Ron's Journal 01

"Hi there, what are you doing?"

"Umm, just eating lunch, and working on some music."

"Why are you hiding in here?"

"I like the quiet. I don't much like to be bothered."

"Am I bothering you?"

"Oh ghod, I hope not!" I rasped. "Wait just a second."

I finished the kippers, took a swig of water from my bike bottle, stashed the uneaten food in its bag, swept off the dissection table space next to me, and tried to switch back into 'sociable' mode.

We introduced ourselves. I managed to hear her over the dizzy buzzing in my head. Her voice seemed something like distant chimes. I was light-headed, probably because all the blood in my brain had drained down into my growing cock.

"What's the music?"

"I'm trying to adapt some guitar chords so I can play these songs on mandolin."

"You play mandolin? My grandfather and uncles play mandolin! What kind do you have? How good are you?"

"I'm not great. I'm still learning. My aunt gave me a fat old Italian mandolin a couple years ago. I'd really rather have a guitar, but the mandolin is easy to carry when I'm biking or hiking."

"Hey, you should bring it over to my house! We would love to hear it."

We spent the rest of the lunch hour talking about modern music; and then Watson and Crick and DNA; and then Einstein and time contraction; and whatever else grabbed us. Time contracted; the bell rang much too soon. We handshaked goodbye and went our separate ways.

___

The next afternoon, I found myself at a 'ranch' house in yet another suburban landscape, far from my usual haunts. I was still in my self-imposed 'uniform' but now with a musical treble clef tie clip.

I rolled up to the front door, pulled the ungainly little mandolin case from the bike basket, and reached for the doorbell. The door opened before I touched the switch. A tall handsome Italian woman in an almost-off-the-shoulder flowered dress looked deeply into my nervous face. She almost smiled.

"Are you the boy that's here for my Maria?"

"Err, yes ma'am, err Mrs. Sabbatini, ma'am", I almost stuttered to this mature Minoan snake priestess.

A vehement voice yelled from the depths of the house.

"Mama, that's Ronny, leave him alone, let him in!"

Maria skipped to the door, nudged her mother aside, grabbed my hand, and pulled me inside.

"Mama, this is Ron, he's really smart, and he plays mandolin. See, there it is."

I sheepishly held up the instrument case with my free hand, smiled weakly, and said, "Umm, yeah." Just another retard, that's me.

Mrs. Sabbatini told us to go into the living room; she would bring some limonada and biscotti. Still holding my hand, Maria led me to a long couch and sat close to me, facing me, her knees together, her eyes bright.

"Ron, I'm so glad you came!"

It occurred to me that I was not the only person whose brain blood had migrated south. Maria was a VERY intelligent girl. She was assured of getting into a pre-med program at a leading state university. Our brief discussions of genetics and technology had been non-trivial. She really *could* speak complicated cohesive sentences.

But now she seemed giddy, excited, unable to focus on abstractions and speak coherently. Just like me when my hard-on reigns supreme. I think we were falling in love already, if 'Love' means blood-filled genitals and oxygen-deprived brains.

Maria finally let go of my hand as Mrs. Sabbatini put the drink and snack tray on the coffee table, and sat in a nearby chair. She asked a few questions of me; I tried to reply rationally. Then she said, "OK already, let's hear you play."

I pulled the mandolin from its case, wiped down the fretboard, checked the tuning, strummed a chord, exhaled. I started playing.

Much current American music featuring mandolin has flat-body mandos playing country or bluegrass riffs. I knew a bit of that. But with my bulbous gourd-body instrument, I had worked hard on Italian classics, all stereotypical, but these are almost mandatory mandolin pieces, and I knew them well enough to not screw up too badly.

I threw in a couple Celtic tunes too, and some hot jazz. In no way was I ready for prime time, but I was OK for living-room fun.

Mrs. Sabbatini finally smiled and said, "Funny, you don't LOOK Italian!" Then she excused herself and left us alone. My eyes followed her as she walked away. I thought, "She is just what Maria will look like in 20 years." There went my hard-on again. Damn those Minoan snake priestesses!

I played some more non-Italian music for Maria. Then we started dissecting lyrics of Bob Dylan and Richard Farina and Leonard Cohen, and talking about recent SCIENTIFIC AMERICAN articles about space programs and what might be found on the Moon if humans ever reached there, and various other stuff which since evaporated from my skull because I was just so damn overwhelmingly happy.

We heard Mrs. Sabbatini walk through the kitchen and out the back door. Maria kissed me, lips on lips. I kissed back, lips on lips. Our eyeballs locked together for a timeless eternity. Her eyes were bottomless black pools, sucking out my cerebral cortex. Then I sighed, picked up the mandolin again, and played my versions of some surf songs.

After a rousing solo of WALK DON'T RUN, Mrs. Sabbatini came into the room and asked if I would like to stay for dinner. I accepted and asked to use their phone. I called Dad at his office and told him I would be back at the apartment by dark. No, he would not get a chance to inflict his cooking on me again tonight. Whew.

Dinner was special: a full antipasto salad, and some Neapolitan treats I could not begin to remember. Garlic abounded; no vampire could approach within 20 miles of us. We each finished with a sipped double shot of sweet tart limoncello.

Maria's father and her older cousin Carlo (attending a local college) were at the table, and I only suffered a few sharp verbal probes. I played a little more after dinner and nobody hissed.

I left feeling well approved. Maria gently kissed me goodbye at the door. Her kisses scrambled my brains. I somehow managed to avoid drifting into obstacles or traffic as I bicycled home.

___

From then on for the next few weeks, Maria lunched with me in the bio lab. We talked about everything. We talked about sex. We talked about food.

Maria asked, "Why do you keep eating that fish stuff?" I said it was cheap and healthy and I didn't mind the smell. She said, "Hey, not all women's pussies smell like fish!" I choked and she had to slap my back. (In later years, I encountered women whose pussies DID smell like fish; I hope they were the exceptions.)

But I soon gave up crackers and kippers for egg salad sandwiches. I got the eggs free from Grandpa's little poultry farm so I even saved money that way.

The bio lab had a back storage room that could be locked from the inside. Many days, we would sneak in and explore each other's anatomies and senses. Time was always short and we could never fuck, but we did as much else as possible with the rest of our bodies.

Maria's cunt tasted slightly salty, not fishy. Her skin always tasted sweaty because we always sweated in there. Her tits and butt and hips and thighs and everything else always felt perfect. I guess my tall thin bicyclist's body seemed pretty good to her too.

___

A typical lunchtime session went like this:

We dashed from our last classes to the bio lab. We quickly ate our small meals, and locked ourselves in the back room amid shelves loaded with boxes and bottles of samples and specimens and chemicals. We kept a blanket tucked away behind a bottom shelf; we unrolled it on the floor.

We kneeled on the blanket, facing each other. We undressed each other's torsos, kissing and slurping whatever flesh was available. I paid special attention to her breasts and aureoles and nipples, of course. That's the kind of guy I am. And she worked her flexible tongue and lips around my sensitive nipples, driving me nutz.

I gently laid her back, and pushed her skirt up, and tugged at her panties. She raised her taut ass to let me remove the soft obstacle. I kissed around her lush pelvis and her fabulous thighs, inside and up front and back again.

"Yeah," she whispered, "just like that."

Maria spread her legs and I worked my hands under her butt, kneading those superb buns while my nose grazed in her thick fragrant black bush. I worked my tongue through her juicy jungle and down to her dampening slit.

My tongue tip circled around her swelling outer lips, and between them, and deep into her vagina, and across her sweet labial folds, tasting every dewy drop of her delicious secretions. She started moaning. I started attacking her stiff little clit, and she moaned again.

"Oh yeah, Ron," she almost prayed.

Back into the folds and into her hole, then back up to her clit, and back again, and back again, until her hips were shaking and spasming.

Some serious sucking of her marvelous clit, and she rasped "oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck ohhh..." and came in a small convulsion and more secretions.

With my mouth still covering her pulsing pussy, my tongue thrust deep inside her cushy canal, I pushed her legs up, and put my arms under her thighs, and reached my hands up to cup her ample breasts.

This was the best part of cunnilingus for me, cooling her down from her climax while my tongue filled her delicious hole and her fabulous tits filled my hands.

Maria whispered "oh Ron oh Ron oh Ron oh Ron..." and I responded, ""mmmmph mmmph mmmph". Pretty eloquent, weren't we?

We sat up, arms around each other's shoulders, and she kissed my face, wet and fragrant with her savory juice. Then she pushed me back on the blanket.

I raised my hips and she pulled my jeans and briefs down to my ankles. She pushed my knees apart and knelt between them and inhaled my circumcised cock. I do not remember every detail of her oral work, only the repeated pattern of licking and sucking and slurping and licking again.

Maria concentrated her lips and tongue under that bald little head, and her hands reached up and tweaked my nipples. Oh yeah Maria, drive me nutz!

"Watch out," I groaned.

My balls swelled and exploded. I came with a long grunt and repeated shots of anxious teenage sperm.

My body felt like I had been thrown into a blast furnace, every cell on fire, consumed until nothing remained but the glowing red puddle that was me. The sensation was overwhelming. It was not merely a cumshot; it was a fucking meltdown.

Maria tried, but could not swallow all of my sperm. Good thing I kept a red cotton bandanna in my jeans back pocket, hey? She wiped off her face and my cock, then crawled up and kissed me desperately, our combined scents marking a symphony of slaked desire.

We could not speak. We could only drown in each other's eyes. We did not talk much during these sessions, and it's a damn good thing we weren't screamers. No need to attract attention to our forbidden ecstasy, hey?

Then it was time to dress and hide the blanket and calm down and face the rest of the school day despite our furiously buzzing bodies.

Most afternoons, if I had no chores or obligations, and was not abducted by Judy, I would be back at Maria's house for snacks, and study, and more music, and occasional dinners with her family. I felt like I belonged.

Yes, I thought I had found the love of my life.

___

Then came the next disaster.

Dad broke it to me, not gently, on a weeknight after what passed for 'dinner'. The apartment lease was up. We were moving to another city. Not nearby. Too far to bicycle, no bus service, no car nor moped for me. He had already bought a house. We would move in next week. Next week! I needed to pack up NOW, and get my school records and transfer into the new high school. Good night.

I about fell apart. I staggered around school in a daze the next day. I missed lunch with Maria. Judy caught me, and dragged me home with her. She called the Heineke sisters. All four used me (and each other) as sex toys for the last time, and kissed me goodbye.

Even our frenzied couplings and groupings could not break my mood.

I was afraid to call Maria then. Next noon, we sat with uneaten lunches as we held each other and cried.

And then I was gone.

I phoned Maria every night from the new house. We tried to talk for hours. Dad said to quit it; I had run-up too many long-distance charges. He cut me off from the phone. We mailed letters every day. Then postcards every week. Then once a month. Then less.

The next year, she wrote to me from her university, writing about the "sharp rosy glow" of losing her virginity. The next note, a couple months later, was about how she loved her loving sorority sisters. I felt totally cast off. That was our last communication.

FAST FORWARD: I googled her a couple years ago out of curiosity. She was at a university in Ohio, leading a significant biomedical research group. In her web photos, she looks happy, she looks great; she looks like her mother did so long ago. I stopped crying long ago. I can never go back.

NEXT: I visit my old neighborhood.