'Of Risk Takers & Menopause' Chapter 4 My Wet Messes
What’s that line they sing from that ‘Yellow Taxi’ song? Something about you don’t know what you’ve got ‘till it’s gone? I wasn’t there yet. I mean she was a casual, you know, fleeting one in the crowd, right? You must remember that she was younger, a kid really, and I went on to high school and she disappeared for like a couple of years. She lived close and I would see her now and then but would crank my AM top 40 radio and squirt by, spitting little ‘eh’ venom seed her way. I was a hundred goddamn years older than she. No, no time for kids too recently weaned from the training brassiere.
And then, time splat, just like that. After a dozen or so casual, semi-casual girlfriend tryst and trials, heart break humps and lumps all with hazardous heat and accidental occasional sex, I slowly zit morphed towards the high school summit. Still had no fucking clue where or who the clit-button was, or the g-spot, but I collected not too few front seat handy jobs. The girls would squeeze and squeeze me through my jeans. A few dared to reach in and pull out. More often though I would maneuver in a way that it would accidentally, you know, come out. Right. Come out on accident. It just fell the hell out and into her hands. Oh damn, and then you would here their little gasp when the felt the real soft warm hard. Front seat high school hand jobs. Christ Almighty, I miss them.
There were always the barely dressed fevered hands all over her romp. Teenage checklist sex. Touch the breast, tweak the nipple. Kiss the neck, move your hand down inside the pants. Watch her fidget, adjust, and suck in her belly so your hand can slide, slide down further deeper. Follow the heat, follow the wet. Wrist rides down until the finger finds the up. Then it’s awkward fucking hand bending down with fingers up. But that’s what the girls wanted, right? Some single digit pointer finger rigidly straight blurring blitzing in and out as fast as a teenage human can finger copulate. Right? ‘Hands’ me.
And then, on those blistered raw moments at her house, when there is a little more room, and a little more dare, we get almost there. Dancing the long too lost art of the dry humping, bare thigh rubs. Sweetly sheened, her slickened thighs. All the right moves to pad my mating resume. I had even got it in, all the damn soft wet teen way in before senior year. Twice with Sandy once with Erin and three times with Carly. I made it to Senior-hood all right, unvirgined, and I pumped all ‘Warriors’ like and ready to trade down to a little easier good-time-roll action with the underclass girls. Can-You-Dig-It ??
It is a goddamn natural fact that Senior boys and sophomore girls score most of the high school sex fun. Sophomore boys, meanwhile, have it goddamn wicked ugly dry. A handful can hook up with some desperate Senior dateless girls. I did for damn sure, and they tolerated my poking, probing, club like hands and whining “you don’t love me” personality. And always thankful to have a warm body to rub against. Hell, Senior girls DRIVE the sophomore boys around in their cars, but it is all just crimes against the social order. Sophomore boys & Senior girls deserve each other, because no one else wants them. Juniors? Well, they have their own little clique shit so they just date themselves. Freshman are a sad fucking sack, and long for the good old days of Junior High.
But Senior Boys go fishing with sophomore girls. It’s the catch & release sex dating game. But why in the fuck am I telling you this? You went through all the same shit too in high school. Hell, fucking Caveman from a million years BC went through the same high school shit, hitting that sophomore Neanderthal fine hairy body. Squatch-like. And she, baby she, my once and future love, she was a sophomore. And fucking finally, the Gods had it timed all right. And she made it into my front seat. Alone with me. And it was about damn time.
We had been squirreled away in a pizza slut booth on a Thursday night, I remember. January. She came with friends and so did I. But our groups hung, and we, she and I, teased across the table all night, twisting tales and dares until I convinced her to let me drive her home. It was as easy as fucking that. We walked out into the cold night air and crawled into my red Hornet. She didn’t even pretend she didn’t know why I didn’t start the car right up. I don’t remember what she wore, or nothing, but God, I DO remember that first real kiss with her. Ever. And that shit really did happen.
Cold night, cold nose. Parked behind the pizza lot. Steaming heat on the windows cranked up and the heat between her legs breeching the jean-insulation. Kissing like teenagers do, you know? Working her tongue against mine. Rolling, wrestling tongues. Fat, hard, wet tongue. Canine teeth tapping, stabbing the gums every now and then. Lip gloss candy gum taste tongue goo. Cute as FUCK, her. Little crooked smile and her nose, wet and cold. Her little sophomore hands rubbing my shoulders. Me, goddamn me, being all seventeen. Hard in my Wrangler jeans. Spitting the wet even as we kissed in that front seat. Damn, I remember those teenage kissing swelling hard ass hard-ons. Swollen, smashed. Bent in two in too tight jeans. Contraceptive squeeze. Too uncool to adjust pant the grow and WAY too fucking uncool to zipper down and parlay out.
My front seat. Pizza Lot parked. Cold night. Foggy damp windows, but casual, comfortable with this kid. Sophomore her. That Junior High face gone and grown. Now sexy and sex there, growing. Just beginning to learn the dance, feel the spin. No frantic, no pushy, no prose spoken. Just some fucking wow good hard kissing. Mumbling good hard kissing.
GOD damn to have that moment again and know exactly what to do with it. I was hard, fucking hard in those jeans, I remember, and I did rub all I could against her, in that gray lot with her. Alone. That sweet front seat ride with cramped seats and cramped pants too tight to expand. Steering wheel balancing her back and pinning her close. Freckled girl with the cold nose, clean smell and drizzled hair and warm and soft all over. Unbuttoned coat to drink that warm clothed sophomore skin up against mine. My fruit of the loom’s wet from that little spitting head of mine, and I fucking bet, I just fucking bet, hers too were soaked through. God. High school wet.
Just to be back there in that pizza lot with her. For a flash, a moment’s mad dash back, just to inhale deeply our teenage first friend French kiss make out rub romp front seat whipped wet and wet mixed atmosphere.
At seventeen it was easy, so easy to love. I know that now. Love this one this week, and her best friend the next. The smoothed truth rules of high school love came down to loving ANY goddamn girl next week, so long as she likes you first and is hungry to go out. Alone. And is signaling free allowance to unbuttoning that shirt or pushing up the faux cashmere sweatered top. Hell. Yes. Any girls willing to play the possible and all the sticky sweet possibilities were fair game.
But she was truly a goddamn sweet kid, sexy as hell for a plain Jane from Spain sophomore. She wasn’t hot. I mean she wasn’t a fucking dream girl beauty queen. But she had this little rounded padded body and it just had to feel so good. And I knew and know she liked me. She dug me. Dreamed me. Wrote-about-me-in-her diary-liked me. Asked her friends about me liked me. I could tell with those doe-green eyes searching up my face and her short little hands with stubby fingers interlocking behind my neck as she kissed me in my front seat. Always my front seat. Semi timid as a non slutting sophomore should be, but with awakening mobility of passion. The fucking fact is, she held her own in that front seat of mine and god DAMN for a pale flail girl she found some little switch in me to jiggle just a bit.
For a moment or two in time, what two-three-four weeks? I can't remember for sure, but we had our little romantic winter time high school sweet dance. We would talk on the phone hours at night. Laugh, love...I would listen to her sweet voice, that sexy-sweetness teenage purr over the cored line. I would listen to her patter on about some this and that shit, engage on occasion, throw a question or two out. Maybe say “yeah” or “I know” and all the while on my bedroom corded extension, masturbate hard while listening to her. No fucking jeans to impede the flow. Count the times, one stroke-two, three. No need to spit on the head. She would talk to me on the phone about every-day teen shit nonsense and I would masturbate quietly, and she would never know I came for her, ON her, in my mind--dirty wet dark-hard for sweet her, my teen Becky Thatcher. She never knew then my wet messes made on my end of the phone. She heard only mumbled breathless words. Probably just a bad connection. That sophomore, she played in love, grateful, I’m sure, for my senior attention
Fucking sweet sexy. Nice kid, heart, spirit. I liked her, I mean I really fucking did like her. My kid-sister with benefits, kid sister who made me hard. I liked her talk, I liked her touch, I liked her plain freckled face and I liked the way she adored me. She was easy to love then, but I wasn't. Too stupid. Too seventeen. Too much a ‘Senior’. I blinked and moved on from her. No break-up, just that pale plain fucking fade away like all teenage boys do who want to play a bigger game, a grownup game. And she wasn’t grown up enough yet for me.
At fifty years old, she told me she had remained a legal virgin until she was twenty. But not for want of wanting. In fact she said she was done waiting for that perfect goddamn right and finally took things into her own hand. She grabbed another friend boy of hers and coaxed him up into her old bedroom when her folks were gone. That same bedroom where she used to hide in the closet for privacy while I privately took care of business on the other end of the fucking corded phone with her.
On her old mattress she crawled up on top of him she said, and hand jacked him hard and red. She didn’t wait for him to beg to be her first. She just straddled his stomach, reached between her legs pulling her panties to the side and easing back down, slowly. Letting him slide up and in. Deeply. Swollen, full. She finally fucked. And fucked, finally. In control and on her terms. A year on the pill and she was finally filled.
After that she told me she had played a little love-crazy. Even fell into some messed up situations. Hurt. Pierced. Spilled a little, but never broken, never goddamn broken in all those years. Tom boy tough. Cute as fuck and so easy, so fucking easy to want to love.
GOD, over the years I did think a lot about her, though. That is NO fucking lie or fucking line. She was cute, sexy, sweet. Always fifteen, sixteen years old. A sophomore in my mind. Thirty, thirty-five years passed since then. What's that, two lifetimes? Two wives? A dozen jobs? Her sweet teenage scent gone, lip gloss, Pert shampoo, but that cold nose on my face, those kisses in my front seat, THOSE I remembered. Wet lips, cold nose. She was easy to love and easy to kiss and that is why she played an easy spin on my mind during the empty real-life years. With no word, no contact, no conversation, no reunion-ization of that what-was, our first life or even a stab at what could have been.
Until that baited Facebook lob. A once upon a one night chance cast about. She tugged and pulled my line under, swallowing my drowned bait.