Wet bus stop, she’s waiting, his car is warm and dry. (The Police)
Okay, I grew up in a town of 6000, we have no buses, ergo no bus stops.
I was walking home in the rain however. You know something, there are quite a few of my stories that contain the phrases “he was standing in the rain, throwing pebbles at my window” or “he chased me in the rain”. I kinda miss that, lately it’s all ghosts, wolves and nachos. The wolves can stay, wet dog smell doesn’t bother me.
It really was raining, he had a sports car, both warm and dry, or hot and wet depending on the day. One of those things I won’t ever forget, the exhilaration of going that fast, in a car with a boy I liked. I had never gone THAT fast before, I had not gone THAT far either. I remember the conversation we had, he got me to name a movie I had already seen in case my parents asked what we did.
We didn’t watch a movie. He was no boy. He was in his 20’s. 22 maybe. I was 15.
Lying liars and the lies I tell.*
Sorry about that, so sorry. Not sorry.
I mentioned him before in that blog post masquerading as a thank you note. I called him my Teacher. It’s a euphemism, he was not a teacher, not a real one. His name was actually Troy. I am naming him, just in case. Haven’t seen him in over 2 decades. Haven’t forgotten a thing he taught me. I have a feeling he hasn’t forgotten me either.
I saw him again when I was 19. I was walking down the street, in front of our decrepit movie theater. My head in the clouds brought back down to earth by the sound of tires screeching, and my name called loud and clear by a familiar voice.
It wasn’t raining. It was about a thousand degrees outside and I was on my way from the lake, my hair was wet, close enough. He got out of the car and lifted me way up in a bear hug I wrapped my legs around him out of habit. He kissed me, noting that I was much more confident and grown up than when he last saw me. I watched him watching me, the look in his eyes screamed approval, hunger, wanting.
He walked me down the block to buy me ice cream, perfectly back to the beginning. We talked about that summer of ours, I mentioned how I eventually lost my virginity and his shoulders slumped. He said he wished he would have done right by me, that he had been brave. I clucked my tongue ever so gently, kissed his forehead and told him it was alright, he believed me. Had we met just then at 19 and 26, everything would have been just fine, maybe even happily ever after fine. But as it stands I was Cinderella for a summer and it took him 3 years to give me my shoe. While waiting I slipped in a big ol’ pile of pumpkin guts, apt metaphor for low I lost my virginity.
He wouldn’t take it because he couldn’t keep me.
Explain this to a 15 year old girl with stars in her eyes, and aching I couldn’t control.
Wait, explain this to a 15 year old girl while she is in your apartment, naked except for her over-the-knee socks, sundress on the floor, panties in purse. Laying back on the ugly but oh-so-soft couch salvaged out of a goodwill somewhere. Squirming in the puddle we had just made. He was kneeling on the floor, head in my lap. I could feel his breath where his mouth had been. We were both sweaty and sated, I was playing with his hair. Play pouting to cover my maddening womanly want and little girl hurt.
“Why won’t you fuck me?”
“Because I love you, but I can’t do right by you. We can’t be together, no one would understand.”
“But we ARE together, and I understand, and so do you.”
“Doesn’t matter.” The tone in his voice was of the ‘case closed’ variety. I didn’t push it. I did push his head back into my pussy and was rewarded for the subject change.
He might have been my first Scorpio, which sounds like the truth, but I cannot remember.
He was stunning. Green eyes and a head full of ink black curls. Taller than the Empire State building, built just as substantial and unyielding. Straight white teeth and one of those mouths that walked the line between soft as pillows and strong as steel, depending.
I was a misunderstood little nymphette. The boys in my town have told me, 20 years later that I was intimidating. Really? I was curious, and lonely. Teacher saw this and protected me, from them and from myself. He showed me what I was worth.
He taught me a lot that summer. Hence the nickname. SO much patience and self-control. I was a rather apt pupil mind you. Lessons in reading and writing body language, tilting my hips/lips ever so slightly this way or that, finding rhythms and how to change them with subtlety and grace. What my body is capable of. What my tongue is capable of, and the power that exists bringing a man to climax with your bare hands and hungry mouth. How to kiss passionately building up to it 101, that those moments in between pulling back just a little and smiling so hard my cheeks hurt were just as good (if not better) that the kiss itself. That theory covered everything like a blanket. Teasing, touching, anticipation. Building something, like a song with perfect cadence. Orgasms like the wake of a speed boat on a still lake.
How to make everything last, except us. Eventually the ripples stop, water goes back to glass, reflecting.
Paraphrased from the book title Lies and the Lying Liars Who Tell Them by Al Franken