Anja – A (Short) Love Story
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Anja – A (Short) Love Story
by A Vixen Literally©
She was beautiful, my Anja. My god… she took my breath away, literally, every time I looked at her.
An inch taller than my five foot eight, she was a model. No surprise there!!! It was as if God had wandered up and down the aisles, designing her, piece by piece. Ash blonde hair. (I hate my hair!! Your hair has a fullness, waves!!) Gorgeous blue eyes that twinkled with laughter, usually at something silly I would say or do as I fell all over myself to please her. Small, perfect breasts with gorgeous nipples that turned stone hard at my touch. They barely filled a B-cup, and it was just enough for my mouth to engulf as I pleasured her… and them.
A tiny waist. (“I can’t eat that,” she’d say as she ate one piece of yet another salad) Legs that I swear you could feast on for a weekend, never leaving the bed. (Giggling!) Calves so shapely, firm, and slender I could wrap my hand around them. (My hands are quite feminine but large. What can I say!!) She’d squirm, sigh, moan, and try to pull me up to her mouth as I bathed her in kisses.
“Maggie Mae, my love, you’re killing me with your attention. Come let me kiss you.” Her voice carried a hint of the old country in it.
She was born across the pond, in what we now call the Czech Republic. Her parents, god rest their souls, were totally old world. They came to the US when she was still a baby, wanting to give her the best possible chance for a good life. How they bought the cute, solid brownstone is beyond me. There was heavy, solid furniture and odd little tokens of things scattered everywhere in the living room. A perpetual smell of bread or other fabulous smelling old world recipe that made your mouth water. Her father fixed shoes, purses… that sort of thing. Short, sturdy, handsome in a rugged sort of way. He didn’t talk much. He doted on his rather homely, squat wife, whose face had a perpetual look of dourness. They spoke thickly accented English… sparingly.
I was never completely comfortable around them, though they gave no outward appearance of disapproval that I was so in love with their daughter. My Anja, their only child, was mush in their hands, completely devoted. I have NO idea how they could afford to pay for her education and the rest. They did, she told me, in their stoic and old fashioned way.
It was a brisk, sunny September day. Downtown, on the Magnificent Mile, I wandered, window shopping. Paying no attention whatsoever to foot traffic around me, I bumped into her. Furious with myself, I hurriedly apologized while my eyes lifted to hers. I quickly took in her incredibly beautiful features as my jaw dropped and I stood stock still, immobile, gawking, in a trance, mesmerized by the beauty who looked at me with a mild look of amusement.
“I’m terribly sorry,” was my feeble pronouncement. “My god you’re beautiful.” The words poured from my mouth before I could stuff them back where they came from. I felt my face flush, my eyes looked away in my awkward silliness. “I’m such an idiot.”
“I’m Anja. Thank you. Most people won’t even make eye contact with me.” She laughed. I wanted to sweep her off her feet and… I don’t even know what. “You’re cute; I was on my way to Water Tower for lunch. Care to join me?”
I laugh now. I mean… really? Like I would have said no!!
I was 24; she hadn’t yet turned 20 when we met. I’d known I was gay since before high school. I had broken up with someone about four months before that Saturday. I’d vowed to never open my heart again, to anyone. Until her. I have to stop for a bit. I have tears.
We sat, side by side, in the restaurant, me ogling her like some gangly, love struck teenager. I had no idea if she was gay, let alone if she was attracted to me. I felt like the world’s biggest dork as I sat, in a mesmerized fog, totally smitten by her beauty, her casual way of complete elegance. Everything about her, everything she did, was smooth, effortless, and graceful. I know this is completely silly – but I couldn’t imagine her having a period. Ridiculous, isn’t it? Why on earth would God allow her to suffer from our curse. Do you know what I mean?? Have you ever had an Anja in your life?
Even her name was soft and sexy. You’d think the ‘j’ would be hard, but she pronounced it like it was spelled Anya.
I wanted to get a cab, take her back to my smallish apartment, and spend the rest of the weekend in bed with her. I was so infatuated I could barely carry on a lucid, adult conversation. And she liked me. Honest to god, I can’t imagine it, even now, all these years later. I can honestly say that I spent my time with her completely confused, not daring to believe this petite, feminine beauty could ever have crossed my path, let alone spending a moment being interested in me.
Do I sound too much like I was spellbound, smitten by this temptation in heels, that I overlooked what flaws she may have had?
Is there a point there somewhere?
“I think I’m in love with you, which is patently ridiculous, as we’ve literally just met.”
She bahis firmaları stared in disbelief as I blushed, furious with myself for blurting out that hideously irrational truth. See, that’s the thing about my Anja. I quite literally fell in love with her that silly, crazy, wonderful Saturday.
“You’re… you like women?” I nodded, stupefied, terrified I had lost any chance with her, burdened with the harsh reality of my foolishness.
“Yeah, I’m a lesbian. I’ve known I prefer women since I was a girl, in high school.” I shrugged. “I’m sorry, Anja, I shouldn’t have been so forward. It was wrong of…” She leaned in and kissed me. On the lips. It was the softest, sweetest kiss I’d ever…
I’m sorry. I had to stop again.
I think I should explain what I’m doing and why. I’m 57. It’s been over 30 years since that bright, fabulous Saturday. My Anja graced my life with her presence, her love, and her passion for two years. Two years, nine months, and twenty seven days.
We were both at work when I got the call. I was a claims adjuster at a national insurance company with offices downtown. Dull work, not stimulating in the least. Anyway, the call came. In a panic, I grabbed my things, pulled on my coat as I waited for the elevator.
“What’s wrong, Maggie?” The question came from Debs, the pretty 22 year old who worked across the desk from me. Her face crumpled when I mumbled my response. “Oh my god. Go; I’ll let Mr. Gibbons know. Geezuz, honey, I hope she’s okay.” We were friends in the way we are with people we work with. Catholic and Irish, she blanched when I told her I was gay. Life was quite different back then, as I’m sure you all know. But she seemed happy for me, happy that I was happy. That sort of thing. Debs got married a few years later to her Dale, who she’d known since they were in high school together. She quit her job when she got pregnant with their first child, and stayed home to care for her family afterward.
I flagged down a cab and gave the name of the hospital.
“Please hurry!” My voice was thick with fear and desperation.
The ride was short; I paid the fare and ran into the emergency room, looking for a nurse. I gave her Anja’s name. I followed her to a desk, where she scanned a list of some sort. Stony faced, she said, “She’s in surgery. You can stay here or you can go to the fifth floor waiting room.” Panic gripped my heart. I didn’t know what to do, where to go. Should I call her parents? What would I tell them? The willowy brunette took my arm and led me to an elevator. “Let someone know who you are and who you’re waiting for,” she said, “so they can notify you when she’s in recovery.” The door opened, she half pushed me in and pushed the button for the fifth floor. “I hope she’s okay, honey. Good luck.” Her smile was thin as she said it; she turned and headed back to work.
The dour nurse in the nurses’ station said, “Have a seat, please, Miss Hendricks. I’ll have the doctor speak to you when he finishes.” Something in her eyes had me instantly weepy, fearful that whatever was coming wasn’t going to be good.
We spent more than a few weekends at Lincoln Park Zoo. There was a lake; you could rent paddleboats that were powered by your feet. My beauty would sit, smiling, as I sang, badly. She’d giggle and blush as I sang of my love for her. It was the summer of the following year after that silly, wonderful Saturday we’d met. She’d let me into her heart. It was as soft and loving as the rest of her.
She’d hesitated when I asked if I could see her again that Saturday.
“I… I don’t think I’m gay, Maggie.” Margaret Mae. Maggie Mae… yeah, just like the Rod Stewart song. Thanks a lot, Mom! Yeesh.
“Anja, honey, I just want to see you again. I’m smitten. I can’t help it.” She flushed and looked away, embarrassed. I wanted to devour her whole. Tear her apart, inch by inch, with my mouth and fingers. I just knew that her fabulous figure would melt in my hands, under my touch. I wanted to give her everything I knew how to give, teasing and pleasing as she writhed, pleading, desperate for release, which I would tease her with before giving in.
Supple as she was lean, her legs trembled as I pleasured her pussy with my tongue.
Oh! That was months after we met, by the way.
“I’m scared, Mags.” It was her favorite nickname for me. She was such a delicious kisser that I knew she’d be an equally amazing lover. But I never pressed her… well, until I couldn’t stand it anymore. “I don’t know how to be with a woman. Will you be gentle with me?” So, so cute.
I would scream into my pillow as I furiously frigged myself into oblivion, night after fevered night. She filled my nights with imagined passion, our lovemaking consuming us both, as we teetered at the blurry edges of imagined bliss. I wore out so many batteries I started buying them in eight packs. I would stagger into the shower every morning in a lust filled fog, sore as hell from my nightly obsession.
It was sweet, slow, hesitant, and the air was thick with barely hidden, wanton passion that first time we made kaçak iddaa love.
She was gone a lot, busy with photo shoots, traveling to exotic places I’d heard of but only dreamed of visiting.
“I meet the most glamorous people, Mags, who for the most part treat me like dirt.” It made my blood boil. “But they pay me very well, so I just smile.”
She let me take her picture one night. It was a Tuesday; we’d gone out to dinner and were back at my place. She was nude, save for her black patent leather high heels. Right leg crossed over extended left, left hand behind her neck, right arm across her hip, her head turned a bit to the left as she looked at me. I’d had to use the ladies room. She was sitting up in the bed against the headboard.
She made my pussy damp fully dressed, so you can imagine what happened when I saw her like that.
“Pictures? Of me?? Like this?? Oh my god, no! I can’t.”
“Baby, you’re so beautiful. I want a picture, for me. No one else will ever see it. We’re gonna grow old together and love each other till the end of time. When we’re old, I want to be able to remember you the way you are today. Please, may I?”
She was crying, not believing I’d said what I had about us, together, that way. She had that way about her, with me. I did and said the most absurd things. The sight of her, even after we moved in together, left me speechless, a blithering idiot. God how I loved her!!
The picture was perfect. Her hair was tousled. She had insisted on a thin black scarf across her nose, eyes and forehead. I never complained; she wanted some kind of way to hide herself, in case the picture ever got away from me. Fat chance!! I still have it.
The doctor was a tall, handsome fellow with thick black hair and a strong, masculine chin. Gray had started to creep into the edges of his hair.
“The next twelve to 24 hours will be critical, Ms. Hendricks. The blow to the back of her head did a lot of damage. An injury like this is hard to predict. I can’t give you a definite answer about whether she’ll come out of this in good shape.” His blue eyes were flat as he spoke. “We think she’ll wake up when the anesthesia wears off, but we’re all going to have to wait and see.” He put a hand on my shoulder and patted it. “It’s not easy being in my shoes, having to tell someone like you this sort of news. We’ll both hang in there and hope for the best.”
I heard it all and died inside. She had looked at me this morning when we kissed and said our goodbyes. She was headed to another shoot and I was headed to dull and boring. “Every movement I make is a reminder of last night.” She said it with a smirk that spoke of ownership and a job well done. I’d blushed under her gaze. To think of how completely she’d come around to our side still filled me with awe. And unabashed joy.
She was as timid as a virgin the first time we made love. “I’m scared, Maggie.” We were naked, in my bed. We had been dating for six months. She was still hesitant to use that word. “Can we just say ‘going out together?'” Like I cared. She’d had my heart since that September day. Every time she’d fly out to another city, yet another country, I lived in fear that she’d come back with a somber pronouncement. “I’ve met someone.” Not hearing from her left me in a panic. I tried, foolishly, to hide it from her. My clue should have been our phone calls. She called every night, religiously, wherever she was. Even if it was just a few minutes, she called.
She was in France the first time she told me she loved me. I cried a river, sobbed helplessly as my heart filled with joy and wonder.
I stood over her bed and looked at her, head swathed in white gauze, her beautiful features blackened by deep bruising. A nurse held my hand as I cried. Harsh, deep sobs that wracked my body. When I could barely stand, she turned me to her and pulled my head to her shoulder. I circled her neck with my arms.
“We made love last night. She kissed me goodbye this morning. I can’t believe this has happened to me… to her… us.” She patted my back in silence. There were no words of comfort she could offer. Doreen was her name. Pretty green eyes and gorgeous red hair. In different circumstances I might have taken a chance with her. But this me wasn’t remotely interested. She and I kept in touch in the months that followed. We even had dinner once… not a date by any means. I was a wreck, an empty shell of a human.
“It gets better with time, honey,” she said softly, knowing full well how hollow it sounded. I hated when people said it to me, even as well intentioned as it was.
It was raining the day she died. She never regained consciousness.
She’d been in a pedestrian crossing on north Michigan Avenue, looking south, when a southbound bus hit the back of her head with one of the mirrors. That was what a witness had told the police, who’d been called, along with an ambulance.
A one-in-a-million accident, they’d said. Ain’t that wonderful!! I cursed the same fate that had brought her to me for her injury. The mirror has sent her sprawling; her head thudding kaçak bahis on the curb when she fell, unconscious.
I had kissed her, crying the whole time. I wasn’t sure she could hear me when I whispered, my voice thick, “Go softly into the night, my beautiful Anja. Our time together has been a fairy tale of good fortune. To lose you so suddenly, after such a short hello, is too cruel and so stupid.” Tears fell on her face as I murmured, “Thank you for giving me the gift of your love.” I smoothed her blonde hair. Her skin was warm; too warm. It was a telling sign of the battle her body was raging with itself.
“We don’t get much brain activity, I’m sorry to say. She hasn’t awakened yet and it’s not clear she will.” Still in shock, I listened numbly as the doctor talked to me. Debs had cried with me when I told her what happened. Helpless, knowing there was no way to truly comfort me, she cried with me and for me.
Her parents were wrecks, numb, grey with pain, stoic in their silent grieving. Healthy as horses, they both died within a year. The death certificates listed medical causes. There is nothing on a death certificate that showed the real culprit – a broken heart.
Our six month anniversary was the first time we made love. A romantic dinner, perfect in every detail.
“I think it’s time, Mags,” she’d said, slowly, unsure of herself. “I want to give myself to you.” I had kissed her, softly, every last cell of my body wanting to devour every inch of her, weak as she made me with her beauty.
As I took off her clothes I kissed her, soft little kisses that had her moaning with unfamiliar passion. Not a virgin by any means, she wasn’t the least bit shy about her body. Not much of a surprise, given her occupation. That was what she had confided after, as we lay panting, our bodies covered in a thin sheen of perspiration.
She had cried, too. “I never imagined it would be like that, Maggie. I guess I didn’t know what to expect, even though we’d been intimate some. Will you show me how to give you pleasure? I don’t know if I can be as good as you were, but I’ll sure try.” Heavy eyes smoldered with the after effect of our lovemaking.
She destroyed me. I admit – there would have been little she would have done to me that wouldn’t have pleased me. I wanted her to love me, to use me any way she wanted. I would have sworn she had done this before. She kept looking at me, trying to gauge if she was doing it right. It got so my eyes wouldn’t open as she loved me. And it only got better. She got bolder, took more chances, tried a host of new things. Well, things new to her. Some I had taught her. Some she’d taught me.
Active, energized, engaged. That described her perfectly – in and out of bed. To be in love with her was a whirlwind of new, giddy heights of ecstasy. It made her death all the more tragic.
“I can’t believe she’s gone. It’s just not possible.” Yeah, I know. People I had never met said those words, and others like them, at the memorial service. Maybe it was all the trips to far flung places. We had no reason to talk about dying, as young as we were. She wanted to be cremated. I couldn’t cry any more than I was… had. I couldn’t bear the thought of that body devoured by flames. But her soul had fled, and the shell that remained was cold. Still beautiful to look at. But…
I wouldn’t listen to Debs or my boss, Jim Gibbons. “Take as long as you need, Maggie. Your job will be here when you’re ready.” Life had no meaning; I couldn’t bear the drudgery of my job.
Thirty plus years have come and gone. I think about her every day. My Mother finally insisted I go to a shrink. “You can’t sit around like this, moping. Grief is grief, honey, but you’ve got to pull yourself together and get on with living.” I knew she was right and paid no attention.
I found a job. A very different job. Something I could do in my sleep, without thinking, without being engaged. The obvious outcome of that was me getting fired. So I moved from job to job.
The shrinks couldn’t help me. I missed her. Nothing and no one could fill the void she had left. One of them suggested I write about her, about us. I remember looking at her with naked scorn.
“I’m not a writer. Besides, I don’t want people to know about our intimate moments. They’re private and sacred to me. It’s like the picture of Anja that I still have.” It was in a frame that sat on the nightstand next to my bed. I was torn. I liked Kitty and was tempted to show her the picture, even though my Anja was nude.
God that had been such a beautiful night. She cried out when her orgasm ripped her apart. Her fingers hurt my hair as I lapped up her scented essence as it poured from her. “Mags, oh my god, baby, you’re going to kill me.” My heart burst with joy. This beauty had given herself to me in the most beautiful, intimate way possible. Her legs shook, her tummy rolled as she panted and tried to understand what was happening to her. Again and again, until she finally, whimpering, begged me to stop. But I kept after her, drawing one more screaming excursion into shuddering surrender from her gorgeous, feminine form. She lay in a heap, my arm around her waist, pressed to her back, as she huddled, shivering.. The sobs were soft, gentle, tearing my heart into little pieces.
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