Both born in 1928, Skip and I were the same age to the day. We lived across the street from each other, and were lovers all through high school. We never dated girls or went to school dances.

He was the "all-American boy," handsome, short cut blond hair, and his daily activities after school were hunting, fishing, or trapping. I was an introverted book worm, and loved school work and reading novels. So our parents highly approved of our friendship; he taught me outdoor life, and I helped him with school assignments at night. After homework, we played a game of chess and then had sex.

I tried, but he never wanted to talk about what we did, it was our silent secret, even the goodnight kiss. We took turns sleeping over together at each other's house.

During our college years, we were both too embarrassed to continue having sex. I wanted to tell him how much I loved him, but that would have been breaking "the rules." When we wrote to each other, he always addressed me as "Dear best buddy." After college, he asked me to be best man at his wedding.

He didn't want a "bachelor party," he wanted only to walk around town, just the two of us. He led the way, our slow silent visit to places important to us, like soda shops and high school, or to all the places we'd had sex together, secret places in the woods, or by a stream where we use to strip and plunge into icy water, just an excuse to warm up by hugging naked. This time, we shared memories in silence as dusk turned to night.

Back at the house, before going in, close face to face, he gripped my hands and whispered, "I'm still a virgin..."

After the wedding he moved to a distant city, and we never spoke or wrote to each other again. On our fortieth birthday, my mother called to tell me that Skip had just died. Acute alcoholism.

I can't forget the magic of our youth years. It's forever...