Love Like Lennon

A Story by Tim Wilkinson

When it comes to love, be careful what you ask for.

Title: Love Like Lennon

Author: Tim Wilkinson

Word Count: 2,227

Love Like Lennon

Tim Wilkinson

“Somehow,” announced Charles impulsively, breaking the hushed yet comfortable shroud of candlelit darkness surrounding him and his scantily clad lover. “I always felt that it would be different.”

“You thought what would be different,” Ashly replied, her bare, stone white breasts appearing almost translucent in the subdued and flickering light, highlighted as they were by the sandy hued, auburn tone of the surrounding summers tan.”

“You know, love, relationships; a bit of everything I guess,” continued Charles.

“Can you narrow that down just a tad, love? Are you referring to�"us?”

Pausing reflectively, Charles lay motionless, staring thoughtfully at the rotating fan hanging from the pearl colored ceiling above the bed as if choosing his words carefully, “Not exactly. I mean, I’m not talking about us only, per say, but relationships in general. I think we’ve both had enough of them to have formed a pretty good idea of how they work---or don’t.”

“Yes? That’s true. And now you’re having one with me, remember? Is there something you’re trying to tell me, Charles? You getting cold feet, having a few doubts or regrets; perhaps a little lover’s remorse?”

“No, that’s not it. As far as we go I’m happy that we met. I enjoy being with you. The sex is pretty damn good, when my s**t works that is. And of course---I do love you. I always have.”

“Always? You mean for the whole of the last seven weeks?”

“Stop being flippant, you know I fell in love with you very the night we met. But that in itself isn’t particularly extraordinary, is it? At least I don’t think so. Hell Ashly, I’ve loved every woman that I’ve ever been involved with, and a good number of others that I hardly knew. I mean I did at the time, for a while, when I could, etcetera, etcetera. But…”

“But what? What are you babbling about? Spit it out.”

“I’m not babbling. I’m trying to have discussion with you, about---well about what I’ve already said, that I always felt that relationships, my relationships, would be different somehow, that’s all.”

“Different how?”

“Just different, you know, more powerful and meaningful, maybe even a bit earthshaking, madcap, desperately passionate and God forbid, intense. But it didn’t happen like that. It never has, and now I’m just wondering why, that’s all. Why didn’t I? Why didn’t I find that world-wind, life changing, soul altering romance that I always thought and dreamt that I would; the kind that inspires infatuated poets and love sick lyricists; the kind that novels are written about, songs penned and movies scripted? Seems somehow that I’ve missed something, been cheated, crooked, or lied to. I feel as if I was fed a line, handed a bill of goods, or been offered a basket full of rosy promises, promises that in reality were nothing more than a pile of deception and deceit hidden beneath a layer of rose colored straw.”

“I mean I grew up having certain expectations about what life and love and romance were all about. How could I not, surrounded as I was, as we all were with the songs and the stories, the fairy tales and the movies? Come on, all you need is love, money can’t buy you love, eight days a week, and in the end the love you get is equal to the love you make. Was it all a lie? Was I just a naïve and silly, over testosteroned, underdeveloped, emotionally unequipped, overly masturbated fool to believe that such a thing even existed? That this mist shrouded, ethereal ideal of some mystical, classical, nuclear powered bond between two reciprocal souls was anything more than a childish myth? And if so, what then of John Lennon and all the other equally famous, world renowned, everlasting and eternal love affairs?

Hell Ashly, even before I reached puberty I was certain that it was only a matter of time before I met and locked eyes with my one and only, and forever sealed our fates. It simply had to be, because that was the dream, that was the promise, and that’s what happened in all the stories and the movies, or was supposed to. And so I searched for it, or her, and I waited, and I waited, and I searched. But every time I thought to myself that, this is the one, it turned out that I was wrong. And in each and every instance either I ended up settling for far less than I wanted, or she did; settled because one or the other of us was lonely, or horny, needy, or desperate, or simply because what we had was comfortable enough, predictable enough, or just plain olé good enough---for the moment. Do you understand what I’m saying, what I’m asking?”

“Maybe. So what was it that you expected, exactly?”

“I expected the dream, that’s what. I expected that eventually I’d find that once in a lifetime, world class, Ono and Lennon love affair; that Romeo and Juliet, Helen and Paris, Paul and Linda, life-altering connection, one that would set the course and define the essence of my entire life; one who’s genuine and honest heat would fan the flames of lust and singe the brows of all who dared to look, filling their hearts with hopeful and expectant envy; The kind of love affair that causes little old ladies to wink and knowingly smile whenever they gaze across the crowded room at the twin souls seated side by side in the darkened booth at the far corner of the restaurant.”

“Wow! Seems, you’ve thought a lot about this.”

“Only since the age of five, that’s all. Because that’s really all I’ve ever wanted Ashly, to love like Lennon. All my other dreams, desires and wishes---they were secondary, secondary because everything else must surely follow the first. Yet here I am, fifty years later, no closer now than I was then. And I can honestly say that to this very day I’ve never once experienced the level of commitment that Yoko and John shared, or loved with that degree of certainty and unwavering emotion. Because never Ashly, never have I known such a fanatical, unquestioning attachment to another human being, much less a lover.”

“Boy, you do know how to flatter a girl, don’t you? So what am I then, just another bean in the pot?”

“No, you’re not getting my point. This isn’t about you or us. What we have is a good thing, and it’s worthwhile, but so were most of the romances that I’ve had, with a few exceptions of course. But don’t you see? They all lacked the power, the thrust, the wild and abandoned immediacy of the moment, and not one of them compares, or even comes close to mirroring what John and Yoko found.”

“And you believe that you still want something like that, at your age?”

“Hell yes! Who wouldn’t?”

“Well me for one. I’ve had my share of drama, obsessional dementia, and raw, whisker burned n*****s. No way Romeo. You can keep all the, ‘if I can’t have you I’ll kill myself’, bullshit. Been there, done that. No, I prefer a more relaxed---and sane love affair, thank you very much. And what’s so bad about comfortable and easy?”

“But it’s much more than only that, don’t you see. It’s not only about obsessive fixations and neurotic attachments, even though all relationships that potent and singular must contain some degree of those things, don’t you think? And there’s no questioning the fact that John was well known for his tendencies in that direction, and for his rebellious and jealous nature. All I’m saying is that I have never loved like John did, and that I’ve never known that the one I’m with is the one and only for me, the best, most perfect mate possible, that she is my one on one, with no doubts or reservations, from this life to the next, forever soulmate. And is it really so very strange or insulting for me to think or to say that I sometimes feel that I’ve missed something, or to wish that I could love like Lennon, and receive the same in return?”

“What I think is that you’re pushing your luck here, bud. You’re damn right it’s insulting and hurtful. And why do you feel the need to tell me all of this, and why now? Are we that bad together? Is this some weak dick, cowardly way of breaking up with me?”

“No, that’s not it at all. It’s not a fault of us necessarily, but it does directly point to a fault, or faults in me. Don’t you see? What I am asking you is this, what is there about me that precludes the possibility. What am I lacking? Why can’t I love that honestly, that effectively, and with such loyalty and steadfast dedication? And why can’t I inspire that in the women I love? All I’m saying is that I’ve never known that, been that, and never loved that powerfully and that permanently. What’s worse, I’ve never known a woman who loved me the way Yoko loved John. And that, I think is the biggest disappointment of all, having to accept the fact that I wasn’t, that I’m not, and that I never will be cherished, loved, or admired that way; that I’m not worthy enough, handsome enough, charming, sexy, intelligent, creative, kind, giving, talented, or good enough in bed to qualify, to earn, or to deserve such a committed, resolute, and enduring love. No, I’ve not ever experienced that level of stubborn and dogged affection, and it’s sure never been felt of me. And yes, I f*****g want it.”

“So what do you propose, a bit of poison, a sharpened blade thrust under the ribs? You think that will sort you out? How about if I find some under-medicated Salinger fan to approach you from behind, call out your name and fill your back full of .38 holes while I watch you die. Or maybe you’d prefer to slice off an ear and send it to your latest conquest, via Government Express. Or wait, I know, why not be the cause of your entire civilizations downfall, its complete and utter destruction, as well as the cause of the wholesale sodomy, rape, and murder of each and every one of its citizens; and all for the licking privileges of a single, blond-haired, closely shaven, peach-scented slice of olive-toned, Greek-flavored p***y. Any particular preference there, a*****e? Would that set your sphincter alight and get your wood throbbing like it’s being worked by an eighteen-year-old, Chinese porn star with a forked, six inch, wrap around tongue?”

“Now, calm down. I’m just saying.”

“Oh, I hear exactly what you’re saying, lover boy. Now let me tell you something. When I was an inquisitive and lonely little teenage girl, eager to explore the budding, sensual delights of my ripening body, curious about what so many of my BFF's were whispering, bragging, and lying about, I read an old book that my father had tucked away on the top shelf of his bedroom bookcase titled, Famous Sex Crimes in history. In it, I found a quaint little story dating from somewhere back in the fifteenth or sixteenth century. The story was a simple, plainly stated narrative about an English ambassador visiting a far away, East Asian land. Yet unfortunately for him, it seems this particular emissary had been discovered and arrested by the palace guard for dawdling dinkies with several of the emperors few hundred wives, along with his favorite, twelve-year-old, boy-toy. And for this he was summarily sentenced to death. Now because the exact nature of this punishment and the actual means of its execution were a closely guarded state secret, the emperor wasted little time in administering it. So the very next morning the accused found himself stripped naked and bound to a large, wood framed bed, his body covered in floral scented oils, and his privates subjected to the erotic, carnal talents of the local sex witch; a magical, almost mythical sorceress the emperor regularly employed for this, and other more personal activities. What ensued was twenty-three hours of the most delicate, intimate, talented and irresistible manual manipulation that has ever been documented or imagined. And as the story goes, that poor, foolish devil of an Englishman who couldn’t seem to keep his britches up past his knees, suffered his fate in rapturous, ecstatic anguish all that night and throughout the next day. Until, just as the sun touched the western horizon and night once again settled upon the distant, Asian realm, he suddenly and violently died; passing into eternity with one last, massive, bursting ejaculation of spurting, orgasmic agony, as his life’s blood gushed from his blackened and swollen, tenderly abused member, soaking and forever staining the far wall of his cell, well over five feet away.”

“And you tell me this s**t, why?”

“Why!” Ashly shouted, yanking the sheets and the plush, floral patterned comforter off the bed and tossing them to the floor. “So you want once in a lifetime, ground shaking, world-class passion, do you? Just remember dick head, you asked for it.”