The woman I had wanted to grow old with

In the early eighties, I moved to Assen. By then, I had already been working for several years at the engineering firm ADCO. My colleague, who lived on my street and whom I always carpooled with, took a job at Philips in Winschoten. I didn’t own a car, so I had to take the train from Winschoten to Assen. I was completely fed up with the Dutch Railways. Two or three times a week, the train from Zwolle was delayed, and by the time it arrived, the train from Groningen to Winschoten had already left, leaving you standing around for three quarters of an hour waiting for the next one. Back then, Groningen station was a drafty, empty place with nothing to do. The worst part was the restroom, if you needed to go. It was so disgustingly filthy that you’d rather hold it in for a whole forty-five minutes until you could relieve yourself on the train. Also not very pleasant, that rundown red “Angel” toilet. It was just a hole in the floor, with railroad ties rushing past underneath, but still better than nothing. Nowadays, all that has changed. Arriva runs neat trains with fancy restrooms, and the station itself is much livelier. If you have to wait for a long stretch, there’s a Starbucks for a nice cup of coffee—and, if nature calls you, a clean and proper bathroom.

But that was not the case back then.

I moved to Smetanalaan in a tower block, living on the tenth floor with a spectacular view. I did my grocery shopping at the Spar on Paganinilaan.

It was there I met Helen—my great love. Helen was quite a unique girl, very different from all the others. She wore a short neon-yellow miniskirt made of some kind of knitted stretch material, with an exposed back and a deep neckline trimmed in black.

Helen was a sweet girl and kind to everyone.

I was instantly in love with her.

On Saturdays, I went to the market at Koopmansplein, where I saw her for the second time.

Helen—the love of my life—with sparkling blue eyes and long blonde hair. Slim in her tight black leggings trimmed with sheer lace running the entire length. A tight, short T-shirt that left her navel bare. Firm breasts with no bra—very unusual breasts. On top of each of her breasts were what looked like smaller breasts with her nipples on top. All clearly visible thanks to the tightness of the T-shirt.

Helen was a stunning girl, and she made sure the whole world knew it.

The market vendor noticed that as well; Helen was good for his sales.

I lived on the tenth floor; Helen lived across from me on the ground floor.

We started a relationship.

After just two weeks, I asked her to marry me. Yes, I was sure. She was the woman I wanted to grow old with.

She replied, “You crazy boy, we’ve barely known each other.”

But the sex was incredible.

Helen was a woman who liked to tease, and she teased me exactly the way I wanted.

Helen was a woman who wanted to be taken by a man. The man had to grab her and fuck her hard.

No foreplay—just bang, lift her up, throw her over your shoulder, toss her on the bed, and fuck her hard. That was what she demanded from a man.

I was a young god then; I did competitive cycling and rode twenty thousand kilometers a year.

I took her and fucked her for an hour straight. Sometimes, I came up to seven times in that hour. We did it without condoms—STDs and HIV didn’t concern us. Back then, nothing was known about HIV yet. Chlamydia and gonorrhea, sure, but you didn’t die from those. Helen never got pregnant because she was on the pill.

It was passionate love, and Helen was a wild one in bed and very loud. She writhed beneath me in pleasure, shaking and bumping herself as I pumped downwards. She moaned and groaned loudly, which turned me on immensely. She screamed like a wild woman at orgasm.

That’s what Helen wanted. Rough, wild, raw sex.

When it was her birthday, I took her to the Veen bike shop and bought her a racing bike—a Giant Peloton, just like the one I had but a size smaller. Even then, you could get women’s cycling gear. I found that very sexy. Underneath those cycling shorts, she was completely naked—underwear would just chafe. I bought her a nice sleeveless top with a zipper from top to bottom. She was always completely naked underneath it, and the zipper was always teasingly unzipped.

Oh, those very unusual breasts of hers drove me crazy.

We had wonderful long cycling weekends together. And we made love on the Dwingeloo heath—right out in the open, very thrilling.

“Why don’t you come live with me?” I often asked her, but just like marriage, she didn’t want that either.

I loved her deeply with all my heart.

I’ve always been a fan of movies and porn. I frequented the video rental store on Troelstralaan. Seven tapes, a whole week for twenty-five guilders—that was my favorite deal. I always slipped down into the porno basement for a film or two. I was crazy about big breasts. Wendy Whoppers and Lisa Lipps were my favorite stars. Besides their insanely large breasts, they were also pretty and slender. That combination is essential to me. I’m not attracted to big-chested women with heavy bodies. With porn, the “kick” factor is very important. This was the age of Betamax, C2000, and VHS, and the market was flooded with lousy stuff.

I ran into Helen in the porno basement. She wore a very short leather skirt and a blouse tied at the tips—none of the buttons were fastened. Wherever you saw Helen, she was always sexy. To be honest, almost provocatively so. But that’s just how I liked it.

Helen was my sweet girl.

But there she stood, carrying a pile of films—all porn.

“Wow, Helen, may I come watch tonight too?”

But she didn’t reply.

That year, I went to evening school in Groningen for my installer’s diploma. I still didn’t have a car and went by train, and that’s where I saw Helen again—in the same leather skirt, a bustier, and a leather jacket. Sexy, as I was used to, so I didn’t think much of it. Helen simply was who she was. But she didn’t tell me what she was doing in Groningen.

Helen—whose real name was Helena, but I didn’t like the sound of that, so she became my Helen—had a secret.

She was working as a prostitute in Groningen to finance her heroin addiction. For the first year of our relationship, you couldn’t tell from her appearance.

She was my delightful Helen—sparkling blue eyes, delightfully slim, and long, shiny blonde hair.

But her decline was swift. As her addiction worsened, her eyes grew dull and her hair lost its shine. Her emaciated body became unbearable to look at.

You love her and try to get her into a rehab clinic. Sometimes, it helps, and she brightens up a little. But those damn dealers—you know the type. You’re a victim, a source of income, and they don’t leave her alone. She’d fall back into heroin again. Helen’s descent was relentless.

Truly, you feel powerless. You blame yourself. What the hell did I do wrong? Why isn’t my Helen happy? You just don’t understand because you’re trying so hard.

But nothing helps, and her end comes far too soon.

Then you stand there with a crying mother at her grave.

Helena was a Catholic girl and was buried in consecrated ground.

My Helen—twenty-six years old.

Copyright © Reuel 2022