I took this picture of the important parts of my bride, while she was waiting to go under the knife at The Mayo Clinic today. As she disappeared down the hall, in the care of a super-medical team, my thoughts drifted to our younger days together. Two young and passionate lovers.
It was July, 2001. I was addicted to this beautiful girl. Every thought of mine was directed toward her. I lived to breathe in her scent, kiss her warm and soft lips, and do all the things that normal lovers do, wrapped naked in each other’s arms.
Except, we had to sneak around. Her parents were religious, as were we, leaving every session of love a cesspool of guilty feelings washing over us, keeping us from fully enjoying everything to be enjoyed. It was in this atmosphere that we decided to drive to every corner of the state of Minnesota – 1600 miles – camping together, alone, with no chaperone.
Her parents were worried, and rightly so. No kids, hot for each other, had the capacity to camp together without engaging in the evil sexing. But we convinced them that we were stronger than any kids they had ever known, even though we’d been having sex for months already.
Every single campsite we stopped at, we set up two tents, took pictures of those tents, then jumped into one of them, and made love for hours. That trip was one hot memory of smells and tastes and sensations and love. And lots of giggles as we creatively photographed sleeping quarters, us in genteel posed positions, looking American Gothic. We called her parents often and told stories of ducks and geese and water and mosquitoes and barely holding hands and no kissing and longing gazes into each other’s eyes and our super-human strength of abstinence.
And they believed every word.
God I loved that week.