized I wouldn’t be calling it a night…

I'm laying here wondering what she’s doing. What she’s wearing. Is she thinking about me? Does she regret calling it a night like I do? Is she frustrated with Bob’s piece in the puzzle? Does she realize I'm thinking about kissing her right now? Stroking her cheek as I press my lips to hers. Gently grabbing the back of her neck, pulling her into me. Running my fingers through her hair. Is she feeling this? Are her feelings as intense as mine? I can't spend another night alone with my fantasies. I won't spend another night alone. She’s right downstairs, right below me. To hell with Bob. Fuck this! I jump out of bed and crawl through the tiny windows. I step onto the fragile eave. Its tattered gutter reaches out to whining cop cars spraying blasts of red and blue on the gray houses below. Even though its a weeknight, the street’s alive with heated life. My cloudy judgment clears as I gingerly inch my way around to the side of the house. Pressed against the siding, my toes hanging off the narrow walkway, I reach the fire escape and quietly tiptoe down the ladder to her window.

I gently tap the glass a few times. Nothing. The curtains are shut. I’m blind to what she’s doing. Is she in the bathroom? Talking to Bob? Minutes seem like hours. I didn't grab my keys, so my retreat would be my path of arrival. A risky directive. I rap my knuckles against the glass again, this time a little harder. Is it too loud? Can she hear that? Can Bob? If she can't hear me knocking, there's no way she’ll hear me whisper ‘Ray?’. Just as I raise my clenched fist to the window, the curtains are ripped open. She’s glaring at me. Shock nearly throws me off the escape into the garbage cans below.

“What the fuck are you doing,” she hisses.

She gently lifts the window and walks back to the bed. She’s wearing nothing but an oversized tee and I can't help but notice how sexy she looks. Any regrets about visiting her are left outside. I slowly shut the window. She’s looking at me from across the room. I'm trying not to stare. She’s in the t-shirt I designed for Paul’s neighbor. Her firm breasts and hard nipples press against the sheer cotton fabric. It falls loosely over the curves of her hips. She’s amazing.

“Seriously, what are you doing here? If Bob wakes up, we're both fucked!”

“Why do you think I came in through the window? He's not gonna wake up. Not if we're quiet. Do you want me to leave?”

“Well, I don't think—“

I can't wait any longer. I reach over and swallow your words. I grab your shoulders and pull you into me. Your lips are so soft. I offer you my tongue and you slip yours around it. I’m electrified, but weakened, too. You wrap your hands around my neck and run your fingers through my hair. I could kiss you all night, get lost in your soft lips and your wet tongue, but I need more of you, I want all of you. I wrap one hand around your waist. I stroke the smooth skin of your thigh with my other. My lips wander to your neck. I nibble on your ear…”I've been dying for this moment for three years, Ray”… then suck on your lobe. I lick your neck and squeeze your thigh. I can hear you breathing. I feel your hot breath against me. It's short and quick. I smell toothpaste and your last cigarette. You're driving me crazy. I can't get enough of you. I taste your salty perspiration when I suck on your neck. I'm throbbing. I rip off your t-shirt and throw it on the floor. I push you down on the bed and kiss your stomach. I lay down between your legs and run my hands over your thighs, across your belly and along your ribcage, until they cover your gorgeous breasts. I firmly massage them as I lick and kiss circles around your navel. I feel you quiver while I swell. I remove my shirt, slide up on top of you, and kiss your breasts. My fingers dance across your skin. They float over your nipples and tickle your areolas. I caress your soft flesh and take your hard nipples between my lips. You pull me tight against you and quietly purr.

You feel my erection throb when you rub your naked thigh against me. You giggle. You're enjoying the hold you've got on me. You instruct me to remove my shorts. My frantic attempt moves much too slowly, and you aid the effort. We discard the shorts and they join your shirt on the floor. Your lithe fingers wrap around my firm shaft, and I release a submissive sigh. You pull me closer, like a pet on a leash, and stroke the sensitive folds of your labia with my swollen head. You circle your clit with my wet tip. The slow, deliberate movement makes you shudder and elicits an enraptured groan from my throat. You grip me tighter and slowly guide me inside you. I grab your wrists and raise them above your head. Lacing our fingers together, I lean into you, burying myself deep inside you. I rock into you, creating a slow, rhythmic motion. Our lovemaking is passionate and intense. It flows between us like honey. I stifle your moans with deep, hard kisses. You silence my grunts with your fingers, which I insatiably suck. Your nails rake across my back as you climax. You drain me of every last drop when I orgasm…

After I collapse beside you and catch my breath, I reach down and grab your tee. I wipe the perspiration that glistens on your neck and highlights your cleavage. I go back with my lips and kiss every inch of your warm skin. I clean your smooth thighs, then wipe myself dry. As we lay naked with our limbs draped over each other, you remark that the t-shirt will be stained. You hope they’ll come out in the wash and you can wear it again. I kiss your fingers and wrists while you speak.

“Don't worry,” I answer. “If they don't, I'll take it. I’ll get you a new one.”

I wouldn't need anything to aid my memory of that night, but a keepsake would be nice. We lay there for a while, our fingers exploring each other's bodies. The tingling sensation teases us; begs us to make love again. We agree it’s a risky proposition. Soon the sun will be rising, and Bob will be wandering around the house, sniffing the cabinets for some breakfast. We foolishly reason there are thirty-one days of August ahead of us. We convince each other there will be an opportunity for another private soirée. I get out of bed, pull my shorts back on, but leave my t-shirt behind. I sneak out the window and navigate my way along the house’s broken exterior to my room.

We never had that soireé. Like I said, memory is a funny thing. Some things remain indelible.