Sunday, November 28, 2010

Thriller and the Brick

After a brief conversation about a difficult assignment in math class, and her lustrous smile (years of braces had paid off), we found ourselves awkwardly looking at our feet. Her name was Heather. We were at recess, and she and I were both 14 years old. Children rushed out into the yard, and we were perched in the middle of all that energy streaming by, like a stone in a river. Ignoring them was a simple matter, as they were irrelevant to what I had decided was a very important conversation. Every so often a friend would pass, but would ignore us. Interrupting a man trying to ask a girl out was heavy stuff. There was a school dance that Friday, and we both new that it was my job to ask her to accompany me. All my friends knew it, too.

Meanwhile, a girl named Donna haunted us. She never left Heather's side, and this moment was no different. She stood behind Heather and looked annoyed, every so often our eyes would meet and an unspoken disdain was clearly related. She could hear everything I was saying, and that was not helping. Not one bit.

After the awkward pause, Heather looked up, smiled and asked, "What happened to you in gym class today, you weren't there." At that age, skipping a class was comfortably subversive. It indicated a proper lack of respect for authority. In an instant, I became acutely self-conscious and felt wretched. Donna looked up and smiled a queer little smile. I could have killed her. She damn well knew that I skipped gym class because my weight back then was 400 pounds. "Well Heather," I mused, "I have a deep fear of locker rooms, what with all the naked men." She laughed. In truth, my most profound gym related fear was a shirts versus skins game. My man boobs would dance a merry dance if I ran up and down a basketball court, flipping and flopping. There was no doubt that it would be the most humiliating experience of my life up until that point. Generally, I wore a blazer all the time, to help hide breasts that were larger than half the girls at my school. Going shirtless at any time, under any circumstances, was not an option.

Donna's gaze became cruel and unflinching, so I decided to end the conversation with Heather by getting to the damn point. "Hey, there's a dance Friday, you want to go with me?" And there it was, the big doohickey. Donna turned away, and loitered behind Heather, who looked skyward and fidgeted. The heels of here feel went in opposite directions, and her hands were locked and twisted. "Okay," she answered. "Great! I'll drop by your house and we can walk there together." We could have continued to talk, but I felt as if I had just robbed a gas station. I had to get the Hell out of there. She apparently felt the same way, and responded to Donna's spoken desire to go talk to some friend of theirs. We both smiled at each other and then parted.

The dance itself is a blur in my memory. On the way to the dance, we hugged, and I knew it was a good thing. By penis thought so, as well. An erection pulsed under my sports jacked. It commanded that I use it, even though I'd never used it with another human being before. It was very hard, and hard to ignore. I wouldn't have been surprised if it started singing and dancing. The little bugger had received orders from a part of myself that I was powerless to control. As Heather and I held hands, there was a fear that I would suddenly come, and fall to the ground, moaning and screaming. Her scent and smile touched me in a profound way. My penis, however, was driven by naughty thoughts. Nasty bastard.

As I said, the dance was a blur of poorly dressed kids and cheap cologne. One part I do remember is Michael Jackson's "Thriller," which was played on a television in the back corner of the auditorium. Kids rushed in to see it, and I suppose Heather and I did, as well. At some point, however, we both decided that we had to get out of there, and we did. There wasn't a soul outside, and the cool breeze made me feel sweaty, but relieved. The two of us walked through the parking lot, and then into the pitch black darkness of the baseball field. It was wonderful. Her little hand in mine made me a little dizzy. When I held her close, careful to avoid her hitting the erection, it brought to mind Romantic poetry and passion. This was good.

We had sex. The two of us kissed for a very long time, and then it happened. Pants came off. Then underwear. "Holy shit," I thought, "that's pubic hair, we're outside, she just looked at my cock, what the Hell am I doing?!?" We eventually figured it out, but not without more than one awkward moment. At one point, I considered the possibility that her skinny figure and my roundness wouldn't go together. Like trying to fit a 220 plug into a 110 outlet. As I entered her and started thrusting, I couldn't help but notice that I was crushing this poor girl to death. To her relief, I lifted myself up, allowing her to breath. We were having sex. We were so grown up. And it was over very fast.

We held each other for what felt like a long time, kissing, and speaking of how much we loved each other. The dewy grass and gentle breeze turned our legs white, so we put our pants on and slowly walked home. She lived just a few houses down from mine. Her watchful mother prevented a kiss with which to end the night, but the embrace was very satisfying. I thought of her all that night.

When Donna found out, she literally tried to beat the shit out of me. In her mind, I had pulled a con, worked an angle, did something terrible to convince Heather to want to fuck me. Heather and I spoke now and then, and enjoyed our time together. But after awhile we drifted apart, partly because neither of us wanted to cross Donna. At one point she threatened to smash my cock with a brick. I didn't like the sound of that, not one little bit.

It was a pleasant and memorable first time, with lovely images and feelings left behind. All except for the squashed girlfriend, and the threat of a smashed cock. Little did I know that the day would come when my heart would be broken, making the brick look tame by comparison.

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