A Forbidden Love

Submitted by: Adamswife

When I was in high school I studied German.  For two years in German class I had a crush on the guy who sat across the aisle from me:  John.  John was tall and dark and to my eye handsome.  He was also very smart.  All the things I found most attractive.  And he had deep, dark brown eyes.  But John is not the object of this forbidden love.

The second year I studied German our teacher was a young man, fresh from college and single.  There was just something about him.  John was still there, still making my heart go pitty-pat, but there was just something about Herr Eborn that I could not resist.  He was young enough that he still blushed very nicely on occasion.  I found that rather endearing.  There were times he seemed to be flirting with one or another of the girls in the class.  I suffered such pangs of jealousy.  Didn’t he know I was the smartest girl in the class?  I had the best grades?  My accent was nearly flawless and my grammar perfect?  How could he be attracted to someone else?  I never knew just what there was about Herr Eborn.  After all, John was my first loyalty  - wasn’t he?  Several years later I found out that Mrs. Eborn (he got married during the summer after that year) was rather jealous of one of her husband’s students - me!  Could it be?  Was the irresistible attraction due to that greatest of charms?  Someone who found me attractive and, perhaps, irresistible?  Why didn’t he wait for me?  One of life’s mysteries.

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Submitted by: Greatfullivin

My selection this week is Forbidden Love…..it is definately not for those faint of heart.

Sweetie and I have a wonderful relationship, at this point. It was not always so great. Most days our biggest worry is keeping his cholesterol down. Isn’t it funny how priorities change as we age. We try hard to take care of our health now. It is not so much about romance, or that tingle I used to get. I have never considered myself a “cheater” but I must confess, I have not always been faithful…

I started this relationship many many years ago. My dearest friends have no idea. It wasn’t always wrong. Clandestine meetings for lunch. Once in awhile we would have dinner together. Our mornings together were always the best. His smell before my shower has always been enough to keep me going all day. I could remember, couldn’t I?

Sweetie started staying away from home for work a couple years ago. I am ashamed to admit it but I could not resist the temptation of this long standing affair. I knew at this point in my life it was wrong but my willpower to resist just wasn’t there. He somehow always managed to make me feel better. It all started again when I innocently ran into him at the grocery. We started to spend some evenings together. It wasn’t long before my forbidden love was staying for breakfast. Soon all the memories came rushing back. I try so hard to limit our involvement. I am sure one day Sweetie will come home early and we will be here together. Sometimes the guilt overwhelms me. But for now, I continue. I keep telling myself I will give him up, but I just don’t. Sometimes, after spending the evening together I wake up to his salty taste still on my lips. His sweet smell still lingering….he always leaves me wanting more. So this must remain our secret. Until I can introduce him to Sweetie. Oh,… Sweetie knows who he is, but he is not allowed here.

On Thursday Sweetie goes to the dr. I am hoping I will finally be able to share my forbidden love….of bacon.

 

Submitted by: Selma in the City

When I was 19 I had a bit of a bad year. I think the best way to describe it was that I was steeped in disenchantment. I don’t really know what triggered it but as I have mentioned before in my late teens my mother became intent on curing me of depression. I was subjected to a variety of treatments and supposed cures which left me, even awake, feeling like I was in the midst of a nightmare.

So I fled to Ireland and the comfort of my Grandmother’s arms and my cousin, Patrick’s, anarchic attitude to life, both of which did a great deal to cheer me. I was burnt out, I was faded. I held my breath as the chill air from the North Atlantic settled on my skin, but it restored me.

Patrick had a friend from University. Aiden O’Flaherty was typically Irish. Tall and lithe with a crop of black hair that looked like it had never seen any side of a comb. He walked with ease through the village. I feared he was too sure of himself but people treated him with affection.

As I got to know him I experienced something other than the feeling that the earth was oppressive. For the first time in months. I grew ardent, exuberant. My Grandmother’s expression grew stony.

For those of you who didn’t grow up in Ireland in the 60s, 70s and early 80s, I need to explain to you that a type of civil war existed at the time. Catholic was pitted against Protestant under the guise of seeking a unified Ireland.

I saw some horrible instances of violence and bigotry which still shock me when I think about them. All in the name of religion.

Although an extremely devout Catholic, my Grandmother could be open-minded when necesary. When Aunt Jo got divorced from her alcoholic, abusive husband she was supportive. When my Catholic mother married my Protestant father she swallowed her misgivings and opened her arms. But when she learned I was seeing Aiden she assumed the guise of vengeful Angel.

‘He is not welcome in this house,’ she said. ‘Under any circumstance.’

At first I couldn’t figure out why she was so adamant, why she had taken such a dislike to someone she barely knew. Aiden was bright, good-looking, studying Economics at a prestigious University. Then Patrick filled me in. Two words - Sinn Fein.

Sinn Fein is the political arm of the IRA. It seems that Aiden’s father had worked for a while as an advisor to Gerry Adams, the leader of Sinn Fein. It was anyone’s guess as to where his sympathies lay but the connection was enough for my Grandmother. You see she hates the IRA. It is the only time I have heard her use the word. Hate. Ever.

It was often assumed that if you were a Catholic living in Ireland back then that you were completely in agreement with everything the IRA did. That was actually a bit of a fallacy. Hardly anyone I know sympathised with the brutality of their methods. I remember being horrified at some of the things they did in the name of the Irish people.

My Grandmother never forgave them for the death of her brother who was caught in one of their blasts in the 70s when visiting friends in Northern Ireland. She referred to them as murderers from that day forward. ‘We are all Irish and we’re fighting each other,’ she often said. ‘For what?’

I was starry-eyed and careless. I didn’t believe for a moment that Aiden had any ties to the IRA. He was a free spirit. We walked on the beach, eating hot chips from newspaper, talking of art and music, laughing at The Young Ones. He was just like me. He cared about people. He could never condone violence of any kind, especially brother against brother.

As my Grandmother’s eyes grew colder I decided to broach the subject with him, to see exactly where he was coming from. ‘We’re fighting our own people,’ I offered as we discussed recent problems in Belfast. ‘They’re as Irish as we are. It’s wrong to hurt them. To kill them.’

‘No,’ he countered. ‘We’re more Irish. They’re British lapdogs. They’re nothing.’

His eyes were black, pitiless. My head was filled with a roaring sound which I thought was fear but later realised was dismay.

For a few days, a week, I played with Aiden’s limitations, hoping things would change, but the wind grew raw and the light grew sallow. And my heart grew sad. And I knew I had to choose. It’s the first time I’ve ever put my principles ahead of what I felt in my heart and it hurt like hell. But I knew at some place beyond where my heart lay, that my Grandmother was right.

So Aiden and I parted. He protested, painting a picture of a happy life. I asked him one more question. It was a test the way a maiden tests a knight.

‘Would you save the life of a man who was a Protestant?’ I asked.

Aiden didn’t answer. I was full of grief and could do nothing but see how it really was. The air was quiet with loneliness but I couldn’t refute his position. I didn’t stay