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From: Ole.Joe@poboxes.com (Ole Joe)
Subject: RP MKS:  Getting It Right by Michael K Smith


From: mksmith@metronet.com (Michael K. Smith)
[...this one's for Leigh, who pushed just a little...]


                              GETTING IT RIGHT
                               (A Beginning)

   Back in the Kennedy era, it wasn't easy for a 17-year-old male, going to a
good school in an upper-middle-class suburb, to lose his virginity.  Not without
having to pay.  Kids these days,... God, listen to the old geezer!  Kids in the
'90s who haven't fucked on the second date probably figure they've screwed up
(so to speak).  And that may have been the case in L.A. or Greenwich Village
when I was a teenager -- but certainly not on the north side of San Antonio.
   That decade held world-changing surprises for all of us, but at its beginning
things still moved slowly and cautiously.  Call me a fogy, but teenagers in the
'60s and '70s gained sexual liberation at the cost of romance.
   The Locker Room Liars Club used the classic baseball metaphors in describing
their alleged successes on dates.  "First base" meant the girl had allowed you
to squeeze her tits (through an armored bra) and/or stroke her thighs (through a
dress and petticoats); "second base" meant removing the bra and petticoats and
getting your hands on the girl herself.  "Third base" was getting her panties
off (and probably a garter belt, in that pre-pantyhose era) and soaking your
fingers in nectar; this was as much a cause for rejoicing as a three-bagger out
on the diamond.
   A "home run," of course, meant replacing your fingers with your cock -- and
while the guys all talked like they were Babe Ruth, I doubted any of them had
actually scored.
   For myself, I was reasonably good-looking, reasonably smart, reasonably
athletic, and had a reasonable amount of pocket money to lavish on a date.  So I
had a lot of bases to my credit, but under 'HR' on the scoreboard I was '0' for
at least a dozen powerhouse swings.  And it sure wasn't for lack of playing the
game.
   Part of the problem was my practical restriction to "nice" girls ...and nice
girls didn't fuck.  No girl worth liking would allow such a thing.  The "bad"
girls were already hooked up with the bad guys, the ones who hung around the
school auto body shop in the afternoon.  They were lightweights by '90s
pistol-packing standards, but we referred to them as "hoods" and we didn't
encroach on their women.

   Then, quite magically, everything changed in September 1961, the first week
of my senior year.  We had "open" summer school, which you don't see much
anymore: You could take virtually any of your solids for first-time credit, not
just to repeat courses you'd flunked.  I'd had most of my math, science, and
language courses -- all of which I had trouble with -- during the summers, so I
could concentrate on a single tough subject for six weeks, pass it, and get it
out of the way.
   By my senior year, I had two open periods in my schedule.  One of them was
spent in the Journalism office, where I worked as Features Editor on the school
paper; I often worked there late after school, I loved writing so much.  The
other period I worked in the library or in the language lab; we actually had the
first such lab in San Antonio, reel-to-reel wet carrels and all.
   On Thursday of that first week, I was sitting behind the check-out desk in
the library, saying 'Hi' to friends who had come to work on the first round of
themes and book reports, when a girl whom I hadn't seen before came up to ask
for directions.  That meant she was almost certainly a new student and I noted
that the American Lit book under her arm was for senior English.  She was quite
attractive and, in between stamping book cards, I watched her moving in and out
of the stacks in search of her topic.
   Then it got kinda busy and I lost track of her.  When the rush died down, I
walked around the large room, discretely peering down the aisles, but she'd
already gone.  And she hadn't checked out anything so I didn't know her name.

   The first school dance of the year was that Friday.  I went stag since it was
essentially a social mixer to kick off the year and I wasn't dating anyone in
particular.  Tommy Thompson, my chemistry lab partner the previous year and a
perfectly nice guy, brought a casual date, a pretty brunette who had recently
moved in a few houses down from him.
   You guessed it: The girl from the library the day before.  Fate works.  He
introduced her to me as Mary McAllister, and I basically stole her from him that
night.  It wasn't intentional, I swear.
   Mary had moved down from Dallas that summer because her father was the new
head of the biology department at Trinity.  I knew Tommy lived up in the
Heights, off Cambridge Oval, so I could make a good guess at Mary's social and
economic status (the area was all big Victorians on large lots, the kind of
houses that sell in the mid-six figures these days).
   I asked Tommy would he mind if I asked his date for a dance; he laughed and
told us to go ahead.  He'd only asked Mary as a neighborly gesture so she
wouldn't have to come by herself.  So Mary and I danced during the slow dances
and talked during the fast ones.  Each time through the cycle, our dancing
became slower and closer and our talk warmer and deeper.  And I had the
opportunity to catalog her more closely.
   Her hair was down in waves and curls around her shoulders and it smelled
wonderful.  She wore a crew-neck cashmere sweater, pleated wool skirt, and black
suede loafers, just like 80% of the other girls in the gym.  And her pearls
emphasized her long neck.  But what captured me was her face.  Her eyes were
large and luminous brown with slightly arched eyebrows that made her appear
always a bit surprised.  Her lips were a bit more full than average, soft and
very red, even without lipstick.
   We ended up out in the gym parking lot, leaning side by side against
somebody's fender and holding hands.  I was smitten.  We eventually realized,
from the growing emptiness of the parking lot, that the dance was ending and so
was the evening.  We went in search of Tommy and found him drinking a coke and
gossiping amiably with two other guys.  We took him aside and apologized
abjectly -- me for absconding with his date, Mary for deserting him.
   He took it all in good humor; he had seen us deep in conversation and holding
hands, and apparently decided to cast himself as unintentional Cupid.  He'd gone
off and found plenty of other girls who were delighted to dance with him.  As I
said: a nice guy.  Mary had come with Tommy, however, and it was Tommy who took
her home.  We had unwritten rules about things like that.
   I spent most of Saturday and Sunday mooning over Mary.  I had already asked
if I could see her again, like that weekend, but she was committed (regretfully,
it seemed) to some kind of family get-together.  We had agreed to meet at lunch
on Monday, though, since we both ate following Third Period.
   Lunch was a 45-minute hustle, but I beat my own best time that day getting to
the cafeteria.  Even so, Mary had gotten there first and had staked out one end
of a table off to the side of the big, noisy room -- the side that was, by
general agreement, reserved for seniors, especially couples who always ate
together.  I took her choice of seating as a signal.
   The way her eyes lit up when she spotted me in the jockeying lunch crowd ...
well, I never forgot it.  Her hair was pulled back in a ponytail that bobbed as
she smiled and waved to me.  God, she even had cute ears.
   There was technically a rule about public displays of affection on school
grounds, but it was only enforced occasionally, when a couple lost control of
themselves.  Small infractions like holding hands below the corner of the lunch
table were winked at.  We didn't do much eating -- just held hands, talked, and
exchanged a number of long, searching gazes.  Several of the guys I hung around
with noticed my preoccupation, naturally, and they grilled me without mercy at
my locker that afternoon.  I didn't say a word -- just grinned like an idiot.
   We met after school, of course.  Mary lived too far in the wrong direction
for me to walk her home and get home myself before supper, but we were able to
spend half an hour sitting under a tree at the edge of the softball field behind
the Band Hall.  And I worked up the nerve to touch her hair, to wind the end of
that bouncy ponytail around my finger.  She blushed, but she liked it, and that
gave me a tingly thrill.
   We met somewhere, for a little while, every day that week.  Twice, I walked
her home anyway and the heck with supper (which got me a look of disbelief from
my mother).  And Friday night we went out on our first real date.
   As an "only child" since my older sister's marriage a couple years before, I
had no trouble borrowing the family car, and I hurried home from school to hose
it down in the driveway and vacuum out the inside (which got me a look of
disbelief from my *father*).
   We were just going to go to a movie at the Olmos, with vague plans for a
hamburger after, but I was more nervous than I had been as a freshman going out
on my first high school date.  Mary could see I was trying to do everything just
right, just for her, and she seemed flattered by the careful attention.  When I
held her hand in the theater, she squeezed it a little and laid her other hand
on my arm.  After that, I had *no* idea what was happening on the screen.
   Afterward, we walked up the block and split a big steak sandwich and onion
rings at the Nighthawk.  I know it all sounds pretty tame -- but when Mary
motioned for me to open my mouth and fed me an onion ring that she herself had
personally selected ... well, it was the best onion ring I'd ever eaten.  That's
romance for you.
   Back in the car, I hesitated before turning the ignition and asked Mary if
she'd like to go and see Eisenhauer Road.  She kind of smiled and gazed at me
thoughtfully, and then said "Okay, let's go take a look."  It was obvious
someone had already told her about our "legal" parking territory.
   Eisenhauer Road was out on the very edge of town, out beyond MacArthur Park,
almost in the country.  Now it's in the middle of an expensive housing
development, but then it consisted of two straight and narrow lanes edged by
pasture.  Along one side was a wide gravel shoulder overhung by big oak trees.
And not a street light for three miles.
   The students at my high school had an informal arrangement with the police
patrols.  We could park on that gravel shoulder without being hassled as long as
(1) we didn't park too close together, (2) we stayed in the car with the doors
locked, (3) we didn't honk the horn and annoy people, and (4) the patrol car
that passed once or twice an hour could see bodies above the lower edges of the
windows.  In return, there were no assaults or bottle-throwing and the patrol
officers -- most of whom were only in their early 20s -- effectively protected
us from interlopers.
   Parents, of course, weren't supposed to know about Eisenhauer Road, but I'm
sure most of them did.  They didn't say anything because they knew their kids
were going to go parking *somewhere*, and this was the best option around.
Girls knew they could go there and be as safe as they wanted to be.  It was a
good deal all round.
   Driving slowly down the dark road, watching for a vacant spot, I wondered if
I was doomed to disappointment.  Then Mary pointed and said "There!"  A big Olds
I recognized as belonging to Roger Simak (to his older brother in the Marine
Corps, actually) had turned on its lights and was pulling out.  Roger stuck his
arm out the window and waved a thumbs-up as I pulled in to take his place.
   I cut the engine and turned off the lights -- and suddenly it was dark and
very quiet.  Somehow, stupidly, I had forgotten about that.  With my hands still
on the wheel, I turned my head to look at Mary, and my brain seized up.
   She was sitting quietly, gazing through the windshield at the shadow patterns
the oaks made on the hood.  Neither of us moved a muscle for maybe thirty
seconds.  Then she glanced in my direction and cranked her window down an inch,
so we could hear the cicadas.
   "I was looking at your profile in the dark," I said.  Which was true, but I
was mostly trying to cover my fumble-mindedness.  "I think you're beautiful,
Mary."  That got me a soft smile.  As my eyes adjusted to the dimness, I saw
that -- true to the game -- she was waiting for me to make the first move.  Then
she would decide how to respond to it.  Nice girls didn't make the first move.
   I fooled her, though: I didn't *make* a move, or not much of one.  Actually,
I was nervous as hell.  I was already breathing faster than usual.  There were
all kinds of things I could imagine experiencing with Mary, but I was afraid to
attempt any of them for fear of rejection.  This wasn't just some girl I wanted
to wrestle with.  Mary was different, special, and I didn't want to mess things
up.  In later years I read Sun Tzu: Never fight a battle unless you know you'll
win.
   Mary breathed a little sigh, perhaps of exasperation.  "What's the matter,
Mike?"
   "You scare me a little," I replied candidly.  "Or, I guess *I* scare me.
You're so pretty, Mary,... I'm afraid to touch you."  She looked at me a little
oddly; this probably wasn't the kind of thing she was used to hearing back in
Dallas.
   "Don't you even want to kiss me?"
   I moved hastily from behind the wheel and turned to face her.  "Oh, yes,...
very much."  She leaned her head back against the car seat and tilted her face
toward me.  In the body language of the time, that meant 'Do it, you idiot'.
   I leaned over carefully and kissed her cheek, then the corner of her mouth,
then her lips.  She kissed me back, which was what it took to unfreeze my brain.
I slipped my arm around her shoulders and she leaned closer and put one hand on
my shoulder.  I took it slow, trying to be very gentle and romantic.  I knew how
to kiss, having deliberately honed my technique: Romantic, respectful, and
(usually) no tongue-play on the first date.  But kissing Mary was very
different, somehow.  In retrospect, that was the night I fell in love for the
first time.
   We only stayed out there an hour or so.  Mary had to be home by midnight and
I didn't want to push my luck; I knew already this was the beginning of a unique
relationship.
   Over the next few months, things really blossomed for us.  We spent most of
every weekend together, went to every football game together, went for long
walks in Brackenridge Park -- anyplace where we could hold hands and neck.  We
also spent a lot of time on her front porch glider, since her parents wouldn't
let her go out on week nights.  I stuck notes through the slots in her locker
and found replies in mine with tiny hearts drawn neatly around the edges.  We
spent hours on the phone, in those days before call-waiting, which annoyed the
hell out of both sets
of parents.
   After about a month, I overcame my fear of rejection; I told Mary one
evening, very earnestly, that I loved her.  I'd never said that to a girl
before.  She kissed me but didn't reply.  Two days later, she left me a note:
She'd been thinking about my declaration and examining her own feelings, and had
concluded that she loved me, too.  I carried the note in my wallet until it was
illegible tatters.
   For her birthday at the end of October, I gave Mary a modest pearl ring --
not too expensive and not too personal a gift, so neither her parents nor mine
could object.  She understood that her acceptance of it meant we were going
steady; I was already regarding it as one step short of an engagement ring.
   We went out driving and parking regularly after that and my hormones were in
full gallop.  Mary had very sensitive breasts and when I squeezed them and
sucked avidly on her nipples, she moaned and shivered.  She liked to ride around
with her back leaning against my shoulder so I could slip my hand down the front
of her blouse and play with her tits as I drove.  As I rolled and pinched her
nipples between my thumb and forefinger she pushed her feet rhythmically against
the passenger door.
   It's a mark of my own woeful inexperience that it took so long for me to
realize that sweet Mary was nearly as horny as I was ... and that it embarrassed
her.  Girls were supposed to submit (within limits) to a boy's passion, not
contribute their own.
   I began making territorial assumptions.  Mary would resist my advances beyond
a certain point and get angry; I'd apologize and we'd make up -- until the next
time.
   That "certain point" kept moving, though.  As an unofficial Christmas
present, Mary stuffed her panties in her purse and allowed my hands full access
to her cunt.  She also handled my cock for the first time -- something only a
couple of girls had done before.  The feel of her soft hands on me was almost
more than I could bear.
   I really did love Mary; I convinced both of us, anyway.  But I lusted for
her, too, and that began to get in the way.  We also started to argue a lot.
Our friends, in fact, joked that when we were together, all we did was argue --
and when we were apart, all we did was talk about each other.  Things were
beginning to unravel, though I hadn't realized it yet.
   Our dates now were just a pretense to get out to Eisenhauer Road as quickly
as possible.  We spent long hours passionately making out and very little time
cuddling or talking ... or listening.  But that was what you did with someone
you loved, wasn't it?
   I began pressuring Mary to "go all the way," which she adamantly refused to
consider.  You know: "If you loved me..."  It was a reprehensible tactic and it
made her cry more than once.  Then I'd be miserable and ashamed and I'd beg her
forgiveness, and we'd be okay again, for a week or two.  It was like being on
drugs, I guess: I was high on Mary and no matter how much she gave me, I wanted
more. 
   Everyone, including us, assumed that she and I would go to the senior prom
together.  I'm not sure I ever explicitly asked her; I only remember inquiring
what kind of flowers I should get for her corsage.
   Neither of us thought very highly of orchids, so she ended up with bright
yellow roses.  I found myself holding my breath, watching her come down the
stairs in her strapless ball gown.  She was absolutely, breathtakingly beautiful
and I fell in love all over again.
   I beamed at everyone when I walked into the hotel ballroom with Mary on my
arm.  She was gorgeous and I was as solicitous as I had been that first week in
September.  We spent the evening dancing and exchanging melting gazes.  Without
doubt, one of the most memorable and romantic evenings of my life.  And then I
went and messed it up.

   Everyone else went to "Earl Abel's" after the prom and then to one of the
several parties that lasted all night.  Mary and I ended up at a house party
being hosted by a guy I didn't know very well, a friend of a friend.  I wasn't a
drinker, nor was Mary, but there was booze available so we entered into the
spirit.  It didn't take much to demolish my resolves of good behavior and Mary's
defenses.  And it didn't dawn on me until much later that she might be as
frustrated as I was at holding the line on sex.
   Whatever the motivations, we found ourselves in a temporarily private
upstairs bedroom, behind a locked door.  Mary let me unzip the back of her gown
and she pushed it down to her waist herself.  I had never seen her entirely
naked from the waist up and her display was incredibly exciting for both of us.
   We lay down side by side on the bed and her gown crackled and rustled as I
worked my hands under it and up her legs.  She raised her hips so I could remove
her petticoats and her panties.  This was going to be it, I thought.
   My tux trousers were unzipped and Mary was slowly masturbating me as we
kissed very deeply.  I stroked her clit and she responded with little jerking
movements and squeezed my cock tighter.  And we held the kiss as I began to
maneuver my way on top of her.  I don't think it was until I took back my rigid
cock and settled myself between her wide-spread knees that Mary really
comprehended what was about to happen.  She got a
panicky look and struggled to push me off.
   "No, Mike, we can't!"  She didn't strike at me, though, or yell, so I put it
down to stage fright or denial 'for the record'.
   "Sure we can, Sweetheart.  No one's going to bother us here.  We love each
other, don't we?"  She continued to push at me as I got my virgin cock into her
virgin pussy on the second lunge, and gasped in momentary pain.  A few tears
showed at the corners of her eyes.
   "No,... no,..." she whimpered and her head swung back and forth.  On my third
or fourth shaky stroke, though, she stopped struggling and even raised her knees
against my ribs.  She began breathing harder and just as she seemed to accept
what I regarded as inevitable,... well, I came.  I had been in her less than
sixty seconds and it was over.
   I pulled out, leaving a sticky trail across her leg, and tried to
kiss her again, but Mary turned her face away.  I couldn't get her to look at me
at all.
     She got up from the bed, the top of her gown still flapping
loosely, and took some tissues from a box on the bedside table.  She tossed the
box to me without a word and then turned her back while she cleaned herself up.
I wiped enough semen off myself so as not to stain the tux and when I looked up
again, Mary had her top back in place and her undergarments back on.
   I got up, pulled on my jacket, and tried to put my arms around her but she
easily evaded me and grabbed up her clutch purse.  Then she looked at me for the
first time in five minutes, a very unhappy look, and said evenly "Take me home,
please."
   It was not a pleasant drive.  Mary sat miles away, over against the passenger
door, and all the way back to her house I kept telling her I loved her and
asking what I had done.  Hadn't she wanted to make love as much as I had?  That
only got me a stony stare and deeper silence.  When we pulled up to the curb in
front of her house, I turned off the engine and set the brake, and turned to
face her.
   "Mary, please -- for God's sake, *talk* to me!  You know I love you.  You
must have known this was going to happen--"
   "You keep *saying* you love me, but I don't think you really do," she said.
There was bitterness in her voice.  "I trusted you to stop before you went that
far."
   That didn't sound quite fair.  "I wasn't there by myself, you know.  And you
seemed to be enjoying it."
   She looked down guiltily.  "You think only boys get those feelings? That's
why I had to trust you."
   I didn't know how to respond to that and I was hurt by her
accusations.  I got out and went around to her side of the car but she'd already
opened the door and was climbing out.  It stung even more that she hadn't waited
for me to open her door for her (as I always did), especially on such a formal
date.  I walked up the flagstone path and climbed the porch steps.
   When the evening began, I had expected we'd sit a little while on the glider
and talk about what a wonderful time we'd had at our senior prom.  What actually
happened was that Mary said, very politely, "Thanks for taking me to the prom,
Mike," and gave me a brief, almost ceremonial kiss.  Then I was standing on the
porch by myself.  I've never felt so awful in my life, before or since -- except
for two weeks later.

   When I saw Mary in the hall Monday morning, she smiled and greeted me, but
not very enthusiastically.  This rift wasn't going to go away.  I spent all that
day and most of the next writing a long note to her -- a combination love
letter, apology, and plea for understanding and reconciliation.  I've always
communicated much more easily on paper than in person.  I stuffed it in her
locker on Wednesday morning and crossed my fingers.
   And it worked.  Wednesday evening, I called Mary for the first time in four
days.  The conversation boiled down to her accepting my abject apology and
agreeing to give us another chance, and my promise that things would be
different.  We made a date for Saturday night – the last weekend before the
early senior finals.
   It went pretty well, considering my nervousness.  I took her out for a bite
and then we came back and strolled for blocks around her neighborhood, talking
things out, agreeing that we were both to blame for what had happened on prom
night, and that we would both be more aware of each other's feelings.  By the
time we arrived back at her front porch, we were holding hands and exchanging
warm smiles.  Then we sat on the steps and I got anxious again.  I squeezed her
hand.
   "Mary, may I kiss you...?"
   "You'd better!"  Then she beat me to it by leaning over and kissing me first.
We went into a clinch and sobbed quietly on each other's shoulder.
   That should have been the end of our crisis.  I thought I had learned my
lesson and I tried very hard to behave myself around Mary for the two weeks that
remained until graduation.  We only went out to Eisenhauer Road once more and
that was mostly a replay of our first couple of visits: Much hugging and
passionate kissing, but only casual contact below the shoulders.
   The next Wednesday was the last day of school for graduating seniors.  We
received our yearbooks and sat on the floor in the halls, leaning against the
walls, so we could pass the books hand-to-hand and sign our pictures and write
little messages and the traditional verses to our friends.  Later, when we had a
chance at privacy, I filled half a page in Mary's yearbook with my hopes.  Her
inscription in my book was much more restrained.
   On Thursday afternoon we came back to pick up our caps and gowns for Friday
night's Commencement.  Mary and I posed in them in front of the school while a
friend took our picture; she wouldn't hold my hand.
   Looking at that photo now -- oh yes, I still have it -- looking at it from a
distance of thirty years, the sleepless worry lines on her pretty face are
obvious.  Why didn't I see them then?
   Commencement was held in the Japanese Tea Garden at Brackenridge Park.  A
nice setting, but the ceremony itself was as boring as I had feared -- except
for the part where they handed me my fake diploma scroll; that was fun.
   Afterward, in the congratulatory crowd, Mary excused herself from her family
and motioned to me from across the expanse of folding chairs.  I made my excuses
to my folks for a few minutes and went to join her.
   "Congratulations!" I said and tried to give her a quick kiss.
   She turned her head away and said flatly, "We have to talk."  Her expression
hoisted all my anxiety flags.  There were a dozen all-night graduation parties
scheduled and I asked her hesitantly which she wanted to go to first.
   "I remember the *last* party we went to," she said grimly.  I was stunned.  I
thought we'd put that behind us.  "I'm late," she whispered furiously.
   "What?"  I had no idea what she was talking about.
   "I'm two weeks late on my period," she said.
   Oh, shit.  She was pregnant.  We were only eighteen and I'd knocked up the
girl I was in love with.  My parents would kill me.  Her parents would kill me
again.  I certainly wasn't so stupid as to think I could support a wife and
child on what little I could earn working in a supermarket or whatever.  But
this was Mary.
   "If I'm responsible--" I began.
   She turned on me with a hiss.  "Of *course* you're responsible!  How many
guys do you think I've *been* with?!"  I thought she was going to burst into
tears and slug me, and I put up my hands in a placating gesture.
   "No, no -- I was going to say 'If I'm responsible, then I'm
responsible'.  I love you, Mary.  I hope you don't think I was going to ditch
you, run off or something...."
   "Oh...  No, I guess I didn't think that."  Her anger receded into the
background and she went back to being merely tired, unhappy, and afraid. "What
are we going to do, then?  What am *I* going to do?"
   "I don't know yet.  Give me a chance to think."
   "Okay, but you'd better make it fast.  I have to know whether to
start looking for a job for the next six months, because we're going to need
money.  And whether or not we're staying in San Antonio, or moving to Austin, or
what."
   God, another complication.  I had already been accepted at UT for the fall
while Mary was committed to going to Trinity, her father's school.  Seventy
miles hadn't seemed far to travel to see each other on weekends.  Now that whole
future was in doubt.
   I suppose my abstracted expression gave Mary the wrong idea because she
grabbed my arm suddenly.  Her nails hurt.  "You *are* going to marry me, aren't
you?  If I'm pregnant?"  She managed to look aggressive and defensive at the
same time.
   I stared back at her in disbelief.  "Mary, I love you.  I *love* you.
Haven't I said I want to marry you?  I just didn't expect it to happen like
this."  No, I sure didn't.

   I didn't have much to celebrate that evening.  My parents were
puzzled that I wasn't planning to go to any of the parties and they kept asking
prying questions, so I left the house after all.  But I didn't party.  I just
drove aimlessly around the north side of town, tailed closely by guilt and
despair, trying to figure out what to do.
   I didn't want to get married.  That is, I *wanted* to marry her --
but not yet and not like this.  We'd either starve or be forced to go to our
parents for financial support, and I wasn't sure which was worse.  I finally
went home after my folks had turned in and I lay in bed most of the night with
my eyes wide open.
   I got up the next morning tired and drawn and sat on the porch for hours,
becoming more and more depressed.  I didn't call Mary at all that Saturday
because I had nothing to say, yet.
   Sunday afternoon, Mary called me.  "I've started," she said with
unnatural calm.
   "You what?"  God, I was dense.
   "I started my period, just a little while ago.  Why don't you ever
listen?"
   The surge of relief left me weak in the knees and I had to sit down. "Thank
God," I said softly.  "Mary, I'm so sorry you had to go through this."
   "Not as sorry as I am," she replied, still very calmly.  "I don't
think we should see each other anymore."
   "But, Mary--"  She cut me off.
   "I've made up my mind, Mike.  Don't call me, don't try to see me. Not ever
again."
   "But I love you, Mary...."  I could hear the despondency in my own voice.
   "No," she said coldly, "you don't."
   "Please, don't do this--"
   "It's over, Mike.  I'm sorry, but it is.  Goodbye."  And the line
went dead.  I sat and stared at the receiver, shocked by the finality of it,
until the off-hook beeping started.
   I was seriously depressed for weeks.  I felt I didn't want to live,
not cut off like this.  If I'd really had a suicidal streak, I
undoubtedly would have killed myself.


   But I didn't, of course.  I sobered considerably that summer.  Losing the
girl I loved had the odd effect of maturing me, cold turkey.  I had gone to the
brink and peered over, and now I became much more cautious. And I did a lot of
ruminating about the past year.
   A few days before I left for freshman orientation at UT, I sat down and wrote
Mary a calm, composed letter, apologizing for my behavior and the emotional
strain I had caused her -- not just for the pregnancy scare but for everything.
I wished her the best in the future and hoped she'd at least keep some of the
good memories of our months together.  She'd be in my thoughts and I hoped she
wouldn't hate me.  I didn't plead or grovel and I didn't throw myself on her
mercy.  I accepted that our relationship was dead.
   I didn't receive a reply, but I didn't expect to.  But making a
gentlemanly final exit made the whole thing easier to accept.
   I did manage to keep track of Mary for a few years, though.  A close
girlfriend of hers who attended UT for a year before dropping out told me she
had sobbed for most of a day after receiving that last letter.  That made me
feel much better -- not out of revenge, but because it meant she *had* loved me,
for awhile.  She had to have felt something, to feel its loss.  There really
*had* been two people in that relationship, before I killed it.
   Other people we both knew updated me on Mary at intervals.  She was married
the year she graduated from Trinity, to a guy from Chicago.  She had a son a
couple years later.  And a couple years after that, she got divorced.
Thereafter, she worked in a law office in Houston, the name of which I
discovered quite by accident.
   My last indirect contact with Mary was on her thirtieth birthday, when I had
thirty long-stemmed yellow roses delivered to her at work.  I included no card
but I was pretty sure she would know who had sent them.  It was like a last
apology.

                                 *  *  *  *  *
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Copyright 1993 by Michael K. Smith. Copies may be made and posted elsewhere for
personal enjoyment, but all commercial rights are reserved.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Michael Kalen Smith / Dallas, TX
Internet: mksmith@taproot.win.net / CompuServe: 73177,366
*** It doesn't TAKE all kinds; we just HAVE all kinds ***
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Author: mksmith@taproot.win.net (Michael Kalen Smith)
Keywords: mf series
Archive-name: getting2

                             GETTING IT RIGHT
                                (A Middle)



   So I went up to Austin and waded through the history and political science
curriculum.  I certainly wasn't a monk my first two years, but I'd gotten a
couple of small scholarships and I worked hard to maintain my GPA.  I discovered
my element in the academic arena and I did much better than I had in high
school.
   I spent the first year and half of the second in a dorm, which was okay, but
I never really took to forced communal living.  Around Christmas of my sophomore
year, two friends took me aside one evening and made me a proposition.  They had
found a three-bedroom apartment not too far from campus and they were looking
for a third roommate to share the expenses.  The had discussed the possibilities
for several days and I was their first choice.  Both of them were good students,
neither was
addicted to wild parties, and the money was considerably less than I was paying
for room and board in the dorm.  The term was ending so I agreed and cleared the
arrangement with my folks (I was still under 21).  By New Year's Eve, I was
moved in.
   Gary and Ed, my new roomies, valued their privacy as much as I did and we got
along fine, each with his own room to escape to.  I was a much better cook than
either of them, though I taught them the basics. On the other hand, they didn't
mind housework and I hated it, so the chores divided up pretty evenly.  As it
turned out, the three of us shared quarters for 2-1/2 years until graduation
with a minimum of squabbling, and we parted good friends.  We all live in
different parts of the country now but we still keep in touch.
   Ed was from Baton Rouge and didn't know many girls in Austin, but Gary, who
was from Fort Worth, was luckier: His high school sweetheart had also chosen UT.
She was a blonde, bouncy little drama major named Sherry (I know: "Gary and
Sherry," like a bad song) and she was careful not to intrude when she came over
to see Gary.  She was cheerful and pleasant and pretty, and Ed and I quickly
accepted her frequent presence.  She never stayed overnight, though.
   Sometimes I'd come home and hear muffled sounds of bedsprings and passionate
moaning from behind Gary's closed bedroom door.  I'd go on about my business and
when they emerged, Sherry would pat me on the arm in greeting and I'd give her a
big smile in return, and no one would mention the bedroom.  She was a sweet
girl, very much in love with Gary, and Ed and I silently envied them both.
   In mid-December of my junior year, almost exactly a year since the three of
us had set up housekeeping, Sherry took me aside one afternoon and asked with
elaborate casualness if I might be interested in meeting a friend of hers who
had just transferred from Texas Wesleyan.  Ed had begun dating a certain special
girl regularly by then, and I think Sherry felt it was her responsibility to see
that I wasn't left out.  I was flattered, certainly, but I'd become cautious
about women and it was a habit I didn't intend to break.  I dated often enough,
though only on a purely social basis, and I enjoyed the occasional sweaty
make-out session with a girl at a party, but there was very little emotional
involvement.  The last thing I wanted was entanglements.
   Sherry was so earnest, I suggested she bring her friend to the
pre-Christmas open-house we were planning the next weekend.  That way, if it
didn't work out, her friend would have the party as fallback entertainment.  Had
I known what I was getting into, I might have chickened out.
   I was bedding down a case of Lone Star in the ice-filled bathtub the evening
of the open-house when Sherry turned up with her friend in tow.  She didn't seem
to think it odd, making introductions in the bathroom, and Rose and I hit it off
immediately.  She was a compact little brunette with sultry dark eyes and almost
too much makeup, and lots of tan.  She favored tight blouses and short skirts,
which was okay with me.
   Rose glanced around at the tile and the hand towels and laughed.  "First time
I ever had a date in the john," she said, and her eyes twinkled
conspiratorially, making it a shared joke.
   About a third of our small apartment complex was older students and another
third was young faculty, so most of the tenants were having open-door parties.
I pulled on my Christmas sweater, the one with reindeer all over it (my mother's
idea), and Rose and I went out to make the rounds of the parties while Gary and
Ed and their girlfriends held down the fort for awhile at our place.  She was
the perfect date for such an occasion: Pretty and charming, friendly and
outgoing, and apparently capable of drinking anyone under the table.  We had a
great time.
   After three or four hours of conviviality, we found ourselves back at the
apartment; Gary and Ed headed out with their dates and I wasn't about to start
on the litter until morning, if then.  I was a bit unfocused, being unaccustomed
to so much beer in so short a time.  I was too gassed to drive but I could walk
and talk if I took it slow.  Once I sat down on the couch it seemed easier to
stay there.  And when Rose plopped down on my lap and kicked off her shoes, it
seemed easier to keep her there, too.
   I had nothing specific in mind when I gave her a friendly squeeze and kissed
her briefly on the neck.  I liked her and it seemed like the thing to do.  Rose
hooked her arm around my shoulder and studied my face thoughtfully for a moment.
Then she leaned in and kissed me, long, hard, and deep.  I hadn't been kissed
with that much initiative since-- Well, since Mary.
   Then she put her lips close to my ear and said softly, "I really like you,
Mike.  Let's go in the bedroom and fuck."
   The seconds passed while I digested that.  It was a week short of 1965, but
the Sixties hadn't really arrived in Texas, wouldn't for several years yet, and
I had never heard a suggestion like that from a girl.  I must have been staring
at her in disbelief, because Rose sort of shrugged and said "Well, if you don't
want to, that's okay..."
   At which point I said something suave like "No, let's do it!"  A bad mistake.
   I don't know whether it was the beer, or the fact that I hadn't
gotten laid since I started college, or just general nervousness, but it turned
into a long evening.  When we got to my bedroom and shut the door, I fumbled
badly trying to take off Rose's blouse and skirt and she had to finish.  I
couldn't manage her bra at all.  Then she had to help me out of my own clothes.
I was barely sober enough to be aware that I was embarrassing myself badly.
   The next mental snapshot on that roll is of me, sucking Rose's lavish tits
and trying desperately to will myself into an erection.  We both were doing a
lot of moaning, but for different reasons.  She was very understanding, though,
and did a class job of sucking on my cock until I was stiff enough to be useful
to her.
   Then she climbed on top of me and stuffed my bewildered cock into her cunt.
I squeezed her large, jiggling breasts and I squeezed her smooth, muscular ass.
I squeezed every part of her I could reach.  Perhaps I was still astonished at
suddenly being completely naked and in bed with a very sexy girl only a few
hours after we'd met.  And perhaps I'm too much of a romantic to get very worked
up without foreplay.
   It ended after ten or fifteen minutes with Rose masturbating herself to a
climax while the head of my cowardly cock sat lodged just inside her, as if it
had dozed off.  When she finished her series of little shudders, she slid off me
and lay propped up on her elbow.
   She stroked my hair and said, not unkindly, "Don't worry about it, honey.
You're just tired and you had a little too much to drink
tonight.  It happens to all guys once in awhile."  It was too much.  I was
frustrated, mortified, horny, and half-drunk -- and now she was offering me a
convenient excuse, like tossing a life preserver.
   "Don't be so fuckin' *nice* about it, for chrissake!"
   She snatched her hand back.  "Well, pardon *me* all to hell!"  She hopped off
the bed and began snatching up clothes from the floor.  She was seriously
annoyed.
   On the third try, I managed to sit upright.  Rose had her underwear on and
was yanking her skirt up over her hips.  "Please," I begged, "I didn't mean
that.  I'm sorry, Rose."  She was shrugging into her blouse and moving toward
the bedroom door, a stormy look on her face.
   "Rose, *please* come back, just for a minute!  I have to explain..."  She
glanced at me and, I suppose, saw the misery scrawled all over my face.  She
hesitated and then came back and sat on the edge of the bed just beyond my reach
while she put on her shoes.
   "I'm sorry, Rose, I had no right to be ugly when you've been so
terrific."  I was a little more composed and she sat quietly and waited for me
to continue.  So I gave her the two-minute version -- that she was only the
second girl I'd ever really had sex with, and what had happened the first time
with Mary, and why I had become unreasonably angry.
   "Rose, if you'd gotten mad at me for conking out on you, I probably could
have handled it.  But you were so understanding about everything,...  I just
couldn't deal with it.  I'm sorry -- God, I'm so sorry.  I seem to say that a
lot to women I get involved with," I added, and I heard the bitterness in my own
voice.
   She gave me that thoughtful look again and scooted closer.  She held my hand
and her tacit acceptance of my apology almost brought me to tears.  I guess it
showed.
   "Want to try it again?" she asked softly.  "From the top?  I can even stay
the night if you think you want me to."  I almost accepted but I knew I
couldn't.  I squeezed her fingers.
   "I don't think you'd better," I replied, with an attempt at a wry
smile.  "I'm afraid all I'm good for right now is self-pity.  But you
don't know how much I needed to hear you say that."
   "Okay; I really do understand."  She leaned over and kissed me very gently.
"I hope you find her some day."  I must have looked blank. "The right girl," she
added.  She stood, touched my cheek for a moment, and then slipped out.  I heard
the apartment door click shut a moment later.
   I lay on my side staring into the dark and wondering what it was about me
that attracted disastrous relationships.

   I don't know why it didn't occur to me earlier, but the first time I saw
Sherry after the Christmas holidays, I suddenly remembered that Rose was a
friend of hers.  Oh, God, I thought -- what stories were making the rounds now?
   But Sherry grinned at me and said "Rose tells me you two really hit it off at
the open house."  I waited for the other shoe to drop.  "She didn't give me any
details,... but she *did* say you were *very* interesting in bed...."  She gave
me a friendly leer and I silently thanked Rose for her discretion.
   "Rose is quite a girl," I agreed, with what I hoped was a mysterious smirk.
   I didn't call her, but I bumped into Rose on campus a couple weeks later.
She was in animated conversation with a tall young man in a basketball letter
sweater (she came up to the Longhorn on the front), but when I gave her a little
wave she put him on hold and detoured in my direction with a big smile.
   "How you doing?"  She seemed genuinely interested.
   "I'll get by," I replied.  "I talked to Sherry; I wanted to thank
you."
   She glanced down and looked at me through her mascara.  "No problem. You
*are* a nice guy, even though we, um, had a problem that night."  She glanced
back at the basketball player, who was waiting patiently. "I've been getting
acquainted with Dave, over there, and I'm meeting a lot of other people, too."
What she meant was that her free time was taken for the foreseeable future.
   "Well, I'm glad your transfer to UT is working out so well."  Which meant I
understood and I wouldn't pester her for dates, trying to prove myself to her.
She smiled again, patted me on the arm, and went back to her tall friend.  I saw
her occasionally, around campus or with Sherry, and we exchanged greetings, but
we never had another date.  I have no idea what happened to her after we
graduated.

                                 *  *  *  *  *
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Copyright 1993 by Michael K. Smith. Copies may be made and posted elsewhere for
personal enjoyment, but all commercial rights are reserved.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Michael Kalen Smith / Dallas, TX
Internet: mksmith@taproot.win.net / CompuServe: 73177,366
*** It doesn't TAKE all kinds; we just HAVE all kinds ***


Author: mksmith@taproot.win.net (Michael Kalen Smith)
Keywords: mf series
Archive-name: getting3

                             GETTING IT RIGHT
                                 (An End)



   The remainder of that year was pretty dismal and so was summer vacation.  My
grades continued high but my spirits were extremely low.  It was hard to work up
any enthusiasm for the job I had taken on as an R.A., even thought the poly sci
prof I was doing research for seemed very pleased with my labors.  He assured me
that if I chose to pursue graduate work at UT, he would give me a strong
recommendation for a T.A. position.  That was nice to hear, but I really had no
idea what I was
going to do after graduation the following May.  Especially with a degree in
history.
   Then, the first week in August 1965 -- the first Saturday: that's
important -- I was in the Barker Center digging through some archival materials
(one of the privileges of being an R.A.), when I heard the muffled thud of books
toppling off a loaded book truck a few aisles over.  This was followed by a
subdued female voice indulging in some unladylike language.  I went around the
end stack to see what had happened and found a young woman kneeling on the dusty
floor, gathering up an armload of bound journals; it looked like she had turned
the corner too quickly and the truck had overbalanced.
   From above and behind, all I saw was very dark brown hair, almost black,
above rather wide shoulders, and the back of a denim skirt and western-style
shirt.  She was muttering under her breath.
   "Can I help you with this?" I asked.
   She looked up a bit startled.  Her eyes were large and soft brown and her
lips were sensual.  She had the kind of creamy complexion that appears in
magazine cosmetics ads.  Pretty but not gorgeous, no extra weight but not
slender, either.  Somehow very competent-seeming, despite her present chore.
   I didn't wait for an answer but hunkered down beside her and started
gathering up the rest of the volumes and putting them rapidly in order.
   She laughed and said "You've done this before."  Her voice was
melodious but sort of no-nonsense.
   "I've been working in libraries, on and off, since junior high."  I
smiled back at her.  "You wouldn't believe how many book trucks I've crashed."
We both stood up and dusted off our hands.  "Your knees," I said with a nod.
   "What?"  She looked down at the two gray patches on the front of her skirt.
"Oh, rats.  I gotta get an apron if they keep me up here.  I've been clerking
part-time in Technical Services over in the main library.  They lent me out as a
page for the last part of the summer and I'm still getting the hang of it."
   "Well, I'm around here a lot.  Feel free to ask an old library hand." I don't
why, but I hesitated.  "I'm Mike, by the way."
   "Jean," she said and flashed me a smile so brilliant, I blinked. 
Then I went back to my carrel and she went back to her shelving.
   The Barker closed early on weekends in the summer and when they chased me out
that evening I ran into Jean again on the outside steps. We both said "Hi" ...
and then one of those rare events occurred that make you seriously consider the
existence of fate, or predestination, or guardian angels.  Without thinking
about what I was doing, I said "Can I give you a lift?"
   She smiled but said "No, that's okay. I'm just over in Jester."
   "Doesn't sound very exciting in the summer..."
   "No, but it's *quiet*.  Lots of vacant room and no waiting for a
washer."  Jester Center is the largest single dormitory in the country;
nowadays, it has its own ZIP code and includes *two* voting precincts. It's also
overcrowded most of the time.
   She sighed a bit theatrically and added "I just have to round up some friends
to go out for a hamburger."
   Yes -- I'd forgotten.  The dorm cafeterias didn't operate on weekends in the
summer, either.  If you weren't headed home, or out on a date, you had to find
your own meals.  We walked another few yards toward the parking lot; Jester
stood two blocks beyond.  I made up my mind very fast.
   "Listen,... I usually only eat one meal on Saturday, and I was
planning on going over to the Colorado Cafe for a chicken-fried steak. Would you
like to join me?"
   An air of caution descended.  "I, uh--  I'm afraid I don't go on
dates on the spur of the moment, with guys I've just met."  She seemed tempted,
though.
   "Well, we can do it Dutch, if you'd rather.  Then it wouldn't be a date.  And
I don't like eating alone."  That was a bare-faced lie.  Give me a plate of food
and a book and I didn't care if I was in the middle of the Gobi.  I could sense
the struggle in her mind.
   "Uh, well,...  Sure, okay -- but I pay my own way!"
   "Fine.  You can buy *me* supper if you want."  And I grinned like an idiot
and she grinned back.  It was only the second or third time in my life that I
had even tried to pick up a girl.
   I unlocked the passenger side of my little faded-red VW and did some more
fast thinking as I went around to the driver's side.  As I climbed in, I said
"Would you mind if we stopped at my place?"  Her eyebrows rose a fraction.  "I
mean, just for a moment," I added hastily.  "If you wouldn't mind waiting."  I
indicated the three shoeboxes of note cards in the back seat.  "It's more than
my life's worth if I lost all the citation cards to Dr. Gardner's book!  I don't
want to leave them in the car."  She nodded and seemed appeased.  I was relieved
she hadn't
thought I was trying to lure her up to see my etchings.  And then I
wondered why it seemed to matter so much.
   I parked at the curb outside our building, hopped out, and pushed the seat
forward so I could grab the card boxes.  "Be right back," I said and hurried
inside.  I dumped the boxes on my bed and hollered "Gary? Ed?"
   Gary voice came from the kitchen.  "Yeah?"  I skidded around the corner and
he stopped trying to unstick the ice tray in the freezer compartment and sort of
stared at me.
   "Man, am I glad you're here!  Have you got $10 you can spare until I can
write a check on Monday?"  That was the real reason I had to run by the
apartment: I only had a dollar and change in my pocket.
   "Well, yeah..."  He started digging his wallet out of his pocket. 
"What happened?  Your car break down?"
   "No!  I got a date!  Unexpectedly!  No money!"  That bounced his eyebrows
*way* up.  He extracted his last two fives and stuck them in my shirt pocket
with a broad smile.
   "As long as it's in a good cause...."  And I was out the door again.
   It was the most pleasant meal I'd had in months.  Neither of us had to get
back anywhere in a hurry so we took our time, enjoyed the food, nursed our iced
tea, and got acquainted.  I learned that Jean was also a senior, that she came
from Sherman (which explained why she preferred to stay in Austin for the
summer), that she was a biochem major with medical ambitions, and that she was
the oldest of three kids.
   She also made it known, subtly, that she wasn’t seeing anyone in particular.
In fact, she turned out to be something of a loner who didn't date much at all.
That part sounded familiar.
   Over the last four years, I had learned how to be a good listener; for one
thing, it kept me from having to explain myself.  But Jean was -- or seemed --
genuinely interested in whatever I had to say.  After a while, I was startled to
find myself pouring all my personal problems with girls into her sympathetic
ear.  At that realization I stopped and apologized, but she waved that away and
asked a couple of perceptive and leading questions and got me started again.
Jean would have made a good shrink.
   When it was finally time to leave, I asked if she would please let me pick up
the check.  She gave in gracefully.  It seemed she had decided we were on a date
after all.
   Taking Jean back to the dorm, I drove more slowly than usual because I
enjoyed her company (and her sympathy) enormously and I was reluctant for the
evening to end.  But we got there and I parked and walked her into the lobby.  I
was torn between wanting to kiss her goodnight (would she expect me to?) and
wanting to avoid the stupidities for which, in my own mind, I was infamous.
   But there was no problem after all.  Jean climbed the first step of the
stairs, which put us on about the same level, and laid one hand on my shoulder.
And we flowed into a graceful, warm, quiet kiss as easily as breathing.  It was
friendly, in a way, rather than passionate; undemanding rather than urgent.  It
made me feel so good about myself, about us, I actually had to tell her so.
   "That was nice," I said softly, touching my forehead to hers.
   "Yes," she whispered.  "It was.  And it's been a wonderful evening. Mike, I'd
like to see you again, soon.  I hope you'll call me."
   "I'll call, I promise."  There was an itch behind my eyeballs ... my
imprisoned emotions trying to escape.  I stood at the foot of the stairs and
watched until Jean reached the switchback landing, where she paused and gave me
a little wave.
   My friends tell me I think about things too much.  It's probably
true.  All the old cautions echoed in my mind on the drive home.  My feelings
for Mary had centered on romantic passions -- the "fire that burns twice as
hot."  It was still painful to think about Mary and I tried to avoid that corner
of my memories.  With Rose, it had been mostly bad timing.  I regretted acting
like an immature fool with her, but she was a nice person and there was no guilt
attached,... or not much.
   Jean was completely unlike the other two women in my life.  She was calm and
unflappable, not a blazing sex bomb.  She inspired emotional intimacy and trust,
not Romeo-and-Juliet passions.  I had no idea whether the seed we seemed to have
planted would germinate, but I discovered I really wanted to explore the
possibilities.  From past experience alone, that realization should have set off
alarm bells of anxiety, but I felt only a relaxed optimism.  Good, very good.
   I took Jean to the movies, and out to Lake Travis, and to
Fredericksburg for Texas German food.  We held hands when we walked and as the
summer wound down we kissed more frequently and spontaneously.  There was no
sense of pressure in any of it, no promises or declarations or demands.  I never
felt the need to impress her.  It was as if each of us was the missing piece in
the other's jigsaw puzzle.
   I knew I was gradually falling in love and I welcomed it with an open heart.
That also surprised me.  Nevertheless, I was reluctant to say anything overt to
Jean because I didn't want to tempt fate again.
   Labor Day came and went and Jean and I saw a little less of each other as
classwork piled up.  She was wading through advanced cytology and I was sorting
out the Peace Party Convention of 1864.  Probably a good thing because it slowed
the pace of what was becoming a courtship and it gave us more time to find out
about each other.
   The remarkable thing was how little sexual contact we actually had.  We
necked like teenagers in high school, dueling with our tongues, stroking cheeks,
breathing warmly into an available ear.  A few times, I gently squeezed her
breast during a lengthy kiss or ran my hand over her flared hips and across her
firm ass, but it was always a caress, not foreplay.  So we moved slowly, but we
kept moving.
   By the end of October, my inner thoughts about Jean had shifted from "if
we..." to "when we..." and I knew it was time to find out how she really felt
about me before I got in any deeper.  Naturally, she beat me to it.

   It was the first Friday of December and thousands of fall term papers had
just been turned in.  Jean and I had agreed, regretfully, that school work took
priority -- especially this late in the game.  For two weeks, we had seen each
other only briefly each day, and then it was off to the library or back home to
a hot typewriter.  It seemed like a very long time just then.  Finals would be
coming up shortly, but we were both doing well and we had set this weekend aside
for ourselves.
   It was a little unsettling to discover just how much I *had* missed her, so I
invited her over for a big, homemade Saturday morning breakfast, complete with
biscuits and gravy.  She turned up about 10:00.
   She inhaled deeply as she came in and dropped her purse on the couch.
(Breakfast is one of the things I do best.)  "Mmmmmmm...  One of the few things
I miss about living at home!" she said and smacked her lips.  We kept busy for
an hour with eggs and sausage patties and hash browns and real biscuits and
buckets of cream gravy.
   "If you're going to feed me like this all the time, I'd better start
letting out my seams!" she said as I refilled her coffee cup.
   We stacked all the dishes and skillets in the sink for later and
moved into the living room.  "I just realized I haven't a peep from your
roommates," Jean said.  "Still asleep?"
   "No, Gary-and-Sherry drove up to Fort Worth yesterday after classes, and Ed
is off in the Hill Country somewhere for the weekend."  Which was why I had
suggested she come over, of course.
   Jean caught me off guard, though.  "There's something I want to ask your
advice about, Mike.  Uh, we're friends, aren't we?"
   Friends?  Yeah, at least.  She sat in the more reputable of our two armchairs
and I sprawled on the couch.  "Of course we are.  What's the problem?"
   "Well,..."  She was studying her nails and glancing at me out of the corner
of her eye.  "I've met this guy who I like a lot..."
   Oh, God.  Now what?  The breakfast began to congeal in my gut.
   "He's very nice," she went on, not meeting my eye at all, now.  "In fact,...
I think I'm in love with him."  I felt cold.  "But he hasn't said how he feels
about me.  How do you think I should approach him?"
   My stomach was filled with hardening clay but I looked down at my own hands
and said "Just ask him, I guess."  Why did this keep happening to me?  I was
desperately in love with this girl, a fact that was only now sinking in.  I was
so shocked by the abruptness of events, I didn't realize for a moment that Jean
had gotten up and moved to the arm of the couch.  Then I felt her warm hand curl
around the back of my neck.
   "Michael," she asked softly, "do you love me?  Or what?"
   I looked up at her with my mouth open.  Then I grabbed her around the waist
and pulled her onto my lap.  I hugged her so tightly she wheezed and I buried my
face in her neck.
   "Sweetheart, I could *kill* you for doing that to me,... if I didn't
love you so much!"
   I hung onto her and she clung to me and neither of us moved very much for
several minutes.  Then I loosened my hold just enough to be able to kiss her,
and it was a demanding, aggressive kiss -- not like me at all.  But she
responded just as insistently until our mouths felt bruised.
   When we came up for air, she said "I'm sorry I had to do that, Mike, but I
didn't know how else to ask.  And I love *you* so much!"  And we disappeared
into another smoldering kiss.  She was stretched out crosswise across my lap,
convenient to my wandering hands which were making up for lost time.
   She was wearing light wool slacks and a plaid cotton shirt with
buttons down the front.  I undid the first few buttons before she pushed my hand
out of the way and nearly ripped the rest of them off getting her shirt open and
pushed back.  She was almost frantic, fumbling her arms out of the sleeves, and
her unmistakable passion quickened my pulse.  Then the front closure of her bra
popped open, and it was off and on the floor.
   Then she was up and sitting astride my knees, back arched, her
breasts on display to my hungry gaze.  Jean's tits were a little larger than
average but were balanced by her broader-than-usual shoulders; otherwise, they
were unremarkable ... but they were *hers* and I adored them.  I massaged and
squeezed them for a few minutes and her respiration increased.  When I rolled
her lengthening nipples between thumb and forefinger, she hissed in between her
teeth and moaned "Oh, God--  Suck on them, please!  Mike, suck on my tits!  Put
your mouth on them!"
   When I pulled her closer and inhaled her breast, she locked her hands behind
my head and tried to draw me into her.  Small tremors traveled up and down her
body and my own arousal increased.
   Then she was off my lap again and hurriedly unhooking her slacks and pushing
them to the floor.  Her socks and panties followed.  She stood naked before me,
eyes glowing.  I was still completely dressed and my newly-confirmed love was
displaying her body for my viewing pleasure.  Again, her figure was trim, her
complexion beautifully smooth and clear, but I couldn't objectively say she was
a traffic-stopper.  But she was *Jean* and that made her the most desirable
woman I could conceive of.
   "There's something else I should tell you," she said as she slipped back
across my thighs.  "I went on The Pill six weeks ago because I suspected we'd be
in bed by now.  I want you to make love to me,  Michael.  In fact, I'm not
leaving here until I fuck you!"
   Her knees were spread and the aroma of her drifted upward and fired my own
furnace.  My hands slid up and down her thighs and moved around to measure her
ass.  She groaned a little and leaned against me.  I slipped one hand between
her legs from behind and brushed my fingertips against her moist labia.  She had
another fit of trembling.
   Then she was on her feet again, pulling me up.  "Come on, come on, get your
clothes off!  I *want* you!"  I unfastened and unzipped and she quickly knelt
and hauled my trousers down.  Her feverish hurry was blinding me with lust.  My
cock sprang out, hard and rigid, and her mouth instantly fastened on it.
   What she lacked in polished technique, Jean made up for in ardor. Like me,
she was an enthusiastic amateur at sex -- and, also like me, she'd obviously had
relatively little experience.  I found that reassuring, even if it meant the
blind leading the blind.
   She tried to take in all of my quivering cock and nearly choked when it hit
her throat.  I eased her head back a bit and she concentrated on washing my
penis with her tongue and manipulating my balls.  The sensation was like nothing
I had experienced before.  I had engaged in oral sex, of course, but only for
recreation.  This was a woman with whom I had fallen in love and who loved me.
And I wasn't seventeen any longer.
   I could feel the pressure building in my groin but I didn't want to climax.
I gently retrieved my cock and pulled her to her feet.  Jean was several inches
shorter than me and when we wrapped ourselves up in each other, standing there
in the living room, she nuzzled under my chin and nibbled at my throat.
   My cock was sandwiched between us, and when it twitched Jean wrapped her hand
around it and pulled and squeezed as we kissed.  I bent one knee and she closed
her thighs on it and humped a little.  She was so unrestrained in her lust, now
that we had declared ourselves, she was producing more than the expected
reaction in me.
   I trailed my fingers up and down her back and she shivered and
laughed under her breath.  "C'mon," I whispered, "we gotta find a bed -- fast!"
   Making sure the door was locked (the first opportunity I'd had to see to
that), I turned to find Jean already disappearing into my room.  When I hurried
in after her, she was arranging herself on the bed for me, knees spread, arms
reaching, and a wanton grin on her face.  But things were going so well I chose
to take my time -- our time -- in this delightful morning lovemaking.
   I went to the foot of the bed and started up toward Jean on my hands and
knees.  She leaned her head back and spread her legs wider, expecting me to aim
my cock straight at the target.  But I ambushed her, dropping flat and covering
her open pussy with my open mouth.  She jumped a bit and squeaked in surprise,
but she liked it.
   I spread her labia apart with my fingers and stuck my tongue into her cunt
like a spoon in a pot of jam, plowing through her juices from bottom to top.
Her clitoris protruded from its hood and I moved my tongue all around it and
then sucked it in between my teeth.  Jean jammed her hands under the pillow
behind her head; her eyes went out of focus and she was breathing in gulps.  Her
candid reactions to my advances were stimulating but I also felt completely at
home, as though we were old lovers rather than new ones.
   She also had my cock as hard and stiff as an iron pipe, and after a few
minutes of teasing her pussy with my tongue I climbed farther up her body.  When
I eased myself into her, she gave a loud, ragged gasp and hung onto my neck as
if we were about to be launched.
   Jean wasn't a screamer, a thrasher, or a talker, but there was no
doubt whatever that she loved what we were doing and was totally caught up in
it.  Sarah Bernhardt couldn't have faked a sexual experience so intensely.  I
was under no illusions that this terrific girl might be an unfulfilled virgin,
but I knew instinctively that her experience was at least as limited as my own.
Maybe she reacted this way *every* time she got laid; I didn't know and I didn't
care.  The fact that *I* was able
to put her into orbit was more than enough.
   I moved in her erratically, unpredictably, and was rewarded with little mews
and gasps and catches in her breathing.  Her sexual flush became bright scarlet.
Her hands clutched at my back and arms and I was glad she wasn't a believer in
long nails; she'd have drawn blood.  When I settled into a galloping rhythm, she
moved her legs higher, locking her ankles so I could penetrate deeper.
   We reached the peak almost together and the release of my orgasm was
exquisite.  Jean held tightly to me for perhaps half a minute as she shuddered
through her own climax.  Then she relaxed and gave me a hug filled with
satisfaction and love.  And it dawned on me, quite suddenly, that we had both
been in control of events the entire time.  Every move we had made had been an
unspoken but mutual decision.  No pressure, no
anxiety, no worries about inadequacy.  Jean might not be a sex goddess, but I
wasn't exactly a hunk, either.
   I leaned back and studied her face, and saw only happiness, love, and pride
in one's partner -- exactly what I was feeling.
   As my cock shrank I slowly pulled out of her cunt,... and I found a quiet
pleasure in the momentary look of loss that appeared in her eyes.  She really
wanted me.  Me!
   I rolled off her and propped my head up on one elbow as she stretched her
legs and back muscles.  "Still love me?" I asked quietly and with a smile.
   She seemed to examine my face minutely and then reached up to touch my cheek.
"Oh, yes..."  No declamation, no poetry: Just "yes."  A simple affirmation.  It
sounded real and believable and truthful.  It sounded wonderful.

   The next six months passed more quickly than I could believe.  Jean came over
to the apartment for at least an hour or two almost every evening.  Any more
than that and we were concerned that our grades might suffer.  We were head over
heels in love, but we were both still too pragmatic to allow *that* to happen.
   Gary and Sherry and Ed took one look at the two of us together after that
weekend and smirked at each other -- our feelings were that obvious.  We had sex
only a couple of times a week; we knew we'd be together a long time and so we
tortured ourselves pleasurably with semi-denial.  Jean didn't sleep over,
though, for the same reason Sherry didn't: It would have been an imposition on
the other two guys in the apartment.  And, not surprisingly, Jean and Sherry
became good friends, even though their other interests were so different.

   ...Such good friends, in fact, that Sherry was delighted to be Jean's
maid-of-honor when we were married in June, two weeks after graduation and ten
weeks before I began work on my M.A.
                                 *  *  *  *  *
   It's been 26 years now, and Jean and I are as much in love as we were then.
It hasn't all been smooth sailing -- no real marriage ever is -- but our spats
have never been serious and are usually resolved by a competition to be the
first to apologize.
   I'm a tenured full professor in American history and I love it. 
We'll never be wealthy but we're comfortable, and the life of the mind (and the
classroom) suits me.  Jean spent several years as a medical lab technician,...
and then as a supervisor when she discovered a talent for scientific
administration; now, she's in charge of the technical side of the largest
commercial medical lab in Texas -- earns more than I do, in fact, and deserves
every cent of it.
   Two of our three children are married and the youngest is engaged, though she
swears she'll wait until she graduates from UT to be married.

   Now that we have the house to ourselves again most evenings, we've found time
to reenact our first lovemaking on that old apartment couch; the only difference
is newer furniture.  We know each other so well after a quarter-century, you'd
think it would be difficult for either of us to arouse the other as we used to.
But Jean still excites me ...though I get winded more easily.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Copyright 1993 by Michael K. Smith. Copies may be made and posted elsewhere for
personal enjoyment, but all commercial rights are reserved.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Michael Kalen Smith / Dallas, TX
Internet: mksmith@taproot.win.net / CompuServe: 73177,366
*** It doesn't TAKE all kinds; we just HAVE all kinds ***
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~





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