The Education of Lana Owens

Boobs were everywhere as we were led to a table, and I think I was checking out the surround-boob-orama effect more than was George. He was checking out the food on other customers' tables. "This place looks great!" he said.

Our waitress came, almost sticking her boobs in George's face. She had large, dark areolas, with perfectly centered nipples which were, of course, erect. The place was freezing, making every woman's nipples erect, including mine. Probably it was cold for precisely that reason. I could hear the thunderous sound of rain pelting the tin roof of Joe's bar and grill. They tried to drown out the drone of rain with much too loud background music, the end effect being that the place was amazingly noisy, and it was hard for George and me to hear each other.

Debbie Williams spotted me and came over to say hi. Being the only female customer at the place, it felt as if everyone noticed me! I saw a few men I know, and somehow -- unlike George -- I doubted they had come there exclusively for the food. Debbie got boobs early on, in 6th grade, and she always had the biggest boobs around. This was noticed by the adolescent boys in school, and she always, always had a date, every weekend night, Friday and Saturday both. Rumors had it she put out for the guys, too, even at a young age, and then continuously, probably right up to, and including, the present. My slutty BFF Helen was not even close to being in Debbie's league when it came to slutty behavior. Debbie's sexual behavior, however, was none of my business, and not my problem. Maybe it was nobody's problem, not even Debbie's? I focused exclusively on Debbie's sweet personality.

"Great to see you, Debbie!" I said, after she had come to our table, and I had introduced her to George, who seemed to pay no attention to Debbie having her boobs out, only inches from his face.

"Right back at you, Lana. You're a bit overdressed here, don't you think? You're the only woman here with covered boobs," Debbie teased. Debbie giggled at her own joke.

"I'm also, so far, the only woman customer here," I replied, speaking the obvious, as sometimes I am wont to do. There were lots of men there, however. Give the intense rain, it was surprising how many men had come for a good steak dinner, perhaps because it was accompanied by all the boobs their eyes could absorb.

"Touché. But feel free to let those babies out. I'll bet your boobs are gorgeous," Debbie said. She turned to George. "What do you think, Mr. Rosen? Does Lana have gorgeous boobs, or what?"

"Excuse me?" George replied. He was flustered by the question. "I've been studying the menu. Are all the steaks Black Angus, or is it just the filet mignon?"

"I'll get your waitress," Debbie said, and she gave me a look that said, 'what's his problem?' I silently mouthed the words 'blind date' to her, and she tried not to, but she couldn't stop herself: She giggled.

George ended up with the filet mignon, a 'loaded' baked potato, steamed broccoli, and the only woman in the restaurant who kept her boobs covered. I had the tournedos, no potato, and cooked carrots.

On the way home, I asked how he liked the restaurant. "The food could have been better. My filet was overcooked, the potato was undercooked, but the broccoli was perfect. Also, you were right about the waitresses. For some reason, they were all topless. I found that aspect quite unusual," he said. "How did you like it?"

"I thought my food was great, and it was nice to see my friend Debbie again," I said.

"She has nice boobs, and she seems like a nice girl. Is she Jewish, too?" he asked.

"No. She's Catholic," I said.

"She thinks you have nice boobs. Do you? May I see yours, too?" George asked, as he drove his Tesla along the country roads, back to town.

"Not on our first date, George," I said, which I felt was kinder than, 'No, not now, not ever!"

**

"Where are you taking me?" I asked for the second time that evening, as we drove right by the turn for my home.

"To my hotel, of course," he said.

"You're not staying with your Aunt Martha?" I asked.

"And have her climb into bed with me in the middle of the night? Certainly not!" George said.

"Uh.... why do you think she would do that, if you stayed with her?" I foolishly asked. Martha Silvers was totally not incestuous, and besides, I was convinced she is asexual.

"She uses her second bedroom as a storage closet. There's only the one bed in her entire house," he said.

"I see," I said, even if I didn't really believe that. "But why are you taking me to your hotel?" Alarm bells in my head were ringing. The alarm bells' rings were deafening.

"Oh, right. Well, it's a cold and horribly rainy night, and if I parked somewhere to make out with you, and we listened to the rain pummel the car constantly, and it being dark and creepy and all, and well, I just thought you'd enjoy some quality time with me at the hotel bar? Then later we could move to my room for some privacy. I know I can't see your boobs, since it's our first date and all, but I'd love to kiss you some more?"

"Oh," I said. I figured I'd be safe in the hotel's bar, and I could always decline going to his room should he actually try something like that.

**

The hotel's bar was closed that night. Normally it was open, but too many people didn't show up for work, probably due to the virus, or due to the never-ending monsoon. Our ongoing monsoon was due to climate change, according to the TV weatherman. We were assured there was a minifridge with a good selection of drinks inside it, in 'our' room. We went to George's room. I had a sherry and George had a Scotch, and we began to kiss. George's kisses really turned me on, and judging from the lump in his pants, my kissing did the same for him.

Soon George's hands were roaming at will over my body, over my clothes, and I was enjoying being felt up while I got those kisses from heaven. After a bit of time, at one point George unzipped my skirt, and he asked me to remove it. I politely declined, and told George it was time to take me home. I saw his face fall with disappointment, but I was firm, and he took me home. We resumed making out in his Tesla in the driveway to my parent's home, having once again negotiated Lake Owens (now perhaps more like The Owens Sea) to reach the house.

Even in the Tesla in front of my parents' house, he again unzipped my skirt and got his fingers inside my panties, and they went exploring the mysteries of a woman's vagina, in this case it being my own. I let him, mostly because he was still giving me wonderful kisses. I really am an oral person.

I may be oral to a fault, but like every other woman, I have a clitoris, and by George, he found it. He found it easily, and soon I was becoming putty in his hands, and my breathing was changing. I was close to surrendering my virtue, I was so turned on by this handsome man George, his gorgeous car, the pelting and rhythmic rain, and my pent-up sexual desires.

Nevertheless, I pulled myself together at the last minute and did not surrender. I escaped, pulling up my skirt and zipping it back up in the pouring rain, as I sloshed my way through the front door, the rain having soaked my blouse, giving it a wet T shirt look, even if I still had on my bra. I smiled broadly and waved goodbye to my Molester-in-Chief, as he took in the sight of his drenched date, now looking very sexy, I suppose. I went to the window and watched the Tesla drive off into the gloom. Ah, the gloom. What a nice, comforting, welcome home, I told myself.

**

It continued to rain, on and off, for the next few weeks, and whenever it did, I would gaze out the window of the guestroom, and I'd think of George, his wonderful lips and mouth, how strong his desire for me had been, and yet how he respected my boundaries, even if he had always been pushing for more, more, and more. Indeed, every time it would rain, I would go to the upstairs bedroom and listen to the rhythmic pelting on the roof, and be mesmerized into a sexual reverie, as my fingers worked their magic wherever they did the most good. If only they were George's fingers, I thought to myself. His fingers had felt so good, so very good. His hands were so warm, and loving. George, however, was gone, back to Evanston, Illinois, where he lived.

George was gone, and I had to move on with my life. I'm pretty, if I do say so myself, and I'd never had any problems -- any problems at all -- attracting men. Nevertheless, none of the eligible men in my small town interested me. There were a few husbands who came on to me, and had they not been husbands, well, they might have been nice to have had some fun with; but they were in fact husbands, and I'm just not that kind of girl. So, in sum: There was nobody. Waiting out the pandemic became a romantically vacuous activity, except, of course, for the relentless rain.

Fall ended rather quickly, and winter descended with a sudden ferocity, as the fierce rainstorms I enjoyed daydreaming to became deluge-style snow storms. I enjoyed the snow, too, watching the pretty flakes fall gently and silently from the sky. Snow is different from rain, as everyone knows. Most people think of it, I suspect, in terms of a problem: Shoveling the driveway, constantly wiping the snow off one's car, navigating often difficult driving conditions, especially when freshly fallen snow covers a layer of ice.

Indiana has low taxes, which is nice. Low taxes beget minimal government services, however, which is not so nice. One of those minimal services involved the issue of having enough snow plows, which there never are. My Dad hired someone with a four-wheel drive pickup truck and a snow scooper attached to its front, to plow our unfortunately long driveway. Lake Owens was a small frozen ice pond, with a one to twelve inch covering of snow on top of it, depending on the size of the latest storm. I always warned the pickup guy about Lake Owens, and happily nothing untoward ever happened.

November passed and December arrived, and Dad used the putting up of our Christmas lights around the house as a good time to -- finally -- clean out the gutters. I know, I know, we're Jewish and putting up Christmas lights? It doesn't compute, right? However, let's face it: People need all the cheer they can find in December. Dad calls them Winter Solstice Lights. Mom calls them Winter Holiday Lights. I call them Christmas Lights, to the irritation of both of my parents, hee, hee.

I had a problem. Every year, Helen gives a blow-out, amazing holiday party. It is THE big social event of the year. I needed a man to go with me, and I had nobody. I had absolutely nobody. As I thought about it, my thoughts kept returning to my one memorable date with George. A plan came to me in a dream.

It's hard to put this down on paper, since it's embarrassing, but the messenger delivering the plan -- in my dream -- was once again the Virgin Mary. Now being a college graduate, and as such, an educated person, I realize that dreams are all in my mind. The vision of the Virgin Mary is simply a figment of my dream befuddled mind. Try telling that to Helen, however!

I figure I obsess about my virginity too much, and if you're always thinking about still being a virgin at the age of 25, well, then your troubled mind has the word virgin on the brain. Who's the most famous virgin of them all? Clearly, it's the Virgin Mary.

I didn't even try to tell Helen that the Virgin Mary in my dream was a short, middle-eastern woman, around thirteen, with a big pregnancy bump, and acne galore.

I put the Virgin's plan into motion right away. It was already late November, and we had recovered from the most dramatic presidential elections ever, and we were all ready for some heavy partying. To do that properly, however, I needed a man. In the small Indiana town we called home, the pickings were slim. Maybe I'm fussy, I don't know, or maybe I'd just become too old, but for me, the pickings were non-existent. The good men were all married.

Don't get me wrong. In many ways I wasn't fussy. I didn't care what religion the man was, or even what race he was. He could even be a sexist pig and feel me up in public if he felt the urge. I didn't like it, but I was willing to go the country mile. My main problem was, however, that I just didn't feel like going to bed with any of the men I knew or who came after me, which was all the single men in town, and a few of the married men, too. To my chagrin, I am pretty, with an hourglass figure, boobs a bit on the large side of things, and dynamite legs. Or so I'm told.

The Virgin's plan was so clever! The dates of Hanukkah change from year to year, since the Jewish calendar is lunisolar, which is to say the months follow the moon, but years follow revolutions around the sun, just like the Gregorian calendar, which is what our normal calendar is. This year (2020) the first of Hanukkah comes on December 11, which is a Friday. It continues for eight days, and each evening at sundown we light the candles (one more candle for each subsequent night), say some prayers, and eat and play games. It being a Jewish holiday, wine is always, always, involved. I considered the ubiquity of wine the best aspect of being Jewish.

My Mom, who is a good person, always invites over people who would otherwise be alone on Hanukkah. Two of her regulars are Mr. Stein and Martha Silvers. I've always been leery of Mr. Stein ever since he got me alone and felt me up, getting his hands all the way up my skirt to my panties, and yes, beyond. I was barely eighteen at the time, and I didn't know what to do, which is why he got away with so much. He gave me my first orgasm. I was totally creeped out. I also masturbated to the memory of the event for the rest of my high school senior year. I never told Mom nor Dad, of course.

**

Okay, fair is fair. I wasn't a complete innocent at age eighteen, even if I had been eighteen only for a week. I did put my hand on his when it had found my bare thigh (I wasn't wearing pantyhose or tights, since I was just at my parent's house, which was my home). While I put my hand on his, I didn't try to push his hand away, as I should have, I only held his hand there, preventing it from moving up my thigh. I knew enough to know that was his goal. It was the goal of every boy I had fooled around with, after all, in the back seats of cars and at parties. Many had achieved success, too.

I remember clearly, though, that since we were at my parents' house, eating dinner with my parents right there, using a table cloth and the real silver, I decided to see just what a man (as opposed to a high school boy) would do with his hand in such a dangerous situation. The tablecloth helped to hide his nefarious activities. I removed my hand.

Mr. Stein's now released fingers began to draw little circles on the inside of my thigh. I have shapely, but thin legs, and there's a gap between them; I learned later men call it a "thigh gap," and some men really like it, I have no idea why. As predicted, his hand began to slip up my legs, slowly, giving me plenty of time to protest, or to slap it away. I was curious, however, and let it continue, while cheerily talking with my Mom. The slow rise of his hand up my thigh got me seriously aroused, just from the outrageousness, I suspect. Well, to be fair, Mr. Stein really knew how to caress the inside of a girl's thigh!

His hand continued up, slipping under my skirt and pushing it up as it went. He pushed at my legs, and I parted them for him. I guess he took that as encouragement. After all, I had removed my defensive hand, and now I was parting my legs for him? He continued up, up, and up, under my skirt, until he reached my panties. Okay, I thought, good for him, that's what he was after, and he'll stop now.

It's amazing how naïve an eighteen-year-old girl can be, and I was on the more naïve end of the spectrum for eighteen-year-olds. Looking back now, at the mature age of 25, well of course he just slipped my panties to the side, to give himself total access to my tender, innocent pussy. There I sat, at the dinner table with him and my two parents, and I let that man finger me to a climax. It was the first time a man or boy had given me a climax, and -- as such -- was quite memorable.

I never let Mr. Stein near me again. He was often over at our house, but I always kept my distance, or hid in my bedroom, with the door closed and locked.

**

I told Mom that this year she should invite Martha Silvers as usual, but I suggested she ask Martha to bring along her nephew George. She could even say to her that I'd like to see him again. That was all it took! Mom, who's grandmother biological clock was ticking away in high gear, was thrilled I expressed interest in a man, any man, let alone a Jewish man, and of course Martha Silvers was rapturous that her Yenta skills might be bearing some fruit. I played it cool. Nobody said anything to Dad, of course. Nobody ever says anything to Dad.

When December 11 arrived, and the doorbell rang at 4PM, I was positioned to answer it, and there was Martha with that stud of a nephew of hers in tow, the honorable George Rosen. Holding onto George's arm, as if it were a life raft, was a short, blonde bimbo with big boobs whom I was to learn answered to Betty (what else?). Suddenly, I was overcome with heartburn, and headed off to the bathroom to the huge jug of Tums that adorns the bathrooms of all Midwestern Jewish homes.

Defeated and dejected, I stayed for a while in the bathroom, looking through the frosted glass window trying to see the snow softly falling. From a gloom standpoint, snow was a poor substitute for rain, but it had its charm. It left everything bright white, and the ubiquity of white reflected the light, giving the dark night a romantic, eerily lit quality. I came to love the snow, even if it was a distant second to the magical gloom of a heavy, sustained rain.

I emerged, my heartburn mollified, and joined Betty on the loveseat. We got to talking. She was sweet, honest, straightforward, and appeared to be as dumb as a sack of rocks. I liked her instantly. I'll bet she was a great fuck, and I was sure that would appeal to a man such as George. Well, good for her, only 22, and yet she landed a prize like George. Maybe he fucked her doggy style, and her big melons swung back and forth, like an erotic metronome? It was so easy to imagine! My heartburn began to return.

"So, tell me, Betty, what do you like most about George?" I asked her at one point. She had asked me to call her Betts, but I just couldn't do it.

"Oh, I couldn't possibly say!" she said. Then she whispered, "Can we speak privately, just between us?"

"Sure," I said.

"Well, he can't fuck worth shit, but he's real eye candy, and all my friends are impressed that I landed him, you know? Maybe what I like best about him is that having me on his arm makes Crystal and Ruby jealous!" Betty said. With names like that, maybe Betty and her friends were all strippers? She had the body to be one.

"He can't fuck worth shit?" I whispered back.

"Ain't it a pity? All those good looks, and the man can't get it up," she whispered. "That is, except in certain circumstances."

"Even with a blowjob?" I very inappropriately asked. Betty didn't mind.

"Yeah, even," she said. "Except for those special circumstances, but I don't want to do that again! He's going to dump me, you know, probably tonight after he tries, and fails, probably, one last time to fuck me."

"Why do you think that?" I asked.

"There's some slut in your little town that makes his heart thump in his chest. I think he's in love with her, or something," she whispered back.

"How do you know that?" I asked.

"As you must know, Lana, we girls have our ways," and she winked.