First Love: Do the Memories Linger On?

Write about first love? Sigh.

That would mean wallowing in memories, and I’ve been burned out lately on the memory front, spending so much time in the home where I grew up long ago and in doctors’ offices with my father—I should get the word on Tuesday or Wednesday whether lung cancer is the likely candidate to keep him from reaching 100, which he has no ambition to do—that I feel disoriented even when I manage to get to my own home for a while to tend to my garden, make jam from fruit that can’t wait, and edit erotica. You know, those kinds of things that root in you in who you are now.

Sooo, I’m going to punt this one, toss a question back at all of you, and then maybe post a brief fiction excerpt.

Do you ever have erotic dreams about your first love? Or at least a love from long ago? (“Long ago” being, of course, a very subjective concept, as, in fact, is “love.”) Let’s take that a step farther, and make it two questions. Do you ever think about past lovers during present sex? Envision them, see them as you imagined them to be, as you wanted them to be, even though you know now and maybe knew then that neither they nor you were exactly the way you imagined each other? In short, fantasize during sex about someone from long ago? It could be just for a few vital seconds for that last push over the edge, a vision flashing though your mind of something you did with them, or, even more powerful, something you wish you’d done with them but never dared to. It could be a total fantasy, just using a remembered figure as a silhouette to be fleshed out by your own creative muse. Just like writing erotica.

And now for a story excerpt. Apologies for the repetition; I posted some of this just a month or so ago, but this time I’ve left a bit out and included some passages more to the point.
__________

Alternate Lives
Sacchi Green
                                                       
In that wartime English summer Cleo had made me soar, even though I never left the ground.
Thirty-five years later, in 1978, her plane rose, and banked, leaving Anchorage dwindling in the distance. As the clouds lifted in the east, the towering glory of Denali blazed suddenly white in the sun.
"The mountain's out!" someone shouted behind me.
"Sure is," Cleo said, above the hum of the engine. "Takes your breath away, doesn't it?"
But it was Cleo Remington herself who took my breath away.
I watched her strong hands on the controls, remembering the way she had touched the Spitfire fighter plane that last night in England. Remembering, across the years, the way she had touched me.

(irrelevant snipped part)

My body was alert to Cleo's least movement. I wanted so intensely to lay my hand where a band of sunlight curving across her thigh that my own thighs quivered.
How had I thought I could carry this off? But I savored the anguish, every searing drop. In two weeks I would return to Jack, who truly loved and needed me, who had built a life with me. My love for him had never been diminished by the memories of Cleo kept tucked away like rare, glowing jewels I could never wear again.
     “Never," though, has a different ring to it when you're nearing sixty, and you know damned well that life is too short to waste on guilt. What you want is what you want, whether you can have it or not. I can't be the only woman to find that as the biological imperative wanes, other passions intensify. That hidden glow can flare into a heat too intense to deny.
Not that I would ever hurt Jack. He didn't know what aching dreams impelled me sometimes to rouse him early and urge him into my already-slippery cunt. He didn't need to know how I had discovered, late in life, the fine art of masturbation, or whose hands and body I felt when I touched myself, whose name I cried out. He only needed to know that I would always be with him.
When I told him I wanted to take this trip he understood, or thought he did. He'd heard all about how women these days need to "find themselves." Long ago I'd had to tell him just a little about Cleo, anyway; I couldn't very well hide the tiny wings tattooed above my left breast.
"I had a friend who was a pilot, ferrying fighter planes for the RAF," I'd said. "I was jealous of her silver wings, so we went to a tattoo parlor down by the docks in London and both got tattooed." He'd laughed, and teased me about my drunken debauchery days, and was relieved, I think, that no man was involved. But when we'd parted, Jack had held me close and murmured, "Wherever you go, please don't get lost." How much, after all, had he guessed?
__________

Getting back to my questions, above: You tell me yours, and I might tell you one or two of mine. Blurred to protect the obliviously innocent. This is all just between us, right? (Fortunately I never call out names during sex, having quite enough to do with my voice without resorting to words.)