NAVEL GAZING: excessive absorption in self-analysis or focus on a single issue

Pippa

I have conflicting emotions when recalling memories of Pippa. She was attractive and quirky; each quality enhanced as she spoke with her London-born accent. We became friends while working together at Dun & Bradstreet. When we first met, she was in her mid-twenties, and I was nearing the end of mine.
She brightened business meetings and was the source for much silliness and laughter between us.

I remember being together at a conference in Beacon Hill, where Pippa and I, recently promoted, represented a newly formed consulting arm within the Information Resources division. Prior to then, our division had the primary responsibility of gathering the raw data used to create risk assessment products. Our consultant roles served to generate additional revenue, from what had been previously a data gathering operation. I never identified with the façade that seemed to accompany employment with D&B. In reality, the day to day operation more closely matched the 60 Minute exposé that revealed our working conditions as that of a "white-collared sweat shop." I never saw myself as a hoity-toity, button-down type, and recall feeling self-conscious as we were shuttled through the crowded Financial District from the back of a limousine.

Post meetings, we joined in a group dinner held at the Gordon Biersch Brewing Company and enjoyed drinks and fine dining. Afterward we returned to the hotel, where Pippa and I found ourselves pleasantly buzzed and alone in her room. As we talked, it couldn't go unnoticed, the unmistakable muffled sounds that traveled through the thin hotel walls and were easily identified as a couple screwing in the room next door.

A mixture of exhaustion, and awkwardness from the sexual tension that existed between us, resulted in an uncontrollable spell of nervous laughter. Each were left clutching at midsections and wiping away tears.  Moments later, she broke the tension that had started to build again with the silence that followed our laughter, she grabbed my arm and pulled me onto the bed. Locked arm-in-arm, and laughter renewed, we bounced on the squeaky mattress and loudly reenacted a mock version of the neighbor's performance. Our aim was to stun and amaze the couple next door.

The scenario described from our night together in Beacon Hill ended innocently, and I returned to my room, alone.  The sad truth of the short affair, that occurred in time, is that we were better at being friends. The fun experienced in friendship was noticeably absent from our fling, and left me with unresolved feelings of guilt. The attraction we felt did not translate to love and quickly soured; the excitement was unsustainable. There seemed to be a need to up the bet on each sexual experience from the last, and we never achieved a sense of intimacy.
Soon, sex with her went beyond what I found desirable and quickly lost its appeal.

I recall salacious details of a Friday night out with Pippa, where together after work we walked to the Stock Market Bar & Grill. It was conveniently located next door to the office, and a favorite place to go. We rushed past the hostess and avoided the clusters of 2-top tables, as we made our way to the bar. I motioned for Pippa to take the only available seat and pretended not to notice the appreciative glances aimed in her direction. She sat down on the barstool, and I attempted to catch the attention of the swamped bartender.

As usual the place was crowded and buzzed with the hum of chattering customers, who like us were happy to have the weekend finally within reach. This was before the smoking ban in Massachusetts bars, and an odor permeated the air that reeked of stale beer and cigarettes. After a few rounds, I positioned myself behind her and straddled her stool as she slid down and leaned with the weight of her body pressed comfortably against mine. I caressed her toned legs; slender and smooth, with lightly freckled skin. The scent of her strawberry­blonde hair masked the bar odor as I nuzzled my face in the back of her head. She welcomed my advances and I continued, planting soft kisses on her neck. I slid a hand under her loose­fitting skirt, her hand found mine, and gently guided it beneath the smooth material of her panties. I felt the moist heat of her body. Our excitement was contained within; passion felt, hidden from our faces.

The moment faded as the venue returned to focus. I was keenly aware of the silhouette's of those illuminated around us. Their eerie shadows were cast by soft lights and the red glow emitted by business symbols as flashed along the digital ticker tape that encircled the room—an ominous effect heightened by the alcohol.  I paid the bill, and we left the bar, and made our way back to the now-empty office building, presumably to finish what we had started.

She slipped out of her panties and splayed herself out before me. I fucked her as she leaned back along the office desktop, through the fog of our drunken haze; still dressed, with only essentials revealed and without any thought of protection. The passion held back earlier at the bar quickly abated, and I lost focus. I felt detached and awkwardly continued as I watched myself mechanically thrust forward. She sensed my distraction, and in an attempt to recapture the mood, we transitioned off the desk to the grey-toned carpet that lined my office floor.

We heard voices and I was spared embarrassment from the obvious signs of my waned affection. We quickly gathered ourselves and retreated, narrowly avoiding detection by the evening janitorial service. Out of breath and queasy from the hurried escape and too much to drink, we clutched the railing on the 2nd story balcony and vomited into planter boxes below.

We made our way to my car and unwisely drove until finding an open drugstore. Toothbrushes and toothpaste were purchased, and an emergency contraception that was referred to as the morning after pill.  We felt nauseous and in an attempt to sober-up, sat in silence on a hard plastic booth at a nearby McDonalds and sipped stale coffee from styrofoam cups.

Before reaching our destination, we stopped at a gas station and huddled together in the dim light of a single-stall restroom. Using her hand as a cup, Pippa gathered water from the faucet and slurped down the poison prescription. We brushed our teeth and tried to freshen up, avoiding each other's gaze and finding solace in the distraction of the grimy surfaces around us. In hindsight, a fitting end to our night of debauchery.

Pippa was married with children. I was on friendly terms with her husband, Ross, and had met their kids on several occasions. She claimed to be out of love with him and shared stories of his mistreatment, but neither her unhappiness nor mine altered how we viewed our actions. I wanted to purge myself of her and that chapter of my life.

I've often thought of Pippa. We shared a tax accountant and for years since, every twelve months, I was provided an unsolicited update by him that mainly detailed her continued success with my former employer. I got the impression he was infatuated with her. I never shared the detail of our past together. In a final update received years ago, I learned that she had divorced and relocated to New York with a position to manage a Call Center.

I said before I have mixed emotions over the memories held of her. It's possible we might still be good friends, today, if not for the poor choices made together; but, I have no desire to see her again. I hope the relationship shared with their children fared well as they transitioned to single parents.

There's a saying about war that is often used when referring to divorce: "No winners, only survivors."