I’d made plans to pick up Polly on the way to meet friends. After a humid afternoon practicing, she said she’d have to shower first. She didn’t mind if I dropped by early. I casually mentioned my best friend would be with me. She paused for a moment, then said she’d see me soon.
That pause was like an unasked question.
Imagining the anwer made me hard. At that age the body is desperate for sex, ready for sex, explosive with desire. I called my fiend; told him I’d be late, then drove to Polly’s house almost too distracted to drive. She wasn’t home. I sat on the steps of the front porch, half in and out of the porch’s shadow. The ants stayed in the cooler cracks of the concrete walkway. Surrounding their hole was something like a little sand dune.
“Hey.” I looked up. Polly was still wearing her soccer shorts and top and a backpack. I took her in. All of her. Her sweat soaked arms, her glistening legs, her nipples poking softly under her top. I still couldn’t believe a girl was mine, that I could at a girl without feeling like a creep, that she liked it, that she wanted me to be turned on by her tits or her ass. She walked up to me as if curious, as if expectant. I stood, smiled, and we kissed.
“Been waiting long?”
“It’s a desert out here,” I said, and the next thing I did was squeeze her nipple through the thing fabric of her top. Her mouth opened and her eyelids flickered. She pressed one knee against the other, quickly looked both ways, then stood on her tip, toes to kiss me. When I let go she let out a little cry, pushed her ass backwards into my other hand, then pushed herself away from me.
“Where’s your friend?”
“I dumped him.”
“Well then I guess you’re gonna’ have nobody to talk to,” she said with an impish smile. “I gotta’ take a shower.”
When she pushed passed me I turned, watched her hips. They swayed distractingly. She was a scrawny girl. I’ve always like the scrawny, small breasted, tomboy types.
The door swung shut behind her. I moved up to the porch’s swinging bench. To use a cliché, my cock was rock hard. I was beyond distracted. Our tryst in the car had only been a month ago. After sucking a cock for the first time, she spontaneously sucked me off—when I was driving, kneeling alone in the woods, in a classroom only minutes after the final bell had rung—as if she had been thinking about my cock all day. I would tremble, groan, come, twisting with the pleasure of her mouth. She would be shaking with desire kissing me afterward. We couldn’t touch each other enough. The sound of the other’s orgasm was like a drug. To have our bodies brought to orgasm by the other, to give it to the other, to have it taken by the other, was a desire that only made us thirstier in the quenching of it, only made our bodies yearn for the others—fully, instinctively, and irresistibly. She had glanced at me, at my own hips, looking over her shoulder, before the door shut behind her.
I may have sat on the bench for 5 minutes.
Then I didn’t care if her brother or her parents came home unexpectedly . Looking back, surely one of the evolutionary benefits of teen-aged risk-taking is the perpetuation of our species. When we’re teens we’re impulsive, dismissive of consequences and our pursuit of pleasure is inexhaustible.
I went into the bathroom. I could see her through the pebbled glass door—the beautiful blur of a naked girl. I undressed. My cock was purple and hooked like a satyr’s. When I opened the shower door she nearly screamed, then backed against the opposite wall with anything but a frightened look. Her gaze was knowing, expectant, and studied my own with a kind of fierceness. I moved straight to her, pressing myself against her, the water, soap, and each other’s slippery skin a new experience and aphrodisiac.
Her hand moved around my cock, arm rising and falling as she pumped me.
I bit her lips; she bit mine as we kissed. We shook. We couldn’t breath without moaning. Her eyelids fluttered when two of my fingers slipped inside her, parting her thighs, lifting her to the tips of her toes. Her breast was in my mouth, then her throat, then we looked at each other, pausing, questioning the other without words.
She let go of my cock and both her hands moved to my shoulder. I bent at the knees, held my cock, and moved the tip back and forth over her clit. This was the first time my cock had ever touched a woman’s pussy, or that hers had been touched by a cock. Now she was shaking enough that her teeth chattered. Mine too. Her gaze didn’t leave mine. Her nipples grazed mine, stiff, jutting. I felt, with my cock, her wetness, the syrupy smooth fluids that blossomed from her pussy in readiness for its first cock. I felt the lips of her pussy, the divide between her thighs as I slid lower, then back, then the tell-tale nook where my cock should go, where my cock ached to go, that ached for my cock, and I pushed.
Her eyelids fluttered again, blinking as if water had gotten in her eyes, then her gaze became heavy with inexpressible pleasure. My own must have been the same. I hadn’t known what to expect, but this was more than I ever could have, as if this was the culmination earthly existence and earthly desire—which in a sense it is—that momentary resistance when penetrating a woman, the tightness that makes her cry out, that place where the bones of the pelvis meet, like an almost too-small doorway, the womb’s throat; then penetrating, feeling the bulb of ones cock push into her warmth, into the softness of her belly, the succor of her abdomen, the dark moisture that, with an almost painful pleasure and surprise—hers and mine—contained my full length. Her head lolled back, eyes rolling, mouth wide, her fingers knotted in my hair. Our bodies marveled at the way we fit together—naturally, perfectly, as if we were always meant to, which we were. If she had looked at me, she would have seen my own shock at the sheer pleasure of her body.
My legs widened so that I wasn’t so tall. Hers moved together, feeling the penetrating thickness of a cock between her thigh for the first time. She stood on her tip-toes. I withdrew almost to the tip, then pushed into her as deeply as I could. Instinct, new to us and ancient, possessed us. I began thrusting. She watched my own expressions with a mix of surprise and need. Then we were kissing again. Then she was clawing my back. Then she was crying out with each thrust, half laughing when she did, until she cried out again. I didn’t know if she came. Afterward, she couldn’t tell me if she had. I thrust quicker, driven by her, her cries, her fingernails in my back and haunches, the vision of her with my cock inside her, before I rose to my toes, lifted hers off the shower’s tile floor, and I came in her, came in a woman for the first time, released my self in a woman’s womb.
She gazed at me as if in shook, but wrapped her legs around my hips.
I had to bend my knees to withdraw from her womb. My cock didn’t soften. We kissed furiously, neither speaking to the other. We parted. Water dripped from my balls and for the first time a man’s come dripped down her thighs.
We didn’t meet my friends afterward.
That’s the way it goes when guys start falling in love. Childhood relationships fall away and new ones take their place. But we couldn’t stay at her house. Her brother would be home first, then her parents. We drove to nowhere, a cornfield on a dirt road, and to a late sunset. I pulled over with two wheels in a rut of water. We lay down in the back of the pick-up, my arm around her shoulders, and stared at the stars. That was enough for the two of us. Neither of us talked about what we had just done—or possibly created. For just a little while we wanted the world to be the perfect place that it felt like.
A month later she started birth control pills.
William Crimson | August 9, 2018