In 1975, I worked at the Armed Forces Examination and Entrance Station in Newark, New Jersey. I was a Senior Sergeant and had left the Infantry because of wounds received in Vietnam.

I worked in the same general area as Sergeant James Chapman. One day near the end of 1975, Sergeant Chapman returned from work and found his Wife and two children gone. She had not paid their bills for three months as she was planning to take her children and go home to Iowa. My Wife and I were also separated, so it made sense to accept Chapman’s offer to split his house bills and move in together. We lived on Fort Hamilton in Brooklyn, New York. It was around 19 miles or about a thirty-minute drive to work, and we worked the same schedule, eight-to-five Monday through Friday.

Chapman had a girlfriend named Rosalee, who would come to our house several times a week. Chapman was about thirty years old, and Rosalee was seventeen and a senior in High College. I asked him immediately if she was jailbait, but it turns out that the age of consent was fifteen in New York. Rosalee lived in Manhattan but could easily catch the subway within a few blocks from where we lived.

We lived in a two-bedroom house where the bedrooms were on the second floor, like two master bedrooms connected to a bathroom. A living room, dining area, and kitchen were on the ground floor. At the back of the house, we had a patio that overlooked the waterway called the Narrows. The Narrows is the tidal strait separating the boroughs of Staten Island and Brooklyn. It connects the Upper New York Bay and Lower New York Bay and forms the principal channel by which the Hudson River empties into the Atlantic Ocean. Just north of our house was the Verrazano-Narrows bridge, which also connected Brooklyn and Statin island.

Almost immediately, Rosalee developed the habit of just walking into my room without knocking. I had asked her not to, but asking had no effect. She would walk in and begin talking; if I were in the chair, she would lie on my bed. One night, she came in wearing a thigh-length negligee made to cup her breasts and push them together. She lay down on my bed, her head on my pillow and her hands cupped behind her head. She looked good, even seductive, although I had never been attracted to her and was often annoyed by her immaturity. As with most 16 and 17-year-old girls, her body was near perfection. So, I walked over to the bed, reached down, and untied the garment’s belt. She did not move even when I opened the garment leaving her nude except for her panties; she continued to silently look me in the eye as if daring me to take her. I said put your clothes on and go, Rosalee, or I’ll tell Chatman. Unable to shock her didn’t work, but my simple lie did. Rosalee liked having two men in the house to play with. To her, it would have been a coup to be having Sex with both. While Rosalee did not stop coming into my room, she never dressed provocatively again.

In early May 1976, Rosalee brought another girl with her and introduced her as her friend Chloe. Chloe was very different than Rosalee. Rosalee was about five-one, and Chloe was five-seven; Rosalee dressed as most teenagers in jeans, shirts, and Levi’s, while Chloe dressed in expensive dresses and carefully coordinated matched slacks and skirts. Chloe was cultured and carefully educated through private and finishing schools. They were so opposite that it demanded me to ask how they became friends. It turns out they met at a dance studio. Rosalee participated in the studio for three months, and in her words, it was too dull, but it was long enough for them to establish a friendship. Chloe later told me it was not a close friendship, as they traveled in different circles, but a good friendship.

Chloe was gorgeous, with strawberry blond hair and green eyes. Her face and body were like porcelain. Later I would meet her mother, who looked like Maureen O’Hara, the Irish actress. Chloe was a younger version of her mother.

Chapman and Rosalee went upstairs within half an hour of arriving, leaving Chloe and me alone. Chloe was intelligent on many subjects and was more mature than some ladies I knew. Her movements were graceful, whether talking or walking, and her laughter was like water trickling down a brook. Something unique about her intrigued me, and it was not just the radiant smile or her eyes so green that seemed to pierce my mind and soul. I knew she was young and wanted to ask her age, but she brought it up before I did. She was all the time straightforward about everything. I had asked why she had come over with Rosalee, and she replied that Rosalee appeared to be in Love with Chapman because she talked about him every time they spoke. I was curious, she said, there is an age difference between them, and I just wanted to see that he was not taking benefit of her. Do you know that I’m also seventeen? She asked. I was taken back by her age as she seemed much older, so I responded.

“I would never have guessed you to be seventeen; I’m thirty-four,” I said. “that’s twice your age.”

I wonder why I said it like that. Was I already considering her as a efficient girlfriend? She did not respond directly to the age difference, but I knew it was something she was thinking about. She asked me,

“Do you like to dance?”

“Yes,” I answered, “at least some, I can waltz, and I’m learning to disco since we have so many clubs around here.”

(The Disco music and dance began in Brooklyn in late 1975).

“My favorite dance,” I continued, “is the South American Tango.”

“Oh, I Love the tango, but hardly anyone knows how. I Love dancing? she confessed, laughing; “sometimes I dress up and dance in my room.”

We talked of our families; she was the daughter of a second-generation Irish mother and a wealthy New York Jewish doctor.

“My father insisted on naming me, Chloe.” She said. ” My mother wanted to give me an Irish name, but he won. My parents are divorced now, and my mother took back her maiden name.”

She smiled, held out her hand, and said, “Hello, I’m Chloe Sullivan.”

I asked her where she lived, and she seemed almost embarrassed as she said.

“My mother has a condo on the upper east side.”

I knew this was the most desirable and most expensive location in Manhattan. Where they lived, they adjoined Central Park. I was very impressed. We talked about an hour before Chapman and Rosalee came back downstairs. Rosalee is talking, as usual, announcing to Chloe that we better go home. I was surprised when Chloe walked over to m, hugged me, pressed her cheek next to mine, and asked.

“Sergeant, can we go dancing Saturday night?”

Shocked by her boldness, I answered.

” yes, of course, we can.”

From that point on, I was called Sergeant. As she turned to leave, she said,

“I’ll be over about eight.”

I don’t know who was more bewildered, Me, Chapman, or Rosalee. All three of us were stunned. I went to sleep that night, torn between the fact that I liked this girl who was half my age and thinking, even then, if I got involved with her, it would end badly.

That Saturday night, she appeared promptly at my door, I was shocked at just how beautiful she was, and I stood there like a teenage boy; I’m sure my jaw dropped. Her reddish-blonde hair was curled, and down to the top of her shoulders, she wore make-up that enhanced the beauty I had seen in her a few nights earlier. Her top, black with long sleeves, came just off her shoulders and was cut to show a hint of cleavage through white lace. The top was black with streaks of white scattered across the front and primarily whited down the sleeves. She wore black bell-bottom slacks and 4-inch black heels.

With a fake southern accent, Chloe brought me out of my stupor by asking me laughingly.

“Sergeant, are you all right?”

I said,” No, I don’t think so; I’m overwhelmed.”

She gave me a peck on the lips and said “thank you” before flashing a smile that started to soften a very hard heart. That night we went to one of the larger disco clubs and danced. We ended the night with a waltz. Her body was so glued to me that only one woman since then has felt so good in my arms that I became aroused. Chloe noticed and pulled her head back and looked at me with her flashing green eyes, and said with a laugh in her voice,

“Well, Sergeant, I guess you must like me!”

Afterward, I walked her to the subway, and as the train pulled in, she gave me a long soft kiss and left, saying I’ll see you next week. It was a statement, not a question. She was in control.

Monday morning, I was at work when my private line rang. The woman on the other end of the line introduced herself as Mrs. Sullivan.

” I’m Chloe’s mother,” she said. “Can we meet in Manhattan after you get off work?”

” yes, ma’am, we can.”

“Excellent, Sergeant; meet me at the bar on the corner of 56 street and Broadway at 6:00 tonight.”

I agreed, and it seemed to me that her mother, like Chloe, was straightforward and assertive. So, I told myself this was the day it would end. I even felt relief.

That afternoon I arrived early to locate the bar; not wanting to be early, I waited halfway down the street and walked in at six o’clock. I stood for a few seconds allowing my eyes to adjust to the dimness. As I looked around, I saw her red hair first, and as I walked toward her, she rose from her seat slowly and gracefully like the sun rising in the east. As I drew closer, I could see what Chloe would look like in twenty years. The only difference I could see was Mrs. Sullivan had intense blue eyes. She stretched out her hand and said.

“Hello, Sergeant, please sit down.”

“Good afternoon, Mrs. Sullivan.”

“Oh, please,” she said. “Call me Kathleen.” When I responded, “yes, ma’am.” she laughed. Was I nervous? You bet I was prepared to be called a child molester or worse.

” I know you must be nervous, Sergeant, but please sit and join me. I assure you it will be painless.

We sat, and she offered me a drink, but I declined, so she ordered me a soda.

Getting directly to the point, she said.

“Saturday night Chloe came home excited and wanting to talk, which is unusual. So, we sat down, and she told me about you. I could say that you significantly affected her since she had never confided in me about a boyfriend before, so this is something new. It is serious. Only at the end did Chloe tell me about the age difference. I am concerned about the age, but I know my daughter, Sergeant. I know I will only make Chloe more stubborn and determined if I try to break this up. I also know that Chloe can legally make her own decisions, and if I oppose this relationship, I could lose my daughter. I can’t take that chance. Sergeant, she has a promising future in front of her. She finished High School in three years, and in May, she completed a year-long finishing school. In September, she starts college at Columbia. (Columbia is an Ivy League school located in Manhattan.) Sergeant, I come here tonight not to interfere but to plead for her future. Young Love can be so strong that even in a mature woman, it can cause her to make a life-altering decision. In a teenage girl, she can easily ruin the rest of her life, So she said. Taking a deep breath, I ask you not to take away her future. I think you know this relationship is not going anywhere. So, I want you to promise me that you will not marry her or get pregnant. You will leave her at some point, and she will suffer, and you will move on because soldiers always do. When you get orders to transfer, please tell me first, and I will help with the separation, provided this relationship does not end on its own.

When I had a chance to speak, I Said.”

I agreed I was too old for Chloe, but I explained when I was around her. “Even though it’s only been a few days, I’m happy for the first time in years, but I promise you that I will encourage her to pursue her education, and there will be no marriage or pregnancy.

For the rest of May and June, Chloe and I continued a routine of her coming over at least one-week day and usually Saturday and Sundays. We talked, went dancing, and did some light petting. We did not have sexual relations. She did show me the city and all the tourist attractions such as museums, the empire state building, and Coney Island. Her youthfulness would sometimes come through, and she would hug or kiss me in public places. She never seemed to notice the looks we got from people, but I did. Yet her attention to me was so new and overwhelming that I could never complain.

Chloe seemed to know every street vendor in Manhattan, most by their first name. She would talk with them and draw out their story. She was kind, cheerful, and never met a stranger. She was my opposite. In late June, Rosalee and Chloe decided we should go to the beach. I was concerned but reluctantly agreed. I was still in excellent shape, flat stomach and all, but I knew our age difference would stand out. Yet, one Sunday, we packed up and headed for Manhattan Beach. Rosalee wore a one-piece suit, but Chloe wore a tiny bikini. I was concerned because her appearance would draw more attention to our age difference. She did wear a cover over the bikini, but it was sheer. As I expected, things did not turn out well. Chloe got all the male attention, although she didn’t seem to notice. We sat on a blanket, and she sometimes lay her head on my lap. We got several strange looks, and at one point, a woman around fifty came by when Chloe and Rosalee were sunning some distance away and told Chapman and me that we should be ashamed of dating children. I replied, I am ashamed, lady, but look who your husband is watching.

As the end of June approached, I was in Love. I loved her more than anyone or anything in my life. She lifted me from my depressing life and made me whole. I would look at her and see her happiness. I watched her enthusiasm for life and was amazed, I saw sensuality in her every movement, and my body, mind, and soul wanted her.

July the 4th came on a Saturday that year and was not only a national holiday. It was the bi-centennial year. The four of us planned to sit on the patio, eat barbeque and watch the sailing ships from around the world sailing into the harbor turn around and sail back to sea.

Chloe and Rosalee came over on Friday night, each carrying an overnight bag. I had abstained from having Sex with Chloe up to this point, so I questioned her about the bag when we were alone. She said we have not spoken about this, but I’m staying the night. Look, Sergeant, I Love you and know you Love me. I want to Love you and feel you next to me all night. We cannot continue the way we have the last two months, and if I leave it up to you, it will never happen. When I left my mother’s, I told her I might not be back for a couple of days. She was surprised that we had not been sexually active before now. I told her you were reluctant but would push you if necessary. I have been on the pill since you, and your mother talked.

That night we went to my room early. There would be no watching TV tonight, and I would feel guilt. She undressed completely and unashamed with the lights on, her body was perfect as most seventeen, and eighteen-year-old girls are, and we made Love several times that night until we fell asleep in each other’s arms.

That summer, Chloe spent most nights with me, and we continued being together whenever I was not working. Chloe was intrigued by my wounds; they still looked and ached fresh. She would kiss each wound and massage them until the pain went away. Each time I startled awake from the parade of dead and wounded marching inside my head, she held me until the shaking stopped.

By the end of July, Chloe had turned eighteen, and Mrs. Sullivan wanted to celebrate her birthday with a dinner in Chloe’s honor at her Country Club. We dressed formally, yet I felt out of place, but I was accepted, and the meal was excellent. Kathleen gave Chloe a set of keys. Speaking to Chloe, she said.

” You will be starting school in September, and I want you to have your place to live. It isn’t ready, yet I’m still having work done there. I know you will Love it.”

“Where is the condo located? Chloe asked?

“Brooklyn, of course,” Kathleen said smiling. With tears in her eyes, Chloe circles the table and hugs her mother saying, you are the world’s best mother. Thank you, mother. I Love you.

In October, Kathleen was planning her birthday party at the club; Chloe said we must give mother as good a present as she did for me. Chloe decided that we need to do a south American tango for her. We’re not ready for that, I told her. We have plenty of time to rehearse. She responded.

On Kathleen’s birthday, Chloe had arranged for us to come into the club’s back and a dressing room. Only the manager knew about the dance. The MC came back to tell us that everyone had finished dinner, and he would announce us on stage, so he did. He announced.

“Ladies and gentlemen, for Kathleen Sullivan’s birthday, her daughter Chloe will dance the Tango. Her pardner is Army Sergeant Sargent.”

When the curtains opened, Chloe and I stood under the spotlight, holding hands. She looked so gorgeous. Her strawberry hair was piled on top of her head, and she wore a long red dress split on each side up to her panty line with four-inch-high black heels, long dangling earrings, and a three-string white pearl neckless wrapped around her neck. I wore a dress blue uniform with yellow stripes on the outside legs and yellow stripes on each sleeve. I wore all my ribbons that managed to cover my left chest. I wore black shoes and a black bow tie. She was taller than I was with her hair and heels, but try and imagine a girl who barely weighs 120 pounds standing six feet high with heels. She was a slender goddess.

A man’s goal is to present the woman in the tango, and hands or bodies should all the time touch. Men only had to be strong enough to catch and spin the woman and move to stay in position. The dance lasted four and a half minutes; at the end, she spun out from me, her dress rising, and just as it looked that our hands would pull aside, she came spinning back until we were face to face, our bodies plastered together her leg that faced the audience was hooked behind my thigh her dress open and showing portion to her waist. We turned and faced the audience holding hands again. There was a prolonged ovation for our dance, and when I stepped back and presented her to the audience, they stood up and applauded for several minutes. I never did the Tango again because of Chloe or because only a few women knew the dance.

We continued our daily and weekly routine until April, when I got orders that transferred me to the Entrance Station in Oakland, California. I told Kathleen, and she wanted to wait until it was time for me to leave before we told Chloe. The time did come, and the three of us met at Chloe’s apartment. Chloe knew something was wrong and immediately started crying. Kathleen handled most of the conservation, and even she had tears, but as promised, we agreed it must be a complete break, no contact after I left. Chloe and I had a week before I left. The next day I was checking out of my job and getting ready to transfer. I arrived home early. Chloe was seated at our dining table, sipping wine. She looked at me and said,

“I have something to say. Please let me finish before you tell me no.”

“Of course, Chloe, go ahead.”

“I Love you, Sergeant, with every fiber of my being. And I want to go with you. I know my mother will oppose me, but I could transfer to the University of San Francisco and get her support. Please, Sergeant, I can’t lose you again. I don’t need this life as a socialite. You don’t have to marry me; Love and let me be with you.”

“Chloe, I can not run off with you. We wouldn’t make it two days before your mother would have us picked up. If you can get her permission, I will take you with me, but honesty Chloe, military life is hard, and I think you are meant to achieve great things, and seeing you wilt away because of me would tear my heart aside and What did you mean by saying lose me again?