The Journey

In 1965, every school day began with reporting into your "home room" according to your last name. They took role and there were announcements. Afterwards, everyone went to hourly classes moving around the school. At the end of the day you waited in the cafeteria or lingered around the oval waiting for your bus. For some years, Don Tesche (properly pronounced tesh-ah, but which he always pronounced as the more Anglican "tesh") had been hearing the name Robert Taylor called every time they had a substitute teacher. Because this was the name of a movie star, everyone had a good laugh, no one had ever seen this particular Robert Taylor. When this new school year began, Don was surprised to hear the big lug of a guy sitting behind him respond "Here". Bob had been attending parochial school and somehow was on both the public and the private school roles. He had finally convinced his parents to let him attend public school in the last year so that he could join the social circles of the majority of Howard County teen society. Bob came from money, but he was a good-hearted simplistic kind of boy. He and Don became friends almost immediately. They talked cars and guns and academics. Bob wasn't looking forward to the rigors of college and Don could always help regardless of the class assignment.

Bob was smitten with a curvaceous blonde from a wealthy neighborhood. Her name was Celeste. Bob was old money; his father had founded a contracting company and was even older than Don's dad. He had left his first wife and two daughters to marry his secretary, then pregnant with Bob. Celeste's mom and dad were both professionals and were the classic urban competitors. Celeste wore $300 dresses to school. The best part about Celeste, from Don's perspective, was that she had a friend, Margit, or Maggie as she was commonly called. Maggie was stunning. She had long, soft brown hair and deep brown eyes like a fawn. She spoke in a tiny, little girl voice and was used to playing the role of "dumb and pretty" even though she had an excellent mind and took most of the same Academic classes as Don. Her mother and dad were German immigrants and presumably spoke German at home. Don spoke a little, but he was too intimidated to try that with Maggie or her parents. She was about 5'-6" to Don's 5'-9. According to Don, she must have been a 40D or a bit more. She had huge, natural breasts, or so it seemed on her small frame.

Don and Bob had double dated a few times with Celeste and Maggie, going to nice dinners and regular theaters. They'd attended a dance at school. It became clear that Bob and Celeste wanted to date without the other couple as badly as Maggie and Don did. With the press of paying for everything for two, Don had to be careful where to spend his money. He definitely wanted to keep Maggie out of circulation, but it took planning and Maggie seemed ready to accommodate him. Their first single date had been the drive-in movie.

For those of you not familiar with the concept, you basically paid to park in a paved lot with rows of poles placed between pairs of cars, each carrying two speakers that could be extended into the car on a six or eight foot cable. There were usually swing sets below the screen for children to play on, operating under the assumption that some part of the clientele was families. Perhaps dad and mom grabbed a quickie while the kids were on the teeter-totter. The snack bar/bath rooms/projection room was a single concrete block structure in the center of everything. The rows were graded upward so that your windshield faced the large outdoor screen. There was always an intermission between features, which started as soon as it was dark enough to project. The show was typically over by 11:00 PM and most girls had to be home by midnight - which allowed for a quick snack and a little necking, but not much. Many girls dressed for a "sitting-up" movie, even though the evening was planned for the "passion pit" (one of the less colorful nicknames). Don says "They call it Goodyear, because it's where the rubber meets the road" - alluding to discarding the used condom out the window. This joke, of course, came from Bob.

Sitting in the front seat of the car with a console in between made things pretty difficult. Don's bucket seats would recline back fully, but they were unstable. It looked like a padded lounger, but if you put any weight on it, the back of the front seat collapsed even further until it hit the floor. This was a small car, barely the width of a love-seat, but that suited the young couple.

That first night they had kissed for a long, long time. They had whispered and drawn warmth and security, each from the other. Don was the first to say it, "Maggie, I love you." He thought his heart would burst when he heard her say, "Don, I love you, too". So that night, he had slipped off his high school ring and given it to her, to seal the bargain that they were "going steady". Don frowns when he tells this part of the story, it's as if he still questions his decisions of forty years ago. The thing was that Don was experiencing his first real love and in this era that was different from being sexually attracted to a girl, or at very least separate. In his words, "I wanted to respect her, revere her, honor her. I never thought about her when I masturbated, because that would demean the relationship." That night he only made one tiny slip, when he placed his ear to her sweater and bra encased left breast with the excuse that he wanted to hear her heart beating. Maggie said "Hey, my heart's in here, not out there!" And so he'd behaved himself.

After he took her home, he stopped at Gary's house and tapped on his bedroom window to waken him. Gary was appalled, "You gave her your class ring? What if you don't get it back?" Gary never wore his own ring, it remained in the cellophane it had come in so that he wouldn't scratch it. Yep, Gary was a putz all right.

As the fall turned into winter they had more and more dates at the drive-in. If you stayed in a car when it was 40 or 45 degrees outside, just body heat would steam up the windows. If you were necking, you could get the windows so wet that little droplets rolled down the inside of the glass. Don began to prepare for an evening at the drive in by bringing the pillows and a quilt from his bed. His folks weren't wild about this, but the alternative was to burn up gas to keep the heater going. Sometimes the speakers had heaters in them, but they never seemed to work.

One night Maggie was stretched out on the back seat in a pair of slacks and Don was lying half on, half off her enjoying those deep, breath-taking kisses and stroking her cheek. He was pressing himself down straddling Maggie's right thigh, which she was pressing up between his legs. They were both panting and kissing urgently. In the back of his mind, he thought, "God, this feels so good. How can it feel this great just to kiss her?" Then he'd shuddered against her, suddenly realizing that he had been pumping and he'd just blown a load in his skivvies. "I hope she didn't notice. That sort of came out of nowhere." Don had never even heard of a "dry hump" but he had just experienced one. I always wondered if his right leg pressed between Maggie's thighs had given her a release, but I suspect women's anatomy is not so easily stimulated as a eighteen-year-old trouser monkey.

They'd continued to see each other whenever they could and Maggie's more obvious charms were starting to attract other boys. Clay, another senior, was probably trying to compliment Don when he remarked one afternoon, "Boy that Maggie. I'd sure like to be trapped in her bra and have to eat my way out." Don didn't answer the 6', 180-pound football player. He wanted to rip his head off and shit down his neck, but Clay would have broken him like a pretzel without breathing hard. Moreover, since they were in the oval waiting for the afternoon bus with about half a dozen teachers strolling through the crowd, this would have been suicidal. Fighting was an automatic, three-day suspension. Besides, Don knew that there was no way he could make Clay eat those offensive words, he'd just have to slink away like a coward and hope that Maggie never found out. Don had a temper, but in all things he thought of the punishment first before committing the crime. Per Don, if a woman under the age of eighteen was found to be without her panties, the guy was automatically a statutory rapist. The fact that both he and Maggie had already crossed that threshold in June, didn't make him one tiny bit more comfortable. Whether out of fear, or respect, or agape love, Don compartmentalized his feelings toward Maggie. He desired her, but in an abstract way. He hoped that they would marry after college. Having actual sex with her was something for the future, and besides she was a good girl, the best possible girl in his mind. When he masturbated, he thought only of bad girls, the kind that got undressed behind board fences.

One November evening they were in the drive in and Maggie had worn a long plaid kilt complete with gold toned pin and was sitting on Don's lap in the back seat as they passionately kissed. Her skirts were spread out over his legs and somehow his hand had found her knee, and then crept between her barely spread thighs. She had lovely long legs, and he was able to stroke the inside of her left thigh with the gentlest touch of the back of his right hand. He had some short dark hairs there and by barely making contact with her warm skin he found a touch that was so delicious that it was painful. "Oh, that feels so good, Maggie, your skin is like velvet."

Maggie had sat up and done her part to play the game. She withdrew his hand and began thus: "Don, look here now." She drew up her skirt exposing the top of her left stocking with about an inch or two of black garter strap showing, but everything else concealed by the bunched material in her hand. He looked down to see three distinct bands of color, different from the color on her lower legs. There was a very dark one, then a medium one, then the lightest of all, stretched over the end of the strap, deformed by the button, and then caught by the silvery clasp. The top band was the widest and it was elongated and stretched up to the taught garter. What skin he could see above and which he had been stroking was pink and healthy and the most fabulous thing he'd ever imagined. "There's a line here," she said indicating the central band, "that's as far as you go." Don was nodding enthusiastically. "Oh, Don, you know I love you too much to stop you." The last was her most overt expression of her desires as a woman, but Don, ever the honorable (and stupid) man had stopped at that line. He never even saw her panties.

Well, as you may well expect, the relationship was winding down at that point. Maggie was ready to take the plunge, and Don was not. A few weeks later they had gone to a New Year's party at Bob's house and Clay had offered to teach Maggie the game of chess. While she was concentrating on the game, the wounded Don slunk away to this car and left Clay to rescue her with a lift home. I don't need to spell out what happened then, it seems pretty obvious that Clay held all the right cards and got his chance to eat his way out.

When Don told me this story, I began to realize the mystique that he associated with what women choose to wear under their skirts. During our time together he's bought me tons of stockings, garter belts, frilly and crotchless panties, and it has been my pleasure to wear them for him. I now understand why men are so compelled to look up our dresses, even though they've seen it in a million variations. When we are out, I can touch his arm and say "Donnie, there's a naughty girl on the third bar stool" and he will look and thank me, and then want to go home to make love. He's predictable, but that's OK, because he never tires of me being his bad girl, either.

Just before the breakup, Don and Maggie had doubled with Doug and his date, Valerie. Valerie was a short, chubby girl who would have worn thick glasses, save for her well-to-do Dad providing the latest innovation, contact lenses. Don and Maggie had been in the front seat and had a small tiff, when Don took off his own glasses and prepared to end the spat with a kiss. Val later admitted to Don that the bit with the glasses was one of the sexiest things she'd ever seen, pressing her hand to her pert B-cup breasts. Don and Valerie became a couple and Maggie went from Clay to Bill to God knows who.

Valerie was a whole different set of problems. For one thing, she had young, in-touch parents. Don had mapped out to Valerie that in one month she'd allow him to touch her breasts through the bra, a month after that, inside the bra. Another month would find him stoking her panties, then inside her panties. The schedule might include her touching him. Valerie just nodded and made up her own, much more extended, mental schedule.

One of the bits of trivia Don acquired, from, of all people, Gary, who was interested in motorcycles and the Hell's Angels lore, was about 'angel wings'. The premise was that Hell's Angels sometimes wore little sets of wings sewn to their denim vests. These were WWII relics, complete with a swastika in the center and they came in three colors: white, black and red. One earned white wings by eating a white girl, black wings for a black girl and red wings from a menstruating girl. (The grosser the joke, the easier to remember, right?) Don passed the lore along to Valerie and it became a running double-entendre between them. If Valerie's friend "George" was visiting (must be a Maryland thing, we always said "Aunt Flo" in Oklahoma.) Don would joke that he'd try to earn his red wings that night. This was insane, since they hadn't done anything but hold hands and kiss, but they both giggled nervously at the idea. Valerie ultimately allowed him to see parts of her body, when the lights were almost totally out, and only one tiny piece at a time so as to preserve the mystery of the total picture. He bought her a Linde-star ring as a "pre-engagement" token.

Valerie's curfew was 11:30 PM, but he was allowed to stay downstairs with her at the end of an evening, until midnight, while her parents were upstairs. Her Dad and Mom had passed the rules to him through her. Don had gotten free passes to a movie premier called "Casino" and part of the hype was "come early for the mini-skirt contest, great prizes for the prettiest girl in the competition." Valerie had temporarily hemmed one of her suit skirts to mid-thigh (as short as she could go without showing her stocking tops; panty hose were still a month or two away) and had won the contest with her chubby little legs. The only other girl in the contest was probably ten and wore a skating skirt and tights. Valerie had no doubt flashed her girdle-encased goods to the middle-aged judge with the yardstick who dutifully knelt when she mounted the small stand of two steps. Valerie went home with all the loot, including an AM transistor radio and free coupons for MacDonald's.

They had just had their "one month anniversary" and Don was allowed to fondle her gently through her blouse or sweater as long as nobody was looking. High from their "victory" at the contest, they'd stretched out on the worn vinyl sofa in the family room with the TV on for noise and begun to make-out for the final moments of their evening. Valerie had her back towards the back of divan and Don was nearly falling off, so he had to hold her tightly. He'd asked her to roll over and she moved to let him spoon her, his tongue and lips busy on the cleft of her neck, one of her most sensitive places. Her skirt had ridden up and he began to stroke her pert bottom through the stretchy panty-girdle. The family dog was on the floor beside them, happily gnawing on a bone. He found that perfect place above her stocking top and brushed it with his hand and Valerie began to pant, trying to push him back to the schedule, but succumbing to her own needs. He'd finally brushed his hand up the front of the girdle, across the sewn-in diamond panels and then thrust one finger under the waistband. Valerie was saying "no, no" so quietly he could barely hear her, when at last his finger encountered a tuft of damp hair and then began to slide into her honey pot. As any woman can tell you, the inserted finger is not that stimulating even if you are wet, but the curling of that finger against the clitoris is definitely a good thing. Valerie was squishing and panting more and more eagerly and she finally grabbed his hand and pulled it out saying, "Stop. I can't take any more of that. You're making me crazy. I'm sorry, I just can't take ... and oh! You bad girl! Are you chewing on my shoe?" While Don and Valerie were lost in passion, Daisy, the German Shepard had reduced one of her low-heeled shoes to so many scraps of wet leather, and worse, Val had borrowed the shoes from her mother. She decided to relocate the tattered shoe to her bedroom upstairs so her mom could discover it in the morning, rather than conclude she'd taken them off downstairs and hadn't noticed what the dog had been doing.

Don had questioned her as to whether or not she'd climaxed and Valerie seemed to avoid answering. It had felt wonderful and she'd reached a plateau where the pleasure was so intense that she just had to stop, but she wasn't calling it an orgasm per se. She was, however, very explicit that Don's schedule had been blown to hell and he was months ahead of the timetable. However they continued to date and life was pretty good.

The thing about Valerie was that she was most comfortable in her own house and she was sure her parents wouldn't come downstairs without giving them time to assume a reasonable facsimile of propriety. Don wasn't so sure, and he feared Val's father grabbing him up by the scruff of the neck. Don wasn't especially comfortable in the drive-in either; hadn't he watched Bob's butt pumping up and down between Celeste's knees with his pants at half-mast? Girls always seemed to choose a spot where they felt safe, and Don didn't feel safe anywhere that someone could just walk right into.

When spring began to break Val and Don were still doing their groping in the drive-in and she'd occasionally reach in through his flies and rub his boner while he diddled her snatch. He still didn't know if she'd ever actually cum. Val preferred to touch him this way because she didn't actually have her hand on his cock (she was still a good girl) and Don's under shorts acted as a ready receptacle to absorb any emissions without so much as getting her hands dirty. The evening had been frustrating for both of them; they sort of got somewhere, but not as far as seemed possible. It reminded Don of the night he'd felt gypped by the picture, although he couldn't tell Val that particular tidbit. Don had teasingly said, "Are you ready to let me earn my wings yet?" and Val had surprised him by saying "Don, this is getting us nowhere. If you want to, just do it, and quit talking about it."

He'd slipped between her legs and was trying to apply his tongue to her pussy without taking off her pink cotton panties, or so stretching out the elastic so far that he ruined them. After a few tentative licks and getting a nose full of what smelled pungent and vaguely of pee, he gave up. She'd requested his handkerchief and used it, dipped in a little Coke, to wash his face. "We don't need anyone smelling that on you." So they had gone home and entered her house, sitting in the living room with only the light from the stairwell. Val excused herself for a moment and when she came back down stairs, she had traded in the blouse and pleated skirt for a long cotton granny dress that went to her ankles. She wore blue satin slippers on her feet. This was about the least sexy thing she could have put on and Don voiced his disapproval, though not too harshly. Val was still his steady. She replied, that since he'd left her "high but not dry" it was only fair that she changed into something less to his liking. She then gave him a wet kiss, and tugged him toward the wall where an upright piano stood. She moved them into the shadows on the far side of the piano away from the stairwell and asked in a whisper, "You want those wings, fly boy?"