What a wild guy he was! A meteorologist, he would go careening off across the countryside in his beat-up old Plymouth, chasing thunderstorms. He was incredibly absent-minded, which may have had something to do with the fact that he smoked pot incessantly.
I thought he was quite gorgeous. One day we went swimming at Rock Lake, about 30 miles east of Madison. We didn't have suits, so we just went in the water wearing our cutoffs. There was a certain amount of touchy-feely in the water.
I had a big red Bonneville convertible in those days, and even with the sun beating down on us, we were still pretty wet when we got back to my place. So I simply announced that I'd throw the stuff in the dryer, which would of course leave him with no clothes on at all. He didn't seem shy about it, and one thing did lead to another, forthwith.
He was somehow between apartments and spending quite a few nights at my place. There was some creeping around in the night. I was relatively sure we wouldn't be caught because my boyfriend was usually comatose from drinking six-packs of beer by the time bedtime arrived, and therefore not likely to wake up when I would sneak downstairs to ravage the fellow on the sofa.
Westy was 20, and he once told me he didn't think he could sleep with anyone who was older than, oh, 22. Somehow it didn't dawn on him that I was 37, I guess. Strange, what goes on in the mind of a boy.
Eventually he moved to Texas, then to New Mexico, where I think he still is.