My first love was Silvio Balos, a handsome, green-eyed Sicilian, a bad-boy who spent his short stint in public school amassing detentions, suspensions, and broken hearts. My memories are sketchy, but what I do remember seems oddly impassioned and inordinately important—strong visuals that come back easily and often, an unfamiliar wistfullness. How is it that someone I knew so long ago and for such a short period of time is with me still? Interesting what we hold on to.
I remember the high school guidance counselor sitting on the back porch of my parent’s home and warning us of all things Silvio. I remember Silvio jumping off the roof of that porch when my father came home unexpectedly. I remember driving around with one of his friends who had a license and my father waiting at the front door with a golf club in hand—all for show, but fifty years later I can almost hear the stones flying out from under the tires and feel the twist in my stomach that went along with the night.
My strongest memory, however, was when I would sleep outside (which my parents somehow allowed) on a chaise lounge, waiting for Silvio to come wake me at 1:00 a.m. (although I don’t think I ever fell asleep waiting for him). I can see the fabric of the chaise, where it sat next to the grill, I know what tee shirt I wore, the color of my panties, the color of his eyes. I would be damp and cold by the time he arrived and he would gently climb under my blanket and slowly move his body over me till we were a perfect fit. He would come night after night, hundreds, thousand of nights it seemed, and feel me up and kiss me till our lips were raw, our faces chafed, till we drifted off to sleep to wake and begin again. And then he was gone, just like that, my sweet and sexy Silvio sent to reform school. My heart was broken and sadly, my virginity intact.
Several years later, years of no communication whatsoever, Silvio called asking if he could visit. We sat on the back porch with a girlfriend I had asked over to hold my hand should he do something rash but I quickly knew that I wanted her gone, that I wanted to sit on his lap and start the kissing again. He left with every question unanswered and I never saw him again. At my high school’s tenth year reunion, Suzanne somebody told me she was crazy about Silvio but the only one he wanted was me. I could feel my nipples rise and the moisture build between my legs as she spoke. He was, our love was, a teenage-dream–like a million other teenage dreams. Except every one of those images, every touch, tease, car ride and wet night spent together lives in my recent memory, never having moved to the back of my brain to mingle with the memories of long ago. Silvio, should you ever read this post, contact me immediately.
photo credit: giphy.com