Another Young Romance For Heaven

I'd been masturbating to Kathy Ireland's gold ass and green eyes tacked to my wall all summer. I was nineteen—stupid and destroying my teeth with the phosphoric acid in Coca Cola. My brother-in-law handed me a Miller Light and a note. It read vibe something—a girl's email from his meat selling job. He was a tall manner-less hick who lived in dive bars, so the note could've been a prank.

I emailed her, and after days of back and forth crap poetry, she sent back about "exploring each other's bodies". With the exception of her wobbling bubble booty and her "Angelina Jolie" face, she had a tragic self-esteem deficit. I was surprised by the email, but my cock was steel, and I emptied it out on my buzzing computer screen. (with two peeks at Kathy!)

I emailed back to meet— dinner and listening to records. I never met her before, but trust was established via my brother-in-law's meat selling talents: "She is hot as shit, cute little ass...just let me know if you hit it...if she is shaved," brother-in-law said.

I ignored his often wretchedness. There was a part of me that was a puritan, but I got in the habit of alcohol, marijuana, and craving sex. He was right though. My God he was.

She was eighteen. She came over to my dad's place. He and his German gal were sliding over bunny slopes and sipping Schnapps in Stuttgart. Within his home—a few thousand square feet and a dim-lit pool, there was a plethora of spots to fuck.

A 5-foot-7 Angelina Jolie look-alike arrived wearing a black rose-patterned choker, tight jeans, and a red tank top. Her skin glowed with smeared cream that aired Gardenias. She whipped around straight brown hair and carried a large Shamrock green denim bag. I contemplated her beauty in the foyer as my cock pushed my orange denim pants out.

We ate Ravioli—an easy boiled meal and dish clean-up. She drew Magna art and I drew Robert Crumb cartoons with technical pens. She drew young girl superheroes with Asian eyes and bulging tits and I drew portraits of Charles Manson and Kurt Cobain. I had butterflies in my stomach and twenty years later, I have never felt anything like it again. Life is tragic like that, I guess.

We shattered the shyness with cold Michelob lights. I had a case in the fridge like a poisonous bridge into a world of easy lust. Beer burned our throats as I gave her a lamp-lit tour of his house. My dad's house was like a museum that had civil war dragoons, exotic orchards, Peruvian quilts, thumb tacked deceased butterflies, seven thousand coffee mugs with wildlife illustrations, and plenty of places to fuck.

We grabbed our third beer and clipped sticky buds to fix in a pipe in the patio. We became stoned and pleasantly psychotic. I chain smoked Marlboro lights and she chain smoked Parliaments. The quarter acre backyard was black except for the glow of the pool light. The illuminated pond casted shadows among the peddles of Mexican sunflowers. I envisioned her swimming naked—twirling like a seal with perking tits and a bubble ass shimmying off the penetrating moonlight.

The Beatles song, "I, Me, Me, Mine," spun on the record player. It is one of my favorites. My stomach burned in knots—craving to be inside of her and kissing her forehead. She looked at me with her mouth open and the security light illuminated the top of her pink tongue. I had blue balls from this.

"Do you mind if I smoke another bowl?" Shannon said.

"Sure, go ahead," I said. "I might smoke later on, but I am good now."

"I didn't offer you any," she said.

My father was somewhat of a social idiot when he did not drink. He was brilliant at math but just not a fluid conversationalist. I believe I adopted this trait, although I can speak fluidly alone in a mirror. Flirtation was always laborious.

"I see how it is," I said. What a shitty comeback you idiot.

She laughed. She pulled her silver metal pipe with flowers on the shaft. Followed by a purple lighter and a rolled-up zip lock bag of buds. It smelled like fresh yard work. She pinched a nugget and plopped it into the bowl—I watched her lips suck it. I lit up another smoke as I watched her burn orange balls and chimney out thick white smoke through her cute nostrils.

The record stopped—she rose and fixed the needle. My heart was puttering, my balls were strangled, and the butterflies in my stomach were tying knots. John Lennon started singing as I poured out my bladder on the waving Mexican sunflower branch. What do we do now? She will have the munchies. What about a movie? Which movie. When do we explore each other's bodies? I could barely find the sanity to piss out everything.

When I got back, her cellphone became part of her face. The butterflies were ripping my guts apart. It is an ex-boyfriend calling her.

"Okay, I will call you tomorrow, ok?" Shannon said.

"Hey Jay," Shannon said.

"Hello there," I said.

She lit a cigarette and found the North star. "That was my older sister, she was calling to check up on me," Shannon said.

"Need another beer," I said.

"Fuck yah," she said.

I walked to the fridge and saw the cold beers standing like bowling pins on the top shelf. I wondered what I would be doing if I was alone.

"Do you want to watch a movie?" I said.

"Nah," she said.

I knew how to draw portraits and play the guitar. I didn't feel like doing either. "Fuck it, we can smoke in the house, pot too, let's sit next to the record player on the sofa," I said.

We both sunk into the sofa holding foreign smiles, even alien to us. I found an old Bambi ashtray in the kitchen. It was a ceramic my mother made. Her name next to '1972' was carved into the bottom. The music was richer while punching clarity in the dining room. I leaped up and lit two white candles on the coffee table—like Christmas Eve at my Lutheran Church. Her blue cat eyes and soft cheeks shimmied in the flicker. How do I get closer?

"Do you have any of your Manga art with you?" I said.

"I do, hold on," she said.

She reached into her bag and pulled out a pad. I sat close enough where the cushions dumped us into one other. She created a soft breeze with the flapping pages, and I could give a fuck of what she finds. However, she was talented. My heart gave the sofa a new pulse.

"No shit, this stuff is great Shannon," I said. "Most people are average, but you are damn good."

Inspired, I leaped up and raced to my bedroom—my cock softened. I pulled a manila folder fat with sketches. I showed her and her favorite was an overworked crosshatched sketch of author spying on the old man's eye in Poe's, "The Tell-Tale Heart".

"Your stuff is very original," she said. "I am jealous."

"Thanks," I said.

We both looked in each other's eyes, down to the nose, and on to the lips, then back up to the eyes. We met halfway leaning in. Our lips completely missed each other's as our tongues tapped first. I felt her smile and sucked on parts of it. My penis was rock-solid. I pushed her back into the sofa and put my hips between her legs. I practiced thrusting a few times. I sucked her neck—soft as a mango. Her tight red tank top revealed her belly button—inner and oval. I caressed her stomach's fuzziness. My fingers crawled under her tank top like a spider and cupped her cold right breast. My penis was a dripping volcano.

"You want to take this to the bedroom?" she said.

"Ok," I said.

We both got up and walked. This time I did not hide my erection that was stretching my boxers and orange linen pants. We entered my dad's room. I skydived shirtless into the mattress. The springs squealed. She followed, first setting down her purse and then taking off her sockless Keds. I kicked off my Crocks. We floated vertically on the bed.

She lifted off her red tank top and folded it leaving her bra. Her two hands overlapped as she unbuttoned her choking jeans and peeled them down. A tiny red thong whispered to me, "you are going to get fucked loser". She turned around to toss her jeans and her little silk thong could barely contain the bubbly white smoothness of her ass. My cock swelled with a thousand beating hearts.

She crawled on the bed and over me. This time when my tongue scraped the enamel of her teeth, both of my palms cuffed the cold wobbling flesh her ass. I moved slowly over her goosebumps. She unbuttoned my denim pants and pulled them down. Next, she did my checkered boxers. Cold moist air, fresh and new, circulated my erection like a winter gust.

My tongue slithered her teeth open as her fingers gropped my penis and balls like a dying insect's dance. I pulled her thong. My tongue entered between her legs. I tasted her pussy as her ass kept leaving the mattress and plopping back down. Oh God, this has been too fucking long. I need to do this more often!

Neither of us verbalized any protection—I will pull out! I crawled up and our tongues like ripe strawberries spilled out each other's juices. I smothered her smile with my stretched grin. I felt her grab my dick and my heart which freefell into the skies of near-fucking, puttering loose. I pinched my dick like the near end of an eaten banana and my world became the nerves of my cock's head. Nerves that found a soaked cupcake and I slid it past the frosting.

"Oh shit, oh yeah," she said. "Fuck me Jay!" I bounced in and out of her pussy for eight crazy minutes. I flooded inside and made sounds where dogs out a hundred yards started to bark. My come waterfalled out of her.

I ran the Roman walk-in shower. She joined me. The heated water stung, and the body wash webbed our flesh in suds. I went over her tits several times. I went over her ass twenty. Washing, palming, and pinching each cheek. My cock grew lifting her right forearm.

"You want to go out in the pool?" I said.

"We just showered!" she said.

"I will leave it on," I said.

The back slider screeched like a Panzer tank as I watched her ass jiggle with each barefoot peck. The water was emerald blue—sweet chlorine fragranced the southern citrus. She walked down the third step and I mounted her from behind. Her palms and fingers splayed out on the deck as I rode her wobbling ass. I found her tits and kept molesting her C cups hoping the neighbors were staring—sipping coffee and getting dizzy. As my ass cheeks opened up in the midnight air—free as an orangutan fucking at the zoo—I let it all go.

"Who's your daddy!" I said.

The thrashing chlorine pond clapped the cement. Her glowing blue ass vibrated. The pause before the explosion.

"Oh, little girl, God help me!" I said.

I sprayed my pressure deep inside her.

"Oh fuck!" I said.

That oh fuck had multiple meanings at the time. We showered and drank more water. Smoked two more cigarettes and went to bed.

She rolled on me in the morning. Her right hand found my dick. She pulled down her red tiny thong and sat on my cock. Her pussy juice dripped down between the crevices of my nut sack. My hands crawled up her torso like spiders and massaged her tits.

"Oh Jay," she said. Her voice was sober, and I was fucking her. That was the best summer of my life and nothing even close to it ever happened again.