My Lesbian and the low spark of high-heeled boys

I think it was on the drive back from a Chicago concert in Frankfurt the thought emerged,  Mi was her happy self and we were singing "Does anyone really know what time it is", then she switched to another of our favorites, Traffic's "the low spark of high heeled-boys".
(now start the video, it's a slow start piece so drag the cursor about 45 seconds into it, turn up volume and read on)

Mi was a pretty tom boy type, we took long hikes nearly every time we were together.  Up through the forests and vineyard in the steep sided Mosel valley, marveling at the views of the entrenched river and the sunsets.  We went hiking almost every time we were together, in all weather.  Often she found a tree that needed climbing, a good climber.  Sometimes we found a secluded sunny spot and lay nude under the sky for a few minutes.  Aside from posing nude together once, setting with our legs pulled up, chins on our knees, nothing could be seen but bare legs, we set skin to skin, other than our naked sides touching as we grinned at the camera clicking on automatic, aside from that time, our naked bodies would never touch.

Mi was a wonderful friend, I want to congratulate her for that.

Mi always wore t-shirts and jeans and hung out with the boys, adopting some of our habits.  So much so that on two occasions on blistering hot afternoons in my 3rd floor apartment overlooking the Mosel river, the unscreened windows thrown open, me without a shirt as we drank fruit juice and Reisling she casually took off her t-shirt and said "good, that's cooler".  On a second occasion we had smoked some Lebanese weed she brought, extremely rare as nearly all of it is made into hashish.  When she pulled off her t this time, in my smoky  relaxed state her breasts rose from under her t glistening and swaying as if radiating light, she was the sun.  I set stunned by this vision, she noticed my stare and said in a polite soft voice "I like your tits too".  The pleasure and humanity of that statement coupled with the beauty of the moment is indescribable.  Butterflies drifted in and out of the windows, a common summer benefit of that house, we danced our hippie dances wearing only our jeans, I can't recall the music playing but it could very well have been "the low spark of high heeled-boys", one of the finest afternoons of my life.

Mi lived on the opposite side of the river 10 minutes walk over the bridge, also in a house on the waters edge with her parents.  She came to the apartment to talk and spend time a couple times a week for the over 2 years we were pals.  Sometimes we had an evening out planned.  Scatted in the ancient villages along the river were a few clubs and bars, some utra-modern with D-jays and light shows, some rustic old world, we stalked them on a regular basis.  Our goals were much the same, find someone to dance with and try to get laid.  We devised a contest, who gets a girl first.  This was especially interesting and fun as a competition because we both liked the same kind, pretty feminine girls with movie star faces with either a very sexy developed figure or a slinky trim figure.  I was of the opinion I went into these contests at a disadvantage, young European women dance together and hold hands on walks, these are matters of customs, so her asking a girl to dance was not so unusual I argued.  She countered she had no advantage because this custom was for family and friends not strangers so she felt she started at the same place as I did.  OK, cut to the results, we won about an even number of these "get a dance" contests.  The get a snuggle or kiss contest I think I won more, the get laid goal as I recall never worked out for me on these particular visits, but I was told she would find her own ride home a time or two.  This with a sly grin and kiss on my cheek from Mi as I left alone wondering what if anything they would do.

One summer day she pops in all excited, she has a pattern for a pair of pants to sew, she took measurements and scaled it, in few days we had matching pants.  Pretty strange even for the late 60's and 70's.  Made out of white linen or percale, it seemed like I was wearing worn out sheets, thin, smooth, and skin tight, lucky for me back then I had a great body with a trim hard round butt.  These pants were low like the hip huggers, without belt loops with a low short front zipper.  In the back they were a bit higher, curved up higher at it rounded the sides then straight across the back, in the front, right below the belly button they curved down in a little arc dipping low where the zipper closed.  Did I say tight, you could see my junk, no hiding, your out there man, couldn't wear underwear or they showed up big time and looked really terrible.  We wore them once together on a walk through town, we didn't go unnoticed.  I wore mine to a club once, as happy as I was with the junk I had, having it out there while I elbowed for a place at the bar with a bunch of guys named Horst and Helmut, well it was not always enjoyable.

One of the last times I saw her she had a tiny studio apartment in Frankfurt and she offered I could stay the night.  I arrived late, we went to a little lowprice neighborhood restaurant then to the apartment.  We had slept together a couple of times over the years, but she slept in her clothes each time, I figured it would be something along that model again.  To my surprise our shared vision of a young women was in her apartment, pretty, slim, sexy.  We had some laughs and talked about my leaving for the US tomorrow and her job in Frankfurt and her girlfriend talked a bit about her job.  Mi also told me in very scary terms she had met someone in the BaaderMienhof gang, a communist German terrorist group, who had killed and bombed and evaded the police from 1970 into about 1990, in 1977 they caused a national crisis there, it was only a few people but intensely disruptive.  This was worrisome.  But Ok, back to the night in her apartment.  Mi prepared a place for me to sleep on the floor, inches from the bed.  She also told me in a whisper, that she and her friend might make a lot of noise during the night, stay on the floor and keep your hands to yourself.   To my dismay the apartment had typical German metal external window shades, with those and the curtains closed it is very nearly a total blackout at night.  I couldn't see a thing, I desperately wanted to, it was torture by eroticism.  What began as muffled giggling and whispering,  evolved into a little moan from time to time, then what sometimes sounded like a high impact exercise routine followed by intervals of rest with deep breathing, and hardest to take was the sounds of kissing while one of them whispered or huffed at the air in the room.

And what was I doing during all this?  Staring into blackness in erotic bliss.  OK, don't judge, you don't know what it was like in there.

The next morning they were up early for work, I had to leave in a hurry.  Mi talked to me like a lover  saying good bye.  She said I wasn't the only one listening in the dark last night, said she heard me, she hugged me and said "if you think about it, we had sex last night, we were naked, close together, we could hear one another, we helped one another climb the mountain".

I have never seen her again.  I am in contact with 6 people that knew her, including one in her family, the friends don't know where she is, and the family member only replies she is doing fine, they ignore my request for an address or phone number.  Every few months I listen to some of the music we liked, Eric Clapton, John Baldry, John Mayall, Faces, Cream, Traffic, Ten Years After, Moody Blues, Osibisi, The Band.   I would love to go on a walk again with her, from the rivers edge up through the wine fields and the broken castle, through the forest into the high meadows and stain our feet yellow on carpets of dandelions shining golden back at the sun. That would be a nice day.

If I gave you everything that I owned
And asked for nothing in return
Would you do the same for me as I would for you?
Or take me for a ride
And strip me of everything, including my pride
But spirit is something that no one destroys
And the sound that I'm hearing is only the sound
of the low spark of high heeled boys