Blue Rebound

Blue Rebound: Marsha (KOI 23)

August, 1969

It was Gallagher on the phone. It was early August before the first year of college.

" ' you want to double?" said Gallagher. "It's a friend of Sandra's. She's a looker and she puts out."

Gallagher paused, significantly.

"Get this: she knows you and she just broke up with her boyfriend!"

To be upfront about it: I didn't think very much of Gallagher's character. I'd told him as much. I thought Gallagher was a sleazebag. Is that clear?

"Wow! Who is she?" I asked.

"Marsha Holtgraf."

"Light of my eighthgrade homeroom! She sat right behind me! She could play one hot round of 'Twister' at Earl's parties in junior high!"

"I remember them parties..."

Not yet nineteen and we were talking like beery grandpops. Gallagher did that to you.

"I thought she was tight with that Marine," I said. Actually, I knew little to nothing of Marsha Holtgraf's life since junior high. She took the General Track. I knew her to be a nicely conventional kid, obviously destined for a pleasant and unexceptionable life of wife-and-motherhood. About a year earlier, as Kathy and I were breaking up, Marsha had made a joke in the school corridor which had led me to spontaneously ask her out -- symptom of my desperation. She'd declined, alluding to her Marine as an easy, consoling excuse.

"Jeez, she ran past that fucker a year ago," wheezed Gallagher. "Then there was a night with Brad Huxton, and some other guy asked her out, and then she got hooked on this guy from Normandy High. He's dumped her now and she's ohsoblue.

"You should really try and pick up a piece of this," urged Gallagher.

"I hate you, Gallagher," I said. "You are a real sleazebag."

Gallagher's Sandra was apparently a very good friend of Marsha's. To pick up Marsha's spirits, she'd suggested a double date. Sandra and Gallagher had recited the pig list and Marsha had recognized my name. Come Friday night, we were cruising down Watson Road in Gallagher's '59 Chevy, after the Rush Hour Double Feature.

The beer cooler took up most of the room on Marsha's side of the backseat floorboard, so she'd arranged her bare brown legs akimbo on the seat. Like the rest of the brunette, the legs were almost skinny, in a really sexy way. (In puberty, I'd developed a sexual type-fixation from the original Barbara Feldon AquaVelva commercials.) We sat apart on the wide backseat as, upfront, Gallagher and Sandra argued the merits of the various burger drive-ins on Watson. My arm covered Marsha's bare arm as it stretched across the top of the seat; my hand gripped her thin but tuff shoulder. Marsha was looking good with her sneakers kicked off, in white bib overall shorts and yellow teeshirt. The white denim bib and straps were loose, cool. Marsha's breasts were firm against the cotton tee, their full youth emphasized by the leanness of her body. (And bralessness was a relatively new phenomenon in 1969.) Marsha was quiet, trying to seem interested in the front seat conversation, as the wind blew through her Sassoon knock-off by Ginny of Hairstyles A GoGo. Her fingers tapped beneath my bicep. "I'm not really hungry," she called to the front seat.

"How about you?" she asked me.

"Not at all." Our exchange of glances confirmed for me the nasty half-promises of the unpleasant Mr Gallagher. Strangely enough, I wasn't sure I wanted to go through with the evening. But it had been four weeks since Suzanne had left town for good.

Marsha pulled her arm away and twisted around on the seat to watch the twilight fall on the Watson strip. Resting her chin on her folded forearms, Marsha studied with sad interest the lights as they blinked on in the dusk. I easily resisted the urge to touch her, and turned around on the seat, to face the twilight myself.

"I'm going to college this fall," Marsha announced. And she mentioned a cousin's town well away from the City and anyone else's plans.

The wind through the car blew away Gallagher and Sandra's talk. Gallagher tooled on down Watson, toward the Interstate.

"I thought you were staying here. Getting a job."

"No."

And she smiled. She had a well-formed mouth of no special sensuality. Sharp, even teeth -- nice, if you're into teeth. Marsha's head was maybe too apple-like to be called beautiful. That's to say, her good, pretty features were a little too polished at the brown cheekbones, small hard nose, dimpled chin. She might have been Huck Finn's sister, or something. But the slightly winging eyebrows added a strange exoticism to Marsha's eyes, which otherwise shown with unassuming, hillbilly brightness.

Marsha's "no" really conveyed all the justification she needed for leaving the City. I considered the seductive usefulness of asking about her reasons for going away to school, and then felt a little ashamed. Marsha could tell me more, but only if she wanted to.

We talked about our respective colleges-to-be, and a little about our feelings about leaving home, as Gallagher drove the Chevy down the Interstate toward the State Park. After a while, Marsha did tell me more.

*****

We walked some easy bright moonlit trail in the big state park, the same park where I'd first had Thomasina Wicker. By the time Marsha and I returned to the car from our walk, Gallagher and Sandra had disappeared. The bowered parking space Gallagher had found, off a back road, seemed as if it should have been a haven for mosquitoes. But it wasn't.

We'd wandered slowly back to the car, arms tight around one another, hands tucked inside each other's clothes, palming smooth waists and hips, and above and below.

My erection had fallen a little, but was still hugged by my briefs. A little earlier, I'd pressed its shape through our clothing into Marsha's midriff, as the two of us kissed against a tree. I'd rocked, so she'd know it was there.

Marsha knew it was there.

On our walk, Marsha's thin-lipped kisses were quick; they seemed to alternate between snake slither and flame flicker. She used as much tooth as tongue, and played all the surface I let her reach. She kissed with her eyes open, with a sort of lusty playfulness devoid of any passion, real or feigned. I tried to keep up with her, fascinated.

I was fascinated by Marsha, and I was fascinated that my fascination was as dispassionate as hers -- clearheaded, cooler than I'd ever experienced before, with someone still new. Yet my lust was real. Was it really our lust?

On the last of our rocking interludes, Marsha's eyes finally closed. The half-buried boulder we'd found had let me drop lower along Marsha's body, and dig a thigh deeper into her crotch. We rocked some more, and after a while her kissing stopped. Suddenly Marsha's eyes squinted almost violently, her lips pulled back from teeth as her body jerked once, twice. It was like a sneeze.

"Think we should go back to the car?" I asked, softly.

Marsha nodded. We moved up the path to the Chevy without any special hurry.

It was Marsha who opened the door to the backseat. Naturally, Gallagher had disconnected the dome light, but our eyes had long since adjusted to the full moon's glow. Marsha sat open-legged, pigeon-toed on the edge of the seat, and unbuttoned the straps of her bib. She noticed what I was doing.

"It's okay. We don't need that."

The open condom packet fell to the muddy gravel. Marsha patted her feet on the ground, straight-legged. Taking a natural measure of control, the control of a friendly equal, Marsha opened my pants completely as I stood in front of her.

"Naahh..." Marsha sighed, friendly, brushing away my hands fumbling at foreplay. With gentle precision, my jeans and briefs were slipped to my thighs. Marsha dipped her head to my balls, then combed my cock through her hair as she lifted her face to my sex. Marsha's eyes closed, again. As I tried to get some grip on the car door, I noticed I was losing my balance on the edge between clearheaded lust and craziness.

A sharp sweet incisor scraped into the flesh just behind my bare blue bulb. Thin plastic lips, rolling. Sharp wet tonguetip tasted my spithole, then poured tongue toward the teeth cradling my sensitive tuck, beneath. A sucking pop.

Mesmerized, I watched the top of Marsha's head, bobbing at my waist. Her black hair shone, neatly parted in the middle. Her trim hands cupped my balls, fondled them, dug my pubes scratchingly into my groin. I could smell myself, my sex.

I tried to massage her shoulders, over her teeshirt. Her suck and rub had only added to the heavy agony in my loins. My massage became heavier.

Marsha raised her head from me. Her eyes were open now, sober but hillbilly bright. She looked into my own cool eyes. The sense of sober lust enveloped us, new and odd and somehow natural.

"Okay," Marsha whispered, not without excitement. "I'm ready now."

And I realized she'd been squeezing her legs together, around the now loose denim of her pants, all the time I'd been rubbing her neck. For a split second I wondered if I should have been less lazy with her. Then I understood that she'd wanted it that way, and it was okay.

She was ready now, and leaned back to the seat. I helped pull the bib shorts over her sneakers, and snaked the yellow panties off smooth ankles. A dark twinkle over tuff angular buttocks, between raised brown thighs. Marsha had a smell, too.

Marsha rocked back up to a sitting position, into my embrace. I was still standing, bare-assed, just inside the open door of the car.

She shrugged her shoulders, and I understood. I slid my open hands to the hem of the teeshirt hugging her waist, caressed my way inside, and lifted it from her, over her head. There was gooseflesh at Marsha's trim waist. Her torso was smooth to the touch as I peeled off her shirt. The tee's neck tugged back around her chin. I tugged harder, and Marsha shook her head loose, and she was naked and I pressed her back down to the seat.

My shirt had been open since before our walk. We pressed flesh to flesh. There was no more time for me to get more comfortable. We held our heads back from each other, as if we both had private thoughts to contemplate. But each lonely concentration was on the same thing, and something clicked when our eyes met. Two pairs of open eyes, clear eyes, friendly eyes. Friendly and hard.

The dick poked into some unknown hard smoothnesses of Marsha's, then found the groove. Curly sparking hair scratched, a scratch chill and wet which -- poke --then yielded to a creamy warmth. We both straightened, slowly rearing, as the shaft entered the girl. Marsha groaned with something like relief. Maybe it was the sharpness of her hips, and the not-quite angularity of her calves, tucked behind my naked knees. Maybe it was the month between this night and my last tryst with plumpish Suzanne. Maybe it was Marsha's own desire. But the sensation was tight.

Marsha's initial moan receded to a heavy breathing, amplified by the closeness of the Chevy's interior. Her body gave little movement. I pumped conventionally, a little out of practice. She was tight, but creamy. As I exited, she'd give a little hug of vag and of inner thigh, squeezing my balls in a soft pocket of warm slick thighflesh.

Warming to technique, I began to gauge Marsha's response as my own plumbing opened. I lifted a little, to better engage her low clit.

"How's that?" I asked.

"Nice," smiled Marsha, clearly. A few more strokes, and she was moving.

"NICE," and we both jammed harder, prow to prow. Marsha burbled somewhat excitedly as we separated (I recalled that 'Twister' session), but I reentered with some self- control, still pressing hard to her returned pressure. Marsha's thighflesh, her calves, her neck beneath my fingers, had all grown hard. The dick bowed across the top of her entryway.

"THERE, THERE!" choked Marsha.

Suddenly her shoulders broke back, and her legs slipped from mine to punish themselves against the Chevy's muddy kickboard. Marsha's hips had slipped from our control, and the tight hole seemed to loosen around my cock and the hillgirl gigglesnarfed a long overdue orgasm. I was happy to see her come. When her body's waves receded, just a little, I pressed over her, and juiced mightily.

My shot was hard enough to reignite Marsha... "OOOOSH! YUMmmm..." but her responsive waves were back under her command. I couldn't remember when my cum ever came longer, but Marsha's tight twat absorbed the flow, seeming to tighten more, milking, as my pulse slowed.

Then the long relaxation, inside.

I was suddenly aware of our sweat. And aware of Marsha's bright eyes on me. Open. Friendly. Passionless.

We separated. As our bodies cooled, we dressed. Several cold beers later, Gallagher and Sandra returned. It was almost midnight.