Mrs. Kaminski had a huge bush. I realize it was a different time, but the thatch of hair camouflaging that pussy was substantial even by 1979 standards. Even though I fully expected some such situation, when I finally managed to get her shorts down over her broad ass and large, sturdy thighs, the great tufts of pubic hair sprouting out either side of the crotch of her underpants left me momentarily taken aback.

But only momentarily. Otherwise, I was undeterred. A couple months before this, I probably would have been intimidated by such a flamboyant snatch, not to mention all the female intricacy it cloaked. At the start of that summer, my first-hand experience with pussy had been strictly tactile; I’d had my hands and fingers in the pants of a few girls, though I hadn’t yet even accomplished that much with my more-or-less high school girlfriend of the time, Suzie Bowen (or, as I started calling her, The Imbecile). But I’d never gotten any of those others completely out of their drawers or fucked them, and certainly never had an up-close-and-personal look in real life.

But that was at the start of summer. Things were different now.

I yanked down Eleanor Kaminski’s underpants and moved forward to start licking her.

“No,” she breathed, and put her hand on my forehead to stop me, though not very forcefully.

“Shhh,” I said softly. “It’s okay. I’ll never tell anyone, I promise.”

I took her wrist and brought that restraining hand around to the back of my head. I parted all that dense underbrush and brought my tongue in contact with her cunt. Her entire body bucked on the bed like someone had jolted her with defibrillator paddles. She let out a long, weird kind of yowl and laced her fingers in my sweaty hair.

I pressed my tongue hard against her slit and licked up, parting her pussy lips with the tip until I reached her clit and began to toggle it lightly. She was bucking and writhing and I had to hook my arms around her thighs to keep her from squirming out of reach. Her breathing was heavy, and on every exhale, she kept repeating “Oh my God… Oh my God…”

I realized then that Eleanor Kaminski had never been eaten out in her entire thirty-three years.

This was an inspiring little revelation, and something, at the very least, I should have suspected. Not just because this was 1979. People—young people, anyway—were eating pussy and sucking cocks and mastering all kind of adventurous behaviors, even in blue-collar Ohio. But this… this was a thirty-three-year-old housewife living in Youngstown. She’s never been anywhere but this place. She probably got married right out of high school: her husband, perhaps, the only guy she’s ever had sex with. That’s the way the lives of a lot of working class folks from those parts shook out back then.

I was licking her pussy now with great enthusiasm, wiggling my tongue tip against her clit, sucking it, and making my own sounds of enjoyment—“yummy” sounds (yeah, I know. That sounds stupid, but something less stupid would be less accurate). I wanted to reassure her that licking her big, bushy, and now extremely wet cunt was one of the most pleasurable experiences this eighteen-year-old could ever hope to have. I sucked on two of my fingers to make them wet and slipped them slowly into her. She wasn’t tight by any means, but she’d be tight enough.

Her husband probably climbs on top, fucks her until he’s done, and that’s that. Hell, I thought, this poor woman may never have even had an orgasm other than by her own hand, and maybe not even then. At thirty-three, that means she was born in 1946. She’s probably afraid to pleasure herself, to touch her vagina in a recreational way.

I considered all this as I continued to eat and finger-fuck Eleanor Kaminski. I looked up over the soft mound of her belly. Her head was thrown back, and she was clawing the thick pile carpet with her fingers. Her throat glistened. She kept saying “Oh my God... Oh my God.”

I wanted to talk to her. I wanted to whisper to her how fabulous she tasted, how much I loved licking and sucking her sweet pussy. Tell her this was what I thought about when I jacked my hard cock. Ask her if she liked how I was finger-fucking her. Tell her to come all over my face. But I didn’t want to risk it. I didn’t know what her kink was, if she had one, apart from, perhaps, cock-teasing the fuck out of a teenage lawn boy. She’d probably never heard any talk like that, and suddenly hearing it from the mouth of an eighteen-year-old kid going down on her... I didn’t want to push my luck.

She had big, soft tits that now, her on her back, were flattened against her chest and quivering from the orgasm that was building in her, and I reached up with my free hand to fondle one. I need to spend a little more time sucking on these tits, I thought. These are the tits that I’d spent a good portion of the summer jacking off to after I’d come home from cutting her lawn each week. The tits I longed to see her heft in her hands and offer to me; the tits I imagined when I was sucking on Suzie Bowen’s—whose I used to covet but now just had to settle for.

I was going to make this big-titted, big-assed, frustrated housewife come like she’d never come before, on her hallway floor, a sweaty eighteen-year-old boy going down on her, lapping her neglected cunt. Her big, tanned, hammy thighs started trembling and she’d stopped Oh-my-Godding. She was holding her breath now for several seconds before finally letting it out and gasping more in again sharply. I took her clit between my lips and held it there, giving it a gentle, pulsing suck, and she began bucking violently, a great ripping spasm making her big body flop about on the floor. She let loose this strange, high-pitched keening, not loud but very sharp and effortful, like someone wheezing the air from a balloon. The flesh of her thighs was stippled hard with goose bumps. Her flopping subsiding into quaking before dialing further down into tremors. Her snatch was a thick, whorled mat of hair thoroughly soaked with her cum and cunt nectar and my saliva. No dead skin cells left on my cheeks and jaw: her redolent bush had loofaed me thoroughly.

“Ohmygod,” she panted heavily. “Ohmygod… How old are you again?”“

Old enough,” I said, rising to my knees..:.

That summer, after I graduated from high school and before I started my freshman year of college at an urban Pennsylvania university, I was still a virgin. I was okay with that, mostly. A lot of the kids I went to high school with were having sex. Given the many stories that floated around the locker rooms and hallways, sometimes it seemed like just about everyone was getting laid. The girls were more active than the guys. The more mature girls, the more developed, grown-up looking ones who dated older guys, guys already out of high school… you knew they were banging more than an old screen door. And every once in a while, you’d catch a bit of gossip about someone whom you’d never imagine would be having sex: like, the National Honor Society girl, one of the really brainy top-of-the-class chicks, fucking a guy from the football team or a major stoner at some party over the weekend. And you’d think, no shit, her? For some reason, the idea of one of my more respected, successful female classmates on her back with her legs spread and a cock pumping in and out of her was more of a turn-on than thinking about what fucking one of the hotter, sexier girls would be like.

It also made my virginal status seem that much more forlorn.

But like I said, I was sort of okay with it. My virginal status, I mean. I wanted to get off, certainly, but the prospect of intercourse was still a little intimidating. I didn’t want to get anyone pregnant, that’s for sure. And back then, you didn’t walk into the grocery store and buy a three-pack of condoms. You went down to the Sinclair gas station, asked for the men’s room key, and bought a rubber from the vending machine bolted to the wall. And God only knew how reliable that might turn out to be.

Now, as I mentioned earlier, I did have a sort-of girlfriend during my senior year, Suzie Bowen, aka The Imbecile. I say “sort of” because if the opportunity to date someone else I preferred had ever arisen, I might have found the stones to break up with her. Besides, I was going to be heading off to college and she… well, at the time, I had no idea what she was going to do. She wasn’t college material, as they say.

I had actually pursued Suzie Bowen back in the summer after 10th grade, purely because of her breasts. They were better than average. At the end of that year, on a school bus coming back from Idora Park, a local amusement park where we had our school picnic, I found myself across the aisle from Suzie Bowen. On that day, she wore this kind of halter top, canary yellow, that was laced up the front. She wasn’t wearing a bra, and I could clearly see that her full breasts had large, brown areolas, the size of silver dollars. I couldn’t stop thinking about them.

She wasn’t interested in being my girlfriend back then. Like just about every other girl my age, she had her sights set on older guys. By the time our senior year rolled around, however, she changed her mind. She was in a couple of my classes that year, and when she saw that I was somewhat of a mildly successful student myself, editor of the high school newspaper, with friends from all the different subgroups (jocks, greasers, heads, brains) and fairly popular, I suddenly didn’t seem so bad anymore. She pursued me. That was a first.

I figured, okay, what the hell. She still had those tits, after all, and they certainly hadn’t lost their luster. She was cute: not beautiful, not pretty, but cute. She had a leisurely, almost stiff-legged, flat-footed way of walking through the halls that for some reason I associated with someone who went barefoot much of the time, both arms wrapped around her books and clasped to her chest. There was a casual, natural kind of sexiness to her.

But we weren’t compatible. In fact, she was the most uninteresting person I’ve ever dated in my entire life. She didn’t like to read, she was a bit of a drone when it came to school and classes. She never liked any of the movies I picked out for us to see or the music I listened to. She seemed profoundly indifferent to the world around us. If she ever did voice an opinion, it was always contrary to mine. She didn’t get jokes. And worst of all—worst because it was the only thing that kept me around—she would not let me get to those tits of hers for months.

As we got closer to graduation, though, she started loosening up considerably. I figured it was because I would be leaving for college in a few months. I finally got to fondle and suck those breasts on a regular basis, and they were nice, they were good tits. After a graduation party, in the front seat of my parents’ car, she finally jerked me off to completion. She’d had her hand on my cock before, but she never seemed to know quite what to do with it.

In the summer of 1979, with high school behind us, I felt pretty sure that fucking her was just a matter of time. I still hadn’t figured out, however, how that was going to come about. At the same time, I was not ignorant to the possibility that the two of us fucking might represent, to her, the consummation of a more inviolable pledge. I was cold to that idea. To me, having sex with her represented more of a grand send-off. I was going to college. I had plans. The more immediate ones—plans, that is—involved women of many races, backgrounds, cup sizes, and hair colors.

I had this dim idea that I didn’t want to enter college as a virgin. Not that anyone would know unless I told them, but I also knew that sex was not something a person would be good at from the start. It would take some practice. I figured, if I was going to do it poorly, then I’d prefer doing it poorly with Suzie Bowen because, quite honestly, I didn’t give a shit. Suzie Bowen didn’t excite me beyond the physical. I don’t think I excited her very much, either. I know that doesn’t jive with what I said about the imminence of the two of us having sex. But I think I just figured that two people pushing out into the dull, cold waters of adulthood would inevitably find themselves compelled to do adult things.

And just because we didn’t seem to excite one another, that doesn’t mean I wasn’t still horny all the time, because I was.

Especially after I started cutting Eleanor and Big Ed Kaminski’s lawn once a week.

I worked three jobs that summer after graduating high school. When I wasn’t working, I was usually listening to The Imbecile complain about me working three jobs. I worked part-time at the A&P, bagging groceries, mopping floors, and basically doing all the shit work that the union employees wouldn’t do. I also worked part-time at a fabric store: again, janitorial stuff. And then I had my under-the-table cash work mowing lawns in the neighborhood.

Ed Kaminski saw me mowing the lawn of Mrs. Fulton, the septuagenarian that lived across the street from him, and offered me ten bucks to cut his grass once a week. Ed used to work at Youngstown Sheet and Tube, a job he got right out of high school, until it, and the rest of the steel industry in America, went tits up. Ed was one of the lucky ones who managed to find new employment at the Chevy plant over in Lordstown, slapping together those ill-fated Vegas. The Kaminskis were indifferent home owners.

Ed was a beefy, bearded, Caterpillar ball cap kind of guy. He looked a lot like Merlin Olsen, the ex-Los Angeles Rams football player turned television actor. I figured he and his wife had been together since high school, since their only kid, a girl named Vicki, was only three years behind me at East High.

We didn’t have the term MILF back then. I never thought until now to wonder why that is, because they certainly existed. Eleanor Kaminski was a piece: a tousled, slightly wanton brunette with a plump lower lip that she would hold in a seductive little bite whenever she asked me her inane, flirty questions. I’ve already referred to her ample proportions, but she wasn’t in any sense fat. She was curvy, voluptuous, approaching zaftig. Her hips were wide, her bottom generous, and her thighs substantial, but she had an hourglass figure, and her large breasts maintained a certain buoyancy. Now, to a teenager, a 33-year-old might not necessarily seem “young.” Maybe she was a little bit worse for wear compared to a 33-year-old of today, but a lot of women didn’t exactly age well back in those blue-collar towns from those days: too much drinking and smoking and laying out unprotected in the hot sun and poisoned, mill-town air. I have a feeling, though, that if I could go back in time and see her, not in memory, but as she truly was that summer, I’d probably be astonished at how young she looked.

Memory will have to do.

I’d have been keen to fuck Eleanor Kaminski even if she’d shown me less than the time of day every Wednesday afternoon. Truth is, in that last cherry summer, there were any number of women who drifted through my days and then buzzed like gnats in my hormone-clouded mind, peeling down their short-shorts, shedding their tanks and bikini tops, parting their lips, tracing their fingers lightly down my stomach to the button of my jeans.

But Eleanor Kaminski seemed determined to press an indelible stamp on my erotic imagination. By my third or fourth Wednesday mowing their lawn, after they’d sent Vicki off to a camp in Michigan for the summer, Mrs. Kaminski seemed to find innumerable, pointless things to do in the yard or on the back porch while I mowed. She’s come out to chat me up at least twice, once before I got started and again when I finished. She’d wait on the porch to pay me, usually wearing a halter top or tube top stretched to its limits, and I’d try not to stare at those great, grown-woman breasts, though she wanted me to.

She led with her tits, that was her thing, even though she had a nice face, and lots of waves and flips in her tumble of dark hair. But you could tell from the way she held herself, the way she moved and posed, that—from whenever they burst onto the scene and started a sensation—she considered her girls to be the principal assets for brokering most of life’s significant transactions. They could certainly sway the attention and reason of a more mature individual. To an eighteen-year-old boy, they imposed total mind control.

She’d move in close, smelling of Coppertone and Secret and cigarettes, asking me flirtatious, mundane questions (about school, about girlfriends), all the while, I imagined, sucking up my complex bouquet of horny teenage musk and sweet work sweat and herbaceous fresh-cut grass and faint gasoline tang.

On one of those midsummer Wednesdays, she came out into the yard in a pair of cut-off shorts and an orange tank top with no bra. She made a show of pulling weeds from a flower bed near the back porch, bending over in one direction to give me an eyeful of that broad can, then in another so I could get a stunning view down the front of her shirt, those big tits stretching down the neckline of her tank and woggling as she yanked up dandelions. Big, soft, sweet tits that I imagined squeezing and sucking while she stroked my stiff dick.

There was a rusty tin shed in the corner of the yard where the Kaminskis kept their lawn equipment, and when I wrestled the mower back into it after I’d finished mowing on that particular day, I stepped into the back corner, took out my cock, and jerked it hard and fast with a grimy hand until I shot a thick load all over the shed wall. I’d just finished stuffing myself back in my pants and zipping up when she opened the shed door, a long burning cigarette in her hand.

“Oh, you are still here,” she said. “I thought maybe you left without collecting your money. You’ve been in here a while.”

A minute or two sooner and she’d have seen me arcing ropes of jizz on the rust-splotched wall. I can’t remember if I was relieved or disappointed by her timing.

“Just putting things away,” I said. I waited a beat, a moment of horny teenager fantasy that she’d step all the way in, let the door close behind her. But just a beat: I didn’t want to stand there like an idiot and give her the idea that that’s what I was waiting for.

Back out in the yard, she offered me one of her Parliament 100s and I took it. She flicked her lighter, and when I leaned forward, the hands I was trying to cup around the lick of flame were shaking.

“Are you okay?”

“Umm-hmmm,” I hummed, cigarette clamped between my lips. I finally got it lit and pulled back, puffed, blew smoke. “Just a little overheated.”

She paid me, a ten-dollar bill that she had folded up into a little square, like always.

Despite the feverish irrationality that lust can provoke, I still had enough of my wits about me to know that all of this could be a product of my imagination. That she was just a dumb, friendly woman. That maybe flirtation was just her default behavior after two decades of big tits and lots of male attention. Or maybe flirting with me was just her summer entertainment. Not a seduction, but a private amusement. Maybe goading me into making a pass was the end game, to validate to herself that she still had what it took.

She just stood there smiling at me, smoking, watching me smoke. I thanked her and told her I’d see her next week.

I strode off through the back yard, toward the cinder alley that ran behind the houses on her street and the one adjacent. Behind the Kaminski’s rusty shed ran a line of brambly, overgrown bushes separating the end of their yard from the alley itself. I paused there between the back of the shed and the bushes, so I could finish the cigarette where I couldn’t be seen from the alley and the houses on the other side of it. There was enough seclusion there that I even considered jacking off one more time, to try to get the last traces of blue from my balls.

As I stood there smoking down that cigarette, I heard the shed door open. I listened. I heard her step inside. Then it was quiet. I dropped the cigarette. It landed soundlessly in the grass and I pressed it with the toe of my sneaker. Nothing but silence from the shed. Then I heard her the soft slap of her sandals as she exited and closed the door behind her. I waited until I thought I heard her go back into her house, then took off down the alley for home.

The phone was ringing when I stepped through the door. It was Suzie Bowen, wanting to know if we could go to the drive-in that night, after I’d finished my four-hour shift at the fabric store. Seemed like good timing to me. I would still be plenty spun up from my encounter with Eleanor Kaminski, and if there was ever a good chance of getting a hand job from The Imbecile, it would be at the drive-in. I refrained from rubbing one out in the shower as I normally would have. I wanted to make sure that Suze got plenty of jizz all over her reluctant hand if I managed to get the tug..:.

Suzie Bowen and I had a desultory start to the summer, repeatedly doing the only things there were to do: going to the mall, going to movies or the drive-in, sometimes hanging out in her living room watching television at night, maybe going to the public pool to swim and lay out on the rare afternoon when I wasn’t at one of my jobs. Sometimes we’d go on double dates with her friends and their dim-witted boyfriends. But we really had nothing in common, and all those activities were just ways of killing time, for me, until we could find the privacy for necking and petting.

I was steeling myself for the break-up conversation. It would be silly for us to remain a couple; we really didn’t seem to have very strong feelings for one another. I fully expected our continued interaction, after I moved away, to be one of complaint: I wouldn’t call enough, I wouldn’t write her enough letters, I wouldn’t come home enough weekends.

My biggest issue was when to lower the boom. Bagging groceries or pushing a broom down a store aisle doesn’t take a lot of mental energy, so I had plenty of time to think about it. Part of me wanted to make a clean, unambiguous break. But I also foresaw the potential problem with that. There could be a lot of anger, tears, recriminations—even rejection by someone that deep down you really don’t have strong feelings for is still rejection. That kind of display could potentially cause me to backslide.

I wondered if I could just somehow let it fade away. You know, head off to college, let the communications slowly dwindle. She could then see it coming from a distance. That had to be better than something abrupt and unexpected. Maybe she’d take up with someone else in my absence and save me the trouble.

Or maybe we’d just have an argument over something stupid, like we frequently did, and I could just say, “Enough.” Who knew? Maybe that would even happen that night at the drive-in.

Usually the drive-in pattern involved making out for a fair amount of time, until I tried to escalate the petting by moving my hand between her legs. At which point she’d redirect that hand to her breasts—my consolation prize—which I would fondle overtop whatever she was wearing, then underneath the shirt but overtop the bra, until finally I unhooked the bra and contented myself by alternately sucking her tits and French kissing her.

But this night, as soon as the last light fell and the movie started, she reached across me to turn down the speaker hanging on the window, pulled off her polo shirt and turned to face me, topless, in the front seat of my parents’ car.

“Do you want to suck them?” she said. She had one hand on the dash and the other on the seat back. Her bare breasts with those large, round, chocolate nipples looked perfect, and on perfect display. She’d never done anything so overtly sexual in these last eleven months of dating. That was a bit of a red flag to me. Still, I didn’t give a shit.

I took them both in my hands and fondled them lovingly—because I did love her breasts, even if I didn’t love her. They were not like Eleanor Kaminski’s, but they were a more than worthy substitute. She made little satisfied murmurs as I took her nipple between my lips and sucked, squeezed that soft young flesh and licked and sucked. Her hand closed tightly over the hard lump in my jeans, surprising me, since taking the initiative was not typical for her. She tried to one-hand the top button and I sucked in my stomach until she managed to slip it through the eyelet and then tug at the zipper.

Things had never gone this quickly and easily with her. But trepidation was no match for lust at that point. I had one of Suzie Bowen’s hard nipples between my lips, Eleanor Kaminski’s big jugs in my mind’s eye, and my erection in a hand other my own.

Suzie Bowen pumped my cock. I hooked a thumb in the waistband of my Jockeys and stretched it down, giving her hand and my dick more space. I sucked her tit while she jacked me off. When I came up for air, she pressed her mouth to mine, muscling her tongue against mine, both of us breathing heavily. I didn’t know if she was as turned on as I was, but she was a least acting like it—perhaps another first. As that first pulse of pleasure thrummed my nervous system, I slumped back in my seat, pulled up my t-shirt, and started to shoot. A long stream of cum stretched up my stomach, then another. Suzie Bowen bent my dick back slightly, and the remaining pumps of sperm spilled over her busy hand, lubricating my cockhead and shaft.

The windows were steamed nearly opaque and the hot interior smelled thickly of semen. I was still slightly hard, but she just held it now.

“There’re napkins in the glove box,” I said, still panting, but she didn’t move for them right away as she usually did. Instead, she was looking at her hand, turning it over, her fingers sticky and spidered with my jizz. She brought her hand to her mouth and gingerly licked the back of one knuckle. She turned her hand over and licked some more from her palm, and between her thumb and forefinger.

“It’s not like anything,” she said.

I had no idea what to say. I fished a handkerchief out of the back pocket of my jeans and offered it to her. After she cleaned her hand, she wiped up the cum from my stomach and then handed me the crumpled hanky.

I cleaned my cock and tucked it back in my shorts but left my jeans undone. I pulled off my t-shirt, which was more than a little damp with sweat, thinking that if we were both bare-chested, she might be inclined to stay that way a little longer.

Wearing only her tan short shorts, Suzie Bowen leaned back against the bench seat, still facing me, and proceeded to tell me about a box that she had recently found in her parents’ closet. She called it the Sex Box. It was full of books, paperbacks mostly, about sex: some non-fiction things like The Happy Hooker and Everything You Ever Wanted to Know About Sex (But Were Afraid to Ask), but also a lot of “porno novels,” as she called them, and booklets of Penthouse Letters.

She said when she first found it she was freaked out. She flipped through a couple things but found it “gross” and stowed it away. But she couldn’t stop thinking about it, and found herself dipping in again, and again.

She first thought the stories and letters were disgusting and unbelievable, so she read the “non-fiction” things instead, memoirs and how-tos and explicit confessionals, ostensibly by female writers. She was surprised, she said, at how women think as much about sex as men. After she read through the “true-life” stuff, she went back to reading the fictional porn.

“It kind of got me all… you know…”

I was going to finish her sentence for her with “horny,” but paused for a minute, looking for something less… I don’t know, something less direct.

“Kind of… worked up?” I said.

“Kind of.”

This was definitely a turning point in my perception of Suzie Bowen. Though I’m not sure what surprised me more: that she was thinking about sex in terms other than how to avoid it, or that she was reading something voluntarily. I’d never known her to read something she didn’t have to.

At that age, I didn’t have anything particularly meaningful to say about the situation, like, “Everyone thinks about sex, it’s a powerful urge,” or “Human sexuality is a natural, complicated thing.” So I didn’t say anything.

“These chicks in these books and stories, they have lots of orgasms,” she was facing the windshield now. The glass was still mostly steamed. But her averted gaze gave me the chance to stare at her tits, which I was thinking about getting back to very soon. Then my attention drifted down the smooth, tan plain of her belly, and I thought how easy it would be to pop open that snap on her short shorts. Not necessarily to make my way in there, but just to see that snap undone. There was something heartbreakingly sexy about seeing a woman with just that top button of her shorts or jeans open.

“This one chick writes about how much she likes to give her boyfriend… or, I guess, likes to give men in general, blowjobs,” she said.

“R-r-really?”

“How she sometimes has an orgasm just from having a guy’s thing in her mouth. How it turns her on so much when he comes, and how much she likes to swallow it. His sperm. She says all women should learn to like cum, they should all swallow more cum, because it’s a turn-on and it’s good for you.”

This was news to me. Very. Pleasant. News. So there was a God. Even better, there were women (or at least one woman), who got off on sucking a guy’s cock until he came in her mouth.

“Is that why you, you know, tasted it?” I said. My cock was already hard again, and plain to see because my jeans were still open.

She turned back to me and leaned in a bit.

“She said that a guy should always tell you when he’s about to come, that you should ask him to tell you, even though, she said, once you do it a few times you can tell when he’s about to. But even if you plan on swallowing, you should ask him to let you know it’s coming. And if he says he will but he doesn’t, that you should never blow him again. Because some guys are afraid that if they tell a girl he’s about to come, she’ll chicken out at the last minute and not take it in her mouth. Because they want you to swallow their loads. She also said that if you get a guy off with your mouth, he should be willing to do you with his mouth.”

“That seems fair,” I said.

“She also said that when you decide to try swallowing for the first time, you should give a guy a hand job first, especially young guys. Because they come so much and so hard and it’s so thick that it might be really hard to swallow a full load if you’re not used to the amount. And you have to start swallowing as soon as they start coming because they’ll shoot like six or seven times, they’ll keep shooting. Like you just did. So if you jack them off first then their next load isn’t quite not so much.”

So was she going to suck me off tonight, too? I almost asked but caught myself. Instead, I had something like a minor epiphany.

I was already down the carnal rabbit hole and had been from the very first sticky throes of puberty. If Suzie Bowen was standing at the edge looking down into it, I wasn’t going to push her. If she wanted to jump, or let herself fall into it, I’d be happy to go along with her through bawdy Wonderland. She had (miraculously, I thought) found her own way, and it had infinitely more erotic possibilities than if I had dragged her there. No amount of coaching or persuading on my part could have ever accomplished this. She’d walked around for months with a sexual board up her ass, and suddenly she’s sitting half naked in my car talking about sucking cock and swallowing loads.

“Take down your shorts,” I said.

“What?”

“Your shorts. Take them off. And your panties.”

“Why?”

“Why do you think?”

“We’re not going to have sex here,” she said.

“Not intercourse,” I said. “I know. I want to lick it.”

“No you don’t.”

I put my hand on her bare, tanned thigh.

“Yeah, I do.”

“Ahhh… I don’t know,” she said, but I could tell she was thinking about it.

“Don’t you want me to?”

I rubbed her thigh, gently moving higher. She closed her eyes for a moment.

“I’m afraid that you’re going to get me all… worked up. And then try to stick it in me.”

“I won’t.”

“You say that.”

“I promise,” I said. “That’s not what this is about.”

“What if you can’t control yourself?”

“I don’t want to do anything that you don’t want to do.”

“That’s not true,” she said.

“Sure it is. Look,” I said, “when you just jacked me off, that was the hottest thing that ever happened to me.”

“I’ve done it before,” she said, as if I’d have forgotten such a thing.

“Yeah, but those other times, you really didn’t want to. Or if you did, it didn’t seem like it. This time was different because… well, you were into it. You wanted to do it. You were turned on from reading all those books and stories. It’s so much more exciting if you’re doing something because you want to do it.” The back of my hand was now moving lightly over the taut fabric between her slightly spread legs.

“Those stories…” she said. “I keep thinking about how it would feel. Getting… licked down there.”

“You can tell me how they do it in those stories,” I said softly. “I’ve never done it before, so you can tell me how to do it the right way.”

“You don’t just want to do this so you can say, ‘Okay, I did you with my mouth so now you have to do me with yours’?”

“I don’t want you to do anything you don’t want to do. It won’t be any fun for me if you’re doing something because you think you have to, or that you’ve been forced to. I’ll just feel bad about it. I won’t be able to enjoy it.”

I didn’t really, fully know, then, the extent of this truth.

Suzie Bowen looked at me as she popped the snap on her shorts, lowered the zipper, and then wriggled out of her last bit of clothing.

“I feel a little funny being completely naked here.”

“The doors are locked,” I said. “Let’s switch places. I’m going to have to kneel on the floor, and this steering wheel is in my way.”

I moved to the middle of the bench seat and, with her back to me, Suzie Bowen climbed over me. Her bare ass brushed over my hardon.

“I felt that,” she said.

“Yeah, me too,” I said.

“It’s so hard. How can you stand it being so hard all the time?”

“I can’t,” I said, getting down on my knees, trying to find a good position. “That’s why I’m always trying to get you to jack me off.”

“I’m going to do it again,” she said softly as she settled her back against the driver’s side door and spread her legs as best she could.

Her pussy was swimsuit-grade trimmed and her pubic hair felt surprisingly soft. Her smell was more like faint sweat more than anything else, and when I finally brought my tongue to the petal folds of her damp pussy lips, she had a mild, almost nutty flavor. Go slow, I thought, get used to this. Figure it out.

“How does it taste?”

“It’s good,” I murmured.

“No, I mean really, what does it taste like?”

“I don’t know,” I said, carefully licking her slit from top to bottom, repeating that. “I’ve never tasted anything like it.”

“Ahhh,” she sighed. “You don’t have to be so gentle. You can go harder with your tongue.”

“Okay,” I said, pressing the flat of my tongue hard as I drew it up her damp lips. When I reached the top, her entire body seemed to shudder.

“Yeah,” she whispered. “Yeah…that does feel… good.”

“Like that?” I said between licks. “Is that good?”

“Yeah, keep doing that,” she said. “Maybe a finger.”

“Inside you?”

“Yeah, just… go slow.”

I brought the tip of my middle finger to her opening and ran it lightly up and down while I continued to muscle my tongue against what I’d hoped was her clit. When it, my finger, was wet with her juices, I slowly slid it in. She stiffened slightly and I felt her clench around me. Then, after a couple beats, relaxed and let out a deep sigh. I began moving my finger in and out.

“Oh God,” she said.

“Mmmm…” I hummed against her cunt, pressing hard with my tongue and fucking her with my finger. “Is this what they do in the books?”

“Yeah,” she breathed. “They say things too.”

“Do it,” I said. “Say things.”

But she was quiet. I can’t say that I knew what I was doing, or how long I should do it, but I wasn’t going to stop. Everything was extremely wet down there now, my mouth, chin, and hand bathed in juices, and her flavor had changed to something slightly metallic. My finger was moving in and out of her with so little friction that, upon withdrawing, I placed my middle finger overtop my index finger and slid both inside her, filling her more.

“Oh, shit!” she hissed.

I started fingering her more rapidly and she was moving now, thrusting her hips up and holding them that way for several seconds before relaxing, then again, and again.

“Eat my pussy,” she whispered. “Eat that hot pussy.”

I couldn’t believe what I just heard her say. Despite being mashed between my stomach and the front seat, my cock was intensely hard. I disentangled my free arm from the crock of her thigh, reached up to find one of her breasts, clutched it, and squeezed.

“Eat my pussy,” she repeated. “Eat my pussy. Eat my wet pussy. Eat it. Eat my pussy… Uhhhhh!”

She thrust her ass up off the seat, her pubis pressing hard against my upper teeth and gums. I just tried to hold on, staying in place as she shuddered through the orgasm, until she put her hand on my head and pushed me back.

I climbed up on the seat and leaned against the passenger side door. She had one hand covering her snatch and the other over her eyes, panting. Then she twisted and sat up in the seat proper, completely naked behind the wheel, and started sobbing.

I just sat there and watched her. My cock was still a stiff pole inside my shorts and I tried to bend it to the side a bit so I could zip up my jeans, thinking that maybe this wasn’t a display she cared to see under the circumstances. I had no idea why she was crying.

“That bad, huh?” I said. “I’m sorry. I’ll try to do better next time.”

At that, she stopped crying and started laughing uncontrollably, crossed her arms over her breasts and put her forehead against the steering wheel. Her laughing like that, at least in my presence, was a rarity.

I gave Suzie Bowen her clothes and told her to get dressed. We walked through the drive-in lot to the snack bar. More than a few fully closed cars had fogged windows with the occasional ghostly shapes moving about in some kind of activity behind them. Actors faces five stories tall loomed over us, mouthing words that were only just audible, their voices coming from multiple faraway places: an endless dark field of disembodied voices. In the dark of the lot, she found my hand and held it—again, another rarity; we never displayed any physical contact in public—but dropped it when we got to the refreshment stand.

“So… that was really okay?” I said to her as we stood on line.

“Yeah, that was good,” she said matter-of-factly, tossed her hair and looked at the menu board.

“Because it seems like the kind of thing you’d have to spend some time on, you know, to get really good at it.”

“Maybe,” she said.

“I mean, with a specific partner.”

“Right,” she said.

“I’m not talking about going around—”

She levelled a look at me.

“Can you zip it, please?” she said through clenched teeth.

I smiled and nodded. That was more like it. That was the Suzie Bowen that I knew.