A Summer Hug

When I was 13yo, I went on vacation to a place I’d rather not name. With my family, needless to say. We didn’t stay in a hotel, but rented an “apartment”, I guess, in the kind of place that has a sign saying “Rooms to rent/let/lend” …Yeap, many Greeks don’t know which word to use, so they take a lucky guess and use either of those. Anyway, it was a two-rooms, kitchen and bathroom thing, so not really a “room”. Hence, “apartment”. But that’s not important.

If you’ve been in such a place, you probably know that, usually, there are a few such “rooms” and, in one of those, the owner of the property stays. And the owner of that place was an old lady, whose grandson was staying with her. Not his parents, though. Apparently his family was living in Athens, and they sent their son to his grandmother for the whole summer, while they came during their leave. So, at the time we were there, his parents weren’t there. For simplicity, let’s give this guy an imaginary name and call him, John. It’s the most common male name, so it will do.

I don’t mean he was just a common, uninteresting guy, though. Quite the opposite. He was pretty cute. Very much so, actually. And I was trying to feast my eyes on him, without anyone noticing, while my parents were talking with the old lady. John was playing “basketball”. In quotation marks, because there wasn’t a court, the basket was a short one and the ball wasn’t the real thing, either. Nor were there any teams. Just him and a friend of his.

Anyway, we were shown to our apartment, which was on the ground floor, just two doors away of the owner’s, and we got in to get settled. After a small fight with my siblings about who is sleeping in which bed, I went out to keep company to my father, who was sitting there, smoking a cigarette. Not really. I mean, he was smoking, but my motive for joining him was a very different one. I sat in a chair to his left side, so that I could pretend I was looking at him, while, in fact I was looking at John.

To be honest, weren’t for John, I wouldn’t have joined my father. Being with just him could become really uncomfortable, more often than not. Instead I would, most probably, take out a book, sit on my bed and start reading, while my mother would clean everything with bleach. There wasn’t Covid, back then, but my mother didn’t have much trust to how thoroughly people cleanse these places. So, that was the usual routine, in the first day.

So, anyway, I was outside, wearing my sunglasses, of course, as they hide the exact point your eyes look at, as long as you don’t look straight at that point, and was trying to keep a light conversation with my father, in order to have reasons to look at him. Well, not him, as I’ve said.

I was not very successful, regarding the conversation, but managed to have plenty of glimpses of the cutie, so all was good.

Did you know that basketball, football and the like can make you more manly and prevent homosexuality? Well, not really, but it used to be a rather common belief. Therefore, my father was always trying to force me to engage in such sports. That’s why, he – seeing John and his friend playing basketball, like real boys – decided that I had to go and ask them to let me join them. I refused, of course.

No, I wasn’t a fool. Had I obeyed right away, it could have been suspicious. So, yes, I refused, knowing he would insist. And he did. I waited until he showed signs he was losing his patience, before deciding to “give in” and obey his command. Thanks, dad, for forcing me to go talk to the cutie I wouldn’t dare to approach, otherwise, in front of you!

I didn’t need to beg the boys to join them. They were quite welcoming, instead. Well, truth be told, even if this wasn’t what they would normally do, we were guests, so John would have acted politely. I’m not too much of a fool, so I knew that would have happened, even before asking if I could join them. But, whether this is my wishful thinking or not, they didn’t seem like they were forcing themselves. As I was a whole year older than them, they formed a team against me. Yes, a year is not much, but between 12 and 13, it seems “much” enough.

When I feel comfortable, my face shows very clearly my emotions, but when I feel I need to, I can keep a poker face like a pro. And I kept that face while under the surveillance of my father. I kept monitoring him, too, to make sure all went well. He wasn’t looking very happy with my bad performance at basketball, but once he made sure I kept playing and didn’t try to find an excuse to stop, he relaxed and eventually went inside.

In case you are wondering, I won the game. Yeap, this came to a surprise to me more so than it probably came to you. But the basket, as I’ve said was a short one, and I was a centimetre or two taller than the guys, which apparently gave me an advantage. Or they just let me win. I don’t know, and it doesn’t really matter. I was simply having fun. Didn’t really try to win. If anything I was trying to show a friendly face to John (and his friend, just to not be too obvious) once my father had gone. Telling him – or them – how much better they were, and that weren’t I older than them, I would have eaten their dust.

For what matters, John seemed to like my company and from then on he was seeking me. My father was overjoyed. Probably not as much as I was, and surely for very different reasons, but he was. Thereupon, I spent a lot of time with John. Never played basketball again, though. We had some small adventures exploring a nearby empty lot, and things like that. Yes, didn’t find anything, as you can imagine, but it was fun. Even more so because we were out of my family’s sight.

Some times, his friend was with us, but most of the times it was just the two of us. We talked a lot, for anything and everything. You know, all those interesting things like school life, classmates, impressive experiences of our past… Yes, yes, I know. Nothing interesting and impressive about those, but for us, then, they were. So, it was nice. Really, really nice.

It seems that that place, during WWI had an important naval battle, which happened in summer and, coincidently, the celebration of that battle was during our stay, there. And – probably because it’s tourist season – they make a big deal out of it, and have a night sea-show, re-enacting that battle. A “very grand show”, as I remember the old lady advertising it to my parents, but I have no memory of the event, whatsoever.

In any case, on that evening, me, my siblings and John went to the beach to watch the show. When we arrived, sun had set not long ago. Too early for the re-enactment. But this was intentional, so we could find a good spot. The beach was practically empty. Swimmers and sunbathers had left already, while those who would come to see the show hadn’t arrived yet. Consequently, we easily found a spot, close enough to the wet part of the sand, so that nobody would come sit in front of us. That part of the beach has a good slope, too.

We sat on the sand, me keeping a small distance from my siblings, leaving enough space for John to sit at either side of me, and, even if he were to sit between me and my siblings, we would be able to speak a bit more freely. Contrary to my expectations, though, John sat right behind me. And to my surprise, just like that, he hugged me, and kept me in his hug. I bet I was redder than a tomato.

I do remember feeling uncomfortable – my siblings were right there, after all – but, even with that in mind, it was a very pleasant feeling. John probably realised I wasn’t really comfortable, after a short while, and he asked me if I had a problem with him holding me like that. I said, “No”, and I even said I liked it. I’m very proud of me for doing that.

I remember him smiling and asking, “Really?” And I remember him tightening his hug once I replied. He kept me like that, until I forgot who was sitting not-far from me, and started caressing his arms. While we were still like that, some ships started gathering for the re-enactment.

And it was then, when John, still holding me, lied back pulling me on himself. The slope of the ground, our heights, everything cooperated, and I ended up having as my pillow the most precious part of John’s body. Him, caressing my hair. “Is this okay?”

Hell, yeah!!!

You know now why I have no recollection of the show.

A day, or two, after then, I don’t really remember, we left. John said he hoped we go back next year. I smiled as brightly as I could, and said, “I hope so, too.” I needed to put much effort to fake that smile, for I knew better. We never went there, and I never met this beautiful – in all possible meanings of the word – guy again.

If this was one of my stories, the first person narrator and “John” would have met a few years later and would have had a happily ever after. But this isn’t one of my stories, and that’s not what happened. It’s one of my most cherished memories.

I bet this amazing guy has forgotten ever meeting me. Even if he vaguely remembers me, he most probably has forgotten that precious hug, he so plainly and generously offered, and meant the world to me. I remember it as if it happened yesterday.

Not only do I remember it fondly, but it also finds its way in to my stories, in various forms. Quite often, too. Don’t get me wrong. I know it was a friendly gesture, on his part. But that doesn’t mean I can’t use it for romance. Right?

Anyway! Thank you for reading this odd post. And since you’ve reached here, I was wondering, is there an experience of your real life that gives birth to a “need” to put it in your stories? Regardless of whether you avoid it, you write it, or you eventually edit it out. Not necessarily a romantic experience, but of any kind. If you don’t feel like sharing that experience, it’s okay, although I’d love to read it. Nonetheless, a yes-or-no answer would also be much appreciated.

That’s all! Have fun!

Many kisses,

Yorgos KC