Why Worry.
Note: This encounter was entirely consensual. Nonetheless, it may be triggering for some people. I would request you read the whole book with an open mind. Thank you.
August 1986.
Southern California.
Why Worry?
There should be laughter after pain.
There should be sunshine after rain.
These things have always been the same.
So why worry, now?
Dire Straits.
Oh fuck. Is she dead?
“Bunny? Hello?”
A boozy snore escaped her wide-open mouth, filling me with relief as I rolled off my lover. She must have fell unconscious after her climax, while I had furiously pounded away to my own. Completely oblivious to anything but the priceless white flash, Bunny’s departure from me had gone unnoticed.
This doesn’t feel right.
Or wrong...
Recalling the way countless rockstars had perished by drunkenly choking on their vomit, I pulled my twenty-four-year-old friend onto her side. My eyes and hands then slowly traced their way up and down her warm torso, admiring how Bunny’s figure remained acceptable, even though the rest of her life had clearly gone to hell.
With only moderate definition to her waist, hips, and bust, Bunny’s shape fell far short of spectacular, yet I had not been at all displeased while we slow danced at the club, a mere two hours before.
Following our staggering entry into the dingy apartment, unzipping her conservative dark blue dress had revealed a low-maintenance, womanly soft body, just as I had expected. She had never been skinny, even when we hung out in our junior year of high school, yet Bunny’s medium, five-foot-ten frame had let her carry an extra twenty pounds well. Packing on another ten since then made little difference to me.
Unfortunately, she had towered over me until my senior year, when I finally reached my thin, six-foot height. Our size difference had intimidated and hindered me from fully expressing my romantic interest.
What a jackass I was. She would have been a wonderful girlfriend back then...
No longer perky, Bunny’s handful-sized breasts had recently bounced enticingly in my face, but afterwards just hung lifeless from her chest.
While adjusting her limp arm to prevent it from leaving a bruise on the nearly translucent skin surrounding her large and faded areola, I noticed a few marks from our session, though I had not been rough with my hands or mouth. I took a moment to gently caress them.
Did I even notice Bunny’s tits in 1980?
Long and shapely legs were her best feature when she played volleyball in high school, but the muscle tone had greatly diminished, leaving them a bit flabby. Nonetheless, I had enjoyed stroking and kissing them as part of our extensive foreplay, so I bent down to run my lips across the top of her thighs. I noticed a puddle of our mixed essence, and while I didn’t feel capable of dragging her to the bathroom to urinate, I guessed washing her might help.
In the filthy kitchen sink, I ran a washcloth under warm water, then lovingly cleansed Bunny’s intimate area. The sensual contact brought forth a small moan and stretch of her leg before oblivion beckoned once more.
We could have made love in high school. What was wrong with me?
I ran a fingertip across her pale cheek, feeling the light scarring from a moderate case of adolescent acne. Even with unblemished skin, Bunny’s face ranked as merely cute, though I couldn’t find any good reason why she wasn’t beautiful. Her nose, mouth, bone structure, and dark brown eyes all seemed fine on their own, but the sum of the parts didn’t quite add up to that lofty level.
A small, iconic dimple by the left side of her mouth remained hidden, instead of temporarily raising her face to the tier of pretty. It also served to signal an array of emotions, mostly joy, but also the sadness and confusion I had caused as her recalcitrant teenage crush.
She used to have friendly, curious, wide open eyes with long lashes, but now they’re just tired and sad...
Bunny’s shoulder-length, badly permed hair laid haphazardly in a dark brown tangle across the mattress, so I gathered the curls behind her, then secured them with a gaudy pink clip from the cluttered nightstand.
Her hair was never the greatest...
Having done everything I could think of to make Bunny safe and comfortable, I pulled a grease-stained sheet over her. Next, I attempted to find my clothes by the glow of a streetlight outside her messy apartment. My pants snagged a coffee cup on the floor, making a sharp clink. Bunny incoherently slurred a few words in response.
I froze, but she blindly reached a hand to me. Her creaking voice barely registered above a whisper. “Don’t go, Mousey. Hold me.”
Feeling obligated, I crawled into the lumpy couch bed, tenderly spooning while kissing her sweaty neck and shoulders. Bunny tightened my comforting arm, then directed my fingers to her breasts. Her other hand autopiloted its way behind her, then with a wiggle of the hips and a breathy sigh, she clumsily engulfed me.
Certain that Bunny had no idea what she was doing, I tried to keep still, but couldn’t prevent myself from gently moving forward a few times. It could have been two seconds or an hour, but she eventually fell limp again.
Because it felt so good, I remained embedded and sang "Why Worry,” softly into her ear, thankful I was able to do so before she drank herself to death.
“Baby, I’ll wipe away those bitter tears.
I’ll chase away those restless fears, that turn your blue skies into grey.
Why worry?”
My eyes moistened while reminiscing about who we were as teenagers, and how I ended up in this tragic, yet beautiful coupling with Bunny.
Six intervening years had blurred the memories of our brief high school friendship, with only a flickering spotlight highlighting the key events. Heavy filters of melancholy dulled all of them, as I recalled how my adolescent fear of responding to Bunny’s subtle flirting had resulted in a huge, missed opportunity.
Perhaps, for both of us.
Sometimes, life gives you a second chance. A totally fucked up one...
YouTube playlist for the songs in this book: https://youtube.com/playlist?list=PLmYsseFgtx8xYUHTq4tYdlZfzPTjMk96T&si=1ehpH8tkhfidx7mJ
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