The Spring of 1984

Her hair took the light of the bonfire and threw it back as golden sparkles. Moonlight and firelight weren't enough to tell me her eye color, but with that gorgeous, frizzy permed blonde hair down past her shoulders I was willing to bet on blue. In the dark, her smile looked mysterious when she saw me gazing at her, and I flashed her back my best grin, thankful to the illicit booze for the courage not to look away when caught staring.

Closer to the fire, our fellow seniors danced and laughed. Some clustered around the punch cooler as Madonna and Bruce Springsteen music played on someone's boombox. But she and I were alone off by the fence.

Her body matched her face, with pert, generous breasts that made the letters on her Reagan/Bush sweatshirt curve around at her sides. The sweatshirt couldn't hide her flat tummy, and below... gently curving, feminine hips, and a miniskirt that might have been a bit premature in the early-April evening. I wasn't complaining, though. It showed off long, slender legs I wanted to kiss my way all the way up.

Again drawing on whatever liquid courage was in the punch, I walked over about ten feet to lean on the fence next to her. "Hey, how's the party for you so far?"

As feminine artwork went, she was the Mona Lisa, and I felt like a sketch from the high school art class. I'd been in one several hours ago. At eighteen, my stringy brown hair had never matured the way I'd always hoped. It ended not far below my neck, my smile just looked forced, since I was so scared to do it. My breasts were a cup size smaller than hers. I had legs too, I knew they were my best feature, but they were covered in old, K-Mart jeans, not a designer miniskirt that she just had to be cold in.

"Can't be going all that great for either of us if we're here talking to each other," she replied, eyes downcast, smile creeping down into frown territory. "The boys are being wierdos tonight."

"Au contraire," I thought to myself without saying it aloud. "The party's going very well for me."

She was Trisha White, eighteen years old, the most popular girl in my high school. She had been head cheerleader in this, our senior year at Clark High. But with football and basketball seasons over, there wasn't as much call for cheerleading. She had also been homecoming queen. She had also been dating the quarterback until recently. She was the most popular girl at Clark, and when I saw her standing alone away from the main party, my thoughts were the exact opposite of hers: "All of a sudden, the night's looking up."

It had taken me fifteen minutes of slowly trying to ease closer to her without being obvious about it before I was in range to speak. Now, finally standing next to her, I took another big swig of the mystery punch and replied.

"That's what boys do. Be wierdos."

She gave a dreary laugh. "I guess you're right about that. I feel like I've seen you around, but I can't figure out where."

"Probably at games. I've seen you cheering all the time. You're really good at it. Amazing high kicks."

She was a popular girl. She nodded at the compliment as if it were her due. "Your boyfriend play?"

I shook my head. "Don't have one. I just like to watch."

I didn't add, "The cheerleaders, not the game," but that would have been true. Those high kicks of hers I had so honestly complimented? It wasn't her ankles my eyes locked onto whever she did that.

"My name's Karla," I added instead.

"You should be in at the bonfire near the punch cooler if you don't have a boyfriend. But I guess, maybe not tonight. Like I said, the boys are all going after dumb sluts that don't deserve them tonight."

I took a gulp from the punch. I took another one, then a third one to drain my glass. I took a deep breath, another one, then turned, from my position where we were mutually leaning backward on the fence and staring at the fire, to instead face her.

She looked at me, eyebrows raised.

I couldn't say it. I couldn't say it. I couldn't do it...

"It's... actually kind of OK with me that the boys are acting wierd tonight. It means I get to talk to you alone."

"Oh shit I said it," went off like a fire alarm in my head. "This is the most popular girl in school! She's going to tell EVERYBODY I'm a lesbo. Oh crap I should never have..."

"Huh?" she asked, not even having understood what I meant.

Every ounce of my entire being screamed, "Back out of it! Back out!" But somehow - mostly what was probably everclear in the punch - I managed to stumble over a better reply.

"You... you're... well, I mean, you're... you're really... very... pretty."

She blinked, pursing her lips in confusion, and then all of a sudden her eyes went wide. She backed up a step and threw both hands up in front of her. "Oh! You're... I mean you... Oh. Um. Um... yeah, no. Sorry."

Well, now I was committed. Now there was no way to back out. I did my best to project as much confidence as I could, smiling slightly better despite my panic.

"Are you sure? You can just lie back, relax, think about your favorite boy... I promise I'll make it amazing for you."

Her mouth opened and closed as if she were trying to get words out, but eventually she just turned and walked away.

I wanted to run away as fast as I could. I wanted to sprint to the seventies clunker my Mom bought me for my first car and race home. But I also wanted another drink really bad, and at eighteen I was too young to buy it myself, so the too-strong everclear and mystery berry punch was my only option. I was afraid to go back there, afraid I might see her and she'd point at me and shout "Lezzie!" to all of her friends. So I circled the line warily until I could see she wasn't in line. Then I waited as long as I had to to pour a full plastic cup, and hustled to my rusty Toyota as fast as I could without spilling. I drove out of the field, left the kegger behind, and drove halfway home trying to get my panic under control.

I pulled over to the side of the road, drank half the punch, then drove the rest of the way home, finishing it as I drove. By then I was pretty tipsy, so I stumbled up the front steps of my house. Thankfully Mom was snoozing on the couch, trying to stay up to wait for me but failing. I bustled up to bed so she couldn't smell my breath, then cuddled up under the covers.

Remembering that I had actually, real world, genuinely and for real hit on Trisha Homecoming Queen White, my fear gave way to a wierd kind of arousal, focused on the fact that the most beautiful girl in school knew I wanted her to lay back and think about her favorite boy while I made her feel amazing. In my mind, I lived out the process of making her feel amazing, which involved easing that miniskirt up and discovering no panties under it.

I had been planning to use my fingers on myself even if she said yes, so the only disappointment was that there was no taste of her on my lips, no smell of her in my nostrils.

I had been with two other girls in my life. One, an older girl who gave me my first taste of wine, got me drunk, and then persuaded me to taste honey for the first time too. To my surprise, it was the hottest thing I had ever done. I could think of nothing else for weeks afterwards. And if the college girl was too embarrassed when she sobered up to ever speak to me again, well, she had shown me that pleasuring another woman was insanely hot, exciting, and arousing, and I wanted to do it some more.

My second lover was a girl my own age, one of my fellow nerdy, arty wallflowers. We were never actually girlfriends, but after I talked her into the first time, for a while she would call me every week or so when she got really horny. It worked for me too. I loved pussy, she loved orgasms. We had a good thing going until her mom caught us one time and forbid her from seeing me anymore.

That was three months ago. Now, I trepidatiously went back to school on Monday morning, half afraid that every kid in the halls was going to point at me and shout, "There's the lesbo who hit on Trisha!"

That didn't happen. Either she didn't tell everyone, or she did but they were all choosing to snicker at me behind my back rather than mock me to my face. I made it through all of Monday. By the time I was walking the halls between classes on Tuesday, I had gotten used to the idea that apparently the whole school had not been alerted to the fact that they had a pervert in their midst.

I saw her at a distance in the hall outside my Latin class. Lockers lined the walls, with Lakers and Celtics posters on them, or advance publicity for the upcoming LA olympics with their cartoon eagle. Past all the detritus of high school life, our eyes met, and then her head whipped away so fast I was afraid she might break her neck.

Tuesday became Wednesday, became Thursday became Friday. I was hustling to my second period Calculus class when there was some movement beside me in the hall. The person walking, not with me, but walking separately to my right changed. I looked over.

Trisha White.

She was staring deliberately forward, not looking at me. Today she wore a sweater about the recently-concluded Sarejevo Olympics. I looked back and, just at that moment, she turned toward me. My heart bounded up and down in my chest. I turned to her, but at that moment she lost her nerve and looked away again. For a while we just walked in the halls - not together, just two separate students on our way to different classes. I could see the door to Calc coming up in front of me, and I didn't want to get there. I wanted something to come of this walking side by side.

I slowed down to avoid having to leave her too fast.

She slowed down too.

Still, neither of us had the courage to say something, and the Calc door loomed ever closer.

I sighed, resigning myself to the fact that just walking next to a girl who knew I wanted to do her was the most erotic thing going to happen to me that weekend. That's when she leaned closer to me, still barely turning her head toward me.

"Can we talk later?"

The words sent my heart on a wild rollercoaster ride, and suddenly I couldn't walk anymore. I tripped over my feet, almost fell over, and stopped in the middle of the hall, with other kids grumpily elbowing past me. Trish walked on, unwilling to even be seen stopping to talk to me in the halls, and for the first time I saw she was wearing a denim mini, not as nice as the one from last Friday, but still showing off those amazing legs.

One chance: one tiny chance. She looked back over her shoulder at me, scared, obviously not going to stay looking for long. In that moment, while she was looking, I nodded my head up and down as hard as I could. The hint of a smile tugged her lips up, and she walked on. I lost her in the crowd.

I floated through Calc, floated through Latin, unable to remember even a word any of the teachers said. I had no idea how we were going to talk later. I had never given her my phone number. I certainly didn't have hers. She was the Queen of Clark High, I didn't even know where her locker was. I had always assumed there was a secret, hidden section of the halls where all the popular girls had lockers together. In between fifth period and sixth, I glumly went to my locker to get books for my English class. Apparently, the talk later thing wasn't going to happen. Maybe she meant later by a few days, but that sucked, because I wanted it now now now.

A note had been stuffed through the air slats in my locker.

Her handwriting was so perfect. She had that popular girl circly, flowery cursive writing. Her I-dots were elaborately drawn little six-petal flowers.

"I live at 108 Whilshire."

That was it. No signature. Nothing else. But every single word my English teacher said was completely wasted on me. I couldn't think about anything but Trisha. The moment the bell rang, I raced to my car and sped to that address, ignoring some radio news about the marines pulling out of Beirut. Wwhen I saw how nice the lawns were in her neighborhood, and the new '84 Mercedes and Audis parked in front of those glowing green lawns, I almost cried. I parked my junkheap Toyota a couple houses down from the address she gave me so she wouldn't see it through the window while we talked.

Then I realized I hadn't done anything to pretty up for this. I should have gone home and retouched my lipstick. Mom had some nice Chanel perfume... but having already driven here, by the time I went home and got back again it would be four, and getting dangerously close to something that might be called dinner time, and who knew if her parents wouldn't let me stay long...

Biting my lip, I opened the car door and walked up to her house.

She must have been waiting for me, because the door sprung open the moment I stepped on her driveway. She kind of timidly waved, and then went to close the door again as if she was embarrassed about having opened it when I was still so far away. Then she held it open, but leaned against the doorframe not looking at me.

"Hi," I said as I took the three steps up to her front porch.

"Hi," she said back, stepping backward to awkwardly hold the door while clearing the path enough for me to come through. That close to her, I breathed in the floral scent of her perfume, and once again regretted my missed opportunity to retouch my appearance.

Inside, there was a wine bottle sitting on the end table beside the dark leather couch, love seat, and two wing chairs. There were two glasses full of red wine, but the bottle looked like it was almost empty. I surmised she'd had a glass without me, to get ready. It made me feel slightly better as I came to understand that she was as scared as I was.

"Um... my parents never know when I steal a bottle of their wine, they have so many. I know what kinds they like, and only take the bottles they don't. So... um..."

She passed me a glass without saying anything more. I took it. She drank without offering any kind of toast, so I did too, although I didn't gun it all down in one shot the way she did.

She sat down on the couch, so I did too. I made a point to plant my jeans-wearing butt on the crease between cushions so I wasn't sitting too close to her, but definitely, observably, not all the way away from her.

It seemed like we just sat there for an hour without talking, although it can't really have been that long. How did her family survive without a clock in the living room? Mom and I could never have made it to work and school on time without a clock in every room that we looked at constantly.

"I... um..."

She stopped. I waited, but there was no more coming. So I tried.

"Trisha..."

But as soon as I opened my mouth, that gave her the courage to try again.

"Look, last Friday..."

Again, silence. Seeing the Homecoming Queen and head cheerleader as awkward and scared as I was made me feel a lot better. I felt more confident. Or, maybe like at the party, it was just the wine.

Just before I could try again, she went on, and finally got a complete sentence out. "I shouldn't have just walked away from you last Friday. I'm sorry."

"I'm sorry I made you feel awkward."

"Well, I... I mean, you were... how..." She stopped, and when I tried to speak she held up her hand for me to stop. She looked at me, made eye contact and held it, and I could see her working her courage up just as I had last Friday. When the words came out, I could tell she had been rehearsing them, possibly for days.

"I can't stop thinking about what you said to me."

Now I smiled. Now, for the first time ever, I felt in control of the situation. I scooted the extra three-fourths of a cushion over, put my arm around her, put my face close to her, and whispered, "Really? Which part?"

At first she turned her head to me when I spoke, but, when our noses almost collided, when our eyes were so close to each other, she turned back away and left me looking at her cheek, which was blushing redder than a traffic light.

"Isn't it obvious?"

I leaned even closer, so my lips brushed her hair and those gorgeous curls as I whispered, "The part about me making you feel amazing? Because I haven't been able to stop thinking about that either."

Her jaw moved like she was trying to speak, but no words came out. I touched a fingertip to her chin to ease her head back toward me. Our noses did touch this time, and I stared right into her eyes for just a moment, before I shifted my head slightly so I could kiss her. Her eyelids eased down, and I remembered my promise about letting her close her eyes and imagine her favorite boy. There was a moment of panic in her, in which every muscle in her tensed up, and then she gave herself to it, relaxing, parting her lips. I parted mine as well, let my tongue taste her lips, slip inside her mouth, exploring timidly at first, then more assertively.

I pulled her to me, shifting both our positions on the couch, running my hand up and down her back as we kissed. Then I moved it around to the front, and started working on the buttons of her blouse. She panted eagerly as I took her top off, cooperating, moving her arms, then sucked in her breath as my eager hands went to her bra. It came unclasped easily.

Her breasts were as perfect as staring at her had led me to expect. Full, round, like two soft, white oranges perched there. Perfect, tiny little pinkish nipples stood stiff and looked like they were practically aching for my tongue and lips. I leaned forward to oblige.

She tasted of soap and perfume, and part of me wondered if she had somehow had time to take a shower before I came here. I kissed first the gentle rise of her breast, then licked in circles around the nipple, then flicked my tongue over it, drawing a gasp out of her. Then I closed my lips around it and began to suck and lick. I worked my mouth on her eagerly as I felt her fingers drumming on the back of my skull. Her breathing was rapid, aroused. My tongue danced on her breast, tickled her nipple, and breathed in the scent of her skin.

I left her breast and kissed and licked my way lower. First the underside of her boobs, then her flat tummy, and then a spiral narrowing in until I kissed her belly button. She giggled as I licked her there.

But then I headed down, down over the smooth expanse of her lower stomach, until she whispered, "You don't have to..."

Kneeling in front of her I looked up. She still had her eyes closed. In a lusty, throaty whisper I replied, "This is what I'm here for. To make you feel amazing."

I reached behind her for the zipper of her skirt. She helped me out, lifting her rump off the couch cushion. Part of me wanted to be efficient, and grab her panties in the same handfull of fabric with which I tugged down that skirt. But I wanted the removal of those to be a special moment.

I popped her open-toed flats off with her skirt, and looked up at her. Eyes still closed, she sad there on the couch, legs together from getting her skirt off, trembling a bit. I wanted to set her at ease. I kissed her knee, then started working my way up her thigh from the outside, kissing and licking. I reached the top, where her thigh bent into her midriff, and licked her there.

I hooked my thumbs in the waistband of her panties. I looked up at her, smiling. She still had her eyes closed. But she did lift her rump a little bit.

I eased the soft fabric down over her hips, tugging them all the way off before I let myself look up.

Hair as blonde as that on her head decorated her beautiful vulva. Her soft, fleshy outer lips were parted slightly, giving a glimpse of pink flesh and inner lips. She was wet already.

I leaned closer, taking a moment to just appreciate her beauty, to breathe in the scent of her. Then I licked her, from one end of her slit to the other, tasting her for the first time and loving it. That drew a gasp from her. Then I set about exploring her body in earnest. I let my tongue wander all over her, lapping up the taste of her like a starving woman. Her juices tasted like honey mixed with heaven. Her heavy breathing sounded like an invitation. My lips and tongue caressed her warm, wet flesh as I probed her inner lips.