I usually liked this coffee place, because it was the only one that I knew in Boston that played jazz. That is why I would walk several kilometers in the early cold of October to have breakfast there, every morning. But although I have always admired both Ella Fitzgerald and Georges Gershwin, I could never stand that song. It feels like a lie: it just sounds too soothing. And it is not at all what it feels like, to have a crush.
The guy who coined the expression, I bet he knew. This word carries my emotion so well. "Crush". Like a worm under the boot of a beautiful woman. Notice how it starts like "cruel" and ends with "shhh," as if the word commands silence. I could never sum up the courage to talk to Esther in high school.
What was it about her that made me so obsessed with her? Was it the unique shade of her dark-blue eyes, or the soft curve of her slightly curled blond hair? The sweetness of her smile or the delicate harmony of her traits? It would have made things so much easier if I could pretend my attraction for her was only physical and superficial. But, in truth, I admired her. Always first in class, she made it to Harvard. She wanted to become a doctor and work for a humanitarian organization.
Still sitting at that coffee shop, my eyes caught the back of a girl's hair, which was the same blond shade as hers. A familiar pang hit my stomach. Two years after I left high school, I had never seen her again. But every so often, I would have the impression of recognizing her from afar. In the end, it was never her, but I ended up being dizzy. I knew I was sick—mentally sick. But the psychologist I've seen could not help.
The girl turned and looked at me. She smiled and came towards me. As she approached, I felt the knot in my stomach tighten. The resemblance was really striking.
"Hello Anthony, how are you? Long time, no see."
I could not believe it. It was her. And she remembered my name.
"I am happy to see you!" she continued, sitting at my table.
Happy to see me? What should I have said? There was not a single day that I spent without thinking about her. Because of her, all my relationships had failed so far. Because of her, I was still a virgin. Could I honestly date another girl, when each time I closed my eyes for a kiss, I would think of her? When every time I had an orgasm, I would conjure up her image in my imagination.
"Happy to see you too. What are you doing here?"
With a thousand thoughts running through my brain, I could barely listen to her answer. I went through the conversation like a robot, not managing to talk properly but hearing with delight her melodious voice. She looked even more irresistible than I remembered, so much so that it caused me actual pain to look at her. It should be forbidden to be so beautiful, I thought. I couldn't help noticing that she was not wearing a bra, that her breasts were so very firm, and that she had a very low décolleté. I could see the shape of her erect nipples through the fabric. I asked myself whether she was leaning towards me on purpose and whether the fact that she was running her fingers through her hair was a sign of nervousness. Suddenly, one of her remarks sent a chill through my spine.
"I have thought a lot about you since we left high school. I know we never really talked to each other, but I always found it cute—how shy you were, and how obvious it was that you had a crush on me."
*
I was sitting nervously in her living room.
"I am letting you guys get to know each other better. I am going to put on something more comfortable," she declared.
When she left the living room, I took a good look at her boyfriend. No matter how jealous I felt, I could not deny she had good taste. Tall and muscular, he was elegantly dressed. His face exuded an air of intelligence and softness that nicely contrasted with the sharpness of his body. At that very moment, he looked embarrassed, though.
"Thank you so much for doing this," he said. "I know it might sound weird, but she does not want to have sex otherwise."
We sat for a minute in silence. He continued, "I wish things were different, but I cannot refuse her anything. Who can say no to such a girl?"
There was a knot in my throat, so I sighed deeply as an answer.
"She is just driving herself too hard! Always studying like crazy, running competitively, working for a charity on the weekend... The girl just needs a way to let the steam out, you know? And this is how she does it."
Esther came back into the living room. She had passed a beautiful transparent night dress, through which one could guess the shape of her breasts. Her long legs were covered by stockings attached to her thighs by delicate lace garters.
"What do you think?" she asked, before slowly turning, letting us admire the round and firm cheeks of her muscled buttocks, separated by the thin fabric of a G-string underwear. She pressed herself sensually against the wall with an undulating movement, curving her back, first approaching her breasts, then rolling forward her hips, as if she wanted to impale herself on an imaginary dildo.