High School Dream Cum True

All characters depicted are adults 18 years or older.

*****

I had caught a second-shift at the store that night—the 2 to 10—and by 8 o'clock I was beat to my socks, ready to call it a day. The convenience store crowd is always harder in the evenings for some reason, possibly because in the mornings people can stagger their wake times, whereas at night the rush is always at the same time, cars queuing at every pump, customers hot, tired, and irritated mid-commute, and me representing the only thing standing between them and their homes, dinners, and cold beers. It was always a frenetic, ill-tempered pace from about 4:30 to 7:00, and it generally left me in a bad mood.

I was glad, then, for the respite as the rush died down and the customer traffic began to taper, slowing to one or two transactions every ten minutes or so, giving me the opportunity to spray down the counters and mop the floor. With the floor drying and the pungent fragrance of off-brand Pine-Sol still heavy in the air, I turned my attention to the cigarette racks, dutifully counting and logging each row for the end-of-shift inventory I'd be conducting when my relief arrived in a couple of hours.

Inevitably, a customer arrived while I was in mid-count, announced by the tinny bell hanging on the north-facing entrance door. "Be right with you," I said over my shoulder, without looking back from my count.

"Take your time," the customer replied in a dusky, feminine contralto from where she stood at the counter.

"Great," I thought, "a cigarette purchase." I'd been hoping the customer would shop the aisles for a moment and give me the chance to complete my count, but no such luck. I pulled the pencil from behind my ear and stuck it in the rack where I'd left off.

"Okay, what can I do f—" I spun around on my left heel to face her and immediately broke off in mid-sentence. "Oh my God," I thought. "That's Angela Bordeaux! Angela-effing-Bordeaux, right here in my store. Of all the gin joints!"

I had never spoken of her to anyone, and to this day I have no idea how common it is for a person to have someone occupy the space in their personal history that Angela occupied in mine. You see, Angela had, in a sense, taken my "fat-girl virginity"—and yet I wasn't even sure she knew my name.

To be clear, we'd never made out—never even dated—let alone had sex, but, in my 19th year, Angela, then a classmate of mine in high school, had supplied the catalyst for my hitherto unconscious attraction to fat women. She was, to put it bluntly, the first fat chick to whom I masturbated, and the thought of her, I was certain, would continue to quicken my pulse each time I pictured her if I lived to be 100.

I still remember it. I was upstairs in my parents' master bedroom doing homework on the one computer we owned (it was the 1990s), and, as would happen from time to time at that age, I found myself with the sudden urge to masturbate. I stuck my head out the door and surveyed the downstairs and, not detecting any indication that anyone was heading my way any time soon, I slipped into the master bathroom and locked the door.

I unzipped my jeans and plunked down on the toilet and started gently tugging at my quickly swelling boner, but I soon realized that my desire to jerk off had preceded any particular object of arousal and, for that reason, it quickly became a sort of desultory exercise as I attempted to summon the mental images from my "spank bank" that had served me well in the past. Cheerleaders, hot teachers, Playboy centerfolds—all cycled before my closed eyes in a kind of slide show, but the discontinuity of it all wasn't helping any—I wasn't making any real progress.

And then, out of nowhere, into my mind popped Angela Bordeaux.

A few descriptions are in order. I attended an extremely segregated high school in the southwest (again, this was the 1990s, so it wasn't legally segregated, but it was about 85 percent white and close to 15 percent Latinx, with all other races constituting less than a whole-number percentage of the student body). I was a skinny white kid, probably best described as a bit nerdy, and Angela was basically my physical opposite.

One of my very few African-American classmates, Angela, even at 18, had an extraordinary body—a proud, confident composition of of chocolatey dark spheres, including a round head with a double-chin, big round boobs, a protuberant belly, and, most salient of all, an impossibly big ass. She must have weighed 200 pounds in high school, and you'd swear 100 of it was just ass. When she walked into a room, the average ass size went up by ten inches, and there was an almost palpable discomfort when she was nearby—her magnificent bottom was always the proverbial elephant in the room, defying anyone's effort to ignore it.

And yet, despite what one might expect of someone in that condition and in that environment, she never showed the faintest hint of self-consciousness. She was supremely self-possessed, smart and sassy, quick-witted, and gave no sign of having body image issues—this in a cultural milieu where the skinny white cheerleaders in our midst were already developing eating disorders due in part to their unrealistic weight-management objectives. As humiliating as it is to reflect on now, all these years later, to my young and inexperienced mind at the time, Angela just seemed a strange and inexplicable anomaly—almost otherworldly to me. I just didn't know it was physically possible for someone to look the way she looked and exude such confidence—and to be so apparently comfortable in her skin. I didn't know what to make of her.

In any case, I hadn't been conscious of finding her attractive. Or, if I had, I must have been in a some sort of denial about it, because, when she flashed into my mind that afternoon, me red-faced and huffing, pulling my purple penis on my parents' toilet, I suddenly froze. "What the fuck is she doing here?" I wondered. A funny feeling washed over me—one of giddy embarrassment and vulnerability, as though I was toying with something sinister and taboo and just plain wrong. I, skinny white Bart, had just let slip into my spank reel the fleeting image of dark-skinned Black, morbidly obese Angela Bordeaux. What was that about?

But then it continued. In my mind's eye she drew near, and I could swear I detected that mysterious fragrance she wore—the one that reminded me, for some reason, of the waxy aroma of Crayola crayons—and when she got close she wheeled about, hiking up her acid-wash denim skirt to reveal her billboard-sized booty, clad in satiny white underpants. Suddenly the giddy feeling of embarrassment had turned into a heart-racing exhilaration I'm still powerless to describe or explain.

I was going with it now—I spit in my hand and started churning up and down, up and down on the veiny shaft of my slick achy throbber, which had suddenly swollen to an agitating fullness, and let the vision carry me away, Angela hitching her thumbs into the lacy elastic waistband of her shimmering panties and rolling them down over her abundant black backside.

I was still a virgin at the time so, for what happened next, I was forced to rely on my imagination. But imagine I did! In the vision, she lowered her gargantuan globous rump down onto my lap and—here I spat in my hand again and turned it over, thumb and forefinger forming a downward-facing ring—I imagined facing the kinky bun of her natural braided updo, and plunging my swollen mushroom head up into the tight wet ring of her, warm waiting v—oh!

I gasped audibly as the orgasm took me like an unexpected sneeze, ripping through my core and radiating out to my extremities in ecstatic nanoseconds before the first hot rope shot up and hit me in the eye, nose, and sandy brown bangs. More followed apace, splashing onto my Adam's apple and dousing my t-shirt up to my crewneck and down my midsection.

I sat there on the toilet in my parents' bathroom in a kind of mute shock, with the waning urgency of erection leaving in its wake a residue of shame and confusion, to accompany the residue of rapidly cooling semen all up and down my front. I had just had what was at the time probably the more powerful orgasm of my life, and it was brought about by an involuntary fantasy of by far the fattest chick in my high school. What had just happened?

Whatever it was, it didn't go away. On the contrary, it became my new normal—for maybe two months thereafter I dismissed everyone else in my stable and relied solely on Angela to fuel my juvenile sex fantasies. I found myself stealing glances at her in the halls at school, trying to commit her outfits to memory so that I could rotate her wardrobe when lying in my bed at night, summoning her image for my nightly self-abuse.

While all of this was going on, oddly, it never once occurred to me to actually talk to the girl. In a way, that's what's so strange about the role she played in my youth. I've probably had orgasms to Angela's image as many times as to that of any porn star, but it was never a proper "crush" in the sense of pining to be with her as my girlfriend. She ran with her crowd, I with mine, and we might as well have been from different planets. Among my friends, I would avoid letting on that I was even aware of her. And yet, each night, it was she who reliably gave me the orgasms that let me get to sleep.

And it wasn't just that. In addition to being my first "fat crush," she was also the person who opened my eyes to the beauty of the big, bold female form. I never looked back after that. I've certainly found the odd thin woman attractive now and again, but once I admitted to myself that I was enamored of big curvy chicks, I was forever changed. That was all thanks to Angela.

Angela, in sum, was as important a person in my sex life as just about anyone else I could name, and yet I wasn't sure she knew I existed.

And now, here she was in the flesh—or so I thought. I was probably around 23 at the time, so a few years had gone by since I'd seen her last, but I was about 90 percent sure it was her. She was all in black, sporting a black cotton dress with a black denim jacket over it, and black leather boots. She also had on dark sunglasses, which she didn't bother to remove despite being indoors and facing an eastern-exposed window. Gone was her updo and bun, replaced now by a short unruly braid-out with what I thought were subdued burgundy highlights. With the glasses and the hair I could not be 100 percent certain, but it definitely looked like her—she had that same proud-fat body, that same enormous ass flaring out behind her.

"What, uh... how can I help you?"

"Benson and Hedges Menthol Ultra-Light 100s, please."

I turned around to retrieve her cigarettes, trying to remember if Angela had been a smoker. I plucked them out of their rack, noted the purchase on my inventory sheet for later, and set them on the counter in front of her. "What else for you?" I asked.

"That's all," came the sultry contralto, and she handed me her credit card. I noticed an intricate gold-and-silver swirl pattern on her fingernails.

Then it hit me: "She's paying with a card!" I glanced down before swiping it and saw that it read "Angela B. Jackson." "It's her!" I thought. "It's got to be."

I swiped her card and, in the brief eternity while I was waiting for the authorization, my mind and pulse both raced. Here she was, the object of my adolescent desire, standing so close that I could discern that Crayola fragrance in the air, and then, all of a sudden, without planning it or even really meaning to, I spoke to her. "Didn't you go to West Side?"

"Mmmm-hm, yeah, I know you. You're Bart, right?"

I was floored. She recognized me and remembered my name! Unbelievable! I suddenly felt myself transported back to my tumescent teenage years and, right where I stood, I could feel my penis begin to swell into a warm excited boner, the head lurching against the inside of my boxers.

"Yeah, I thought so," I stammered. "We had a couple of classes together."

"A few."

Okay, great, so I had broken the silence—but now what?! There she was, not three feet from where I stood—the object of so many of my fantasies. And I had had the improbable courage to actually speak to her! But now I didn't have a second sentence. She was about to walk back out of my life forever, and that would be that. I would go home that night with just one more, slightly updated image of her to jerk off to, and nothing more.

On the other hand, what was the point of trying to talk to her? I had never really talked to her before. What was going to happen across the counter at the gas station that hadn't happened in four years of high school?

"It's, uh," I stammered, reflexively trying to keep up a volley, "Bordeaux, right?"

"It was. Jackson now. Married."

"Ah, okay," I said, dumbly. "Um, congratulations." I slid the credit voucher across the counter for her to sign and handed her the pen. She bent over to sign and I heard myself saying, "Say, listen..."

She paused, pen in hand, and looked up at me, pushing her sunglasses up on her forehead and awaiting my next move with what I thought was a wry, knowing smirk, a faint twinkle in her deep brown feline eyes. "I'm listening," she breathed.

"It's just, I, uh, you know," I cleared my throat nervously, while she looked on with that bemused smile. "I don't see too many folks from the old neighborhood, you know?"

"West Side is like a mile from here," she pointed out.

"I-I-I know. What I meant was, I, uh, used to—"

"I think I know what you meant." She finished signing the voucher and slid it back toward me with the pen.

"You—you do?"

"I said I remembered you. You think you were invisible?" I wasn't sure quite how to respond to that, and I just stood there, mute. "Look, Bart, turns out I'm free tonight—my man's out of town, up to the base for his Guard weekend. Were you wanting to get... reacquainted?"

"I'd be delighted," I squeaked.

"What time you finish up here?"

"Ten."

"I'll roll back past around then."

No sooner was she out the door than I flipped the "Back in 5" signs, locked the door, and all but sprinted down the hall to the restroom where I could barely withdraw my cock in time, nearly catching it with my zipper as it sprang out through my fly; almost instantly when my fingers and thumb closed around my pulsing shaft I dissolved into a quivering orgasm, spurts of semen splattering onto the sink and trickling down my knuckles.

"Jesus," I breathed, as my knees knocked together. "Angela-fucking-Bordeaux."

***

It was almost 10:30 before she pulled into the parking lot in her black Chevy SUV. Five more minutes and I would have assumed she wasn't coming and left. But as it was, I was waiting for her out front. I had discarded my smock in the store's back office, borrowed a hit of spray deodorant from the merchandise shelves, and stood leaning against the wall of the store in my t-shirt and jeans trying—I'm sure unsuccessfully—to appear at ease. She rolled up to where I stood with her window down, her arm resting on the sill, hand dangling one of her long white cigarettes. "Well, player," she addressed me, "you wanna get in?"

I got into the passenger side and, without a word, she began driving, pulling out of the lot onto the frontage road and then onto the highway. It was a cool autumn night, not cold, and the breeze through the open car windows, tinctured with that smoky, crisp-fall-leaves aroma, was refreshing after a long shift. A hip-hop station played softly on the radio, and the smoke from her cigarette had the quality of sweet incense. As we rode on in silence, the shadows rising and falling across her face with each street lamp we passed under, I decided to ask her for a cigarette, even though I didn't really know how to smoke. I ended up mostly puffing it and fiddling with it out the window.

"So," she finally broke the silence, "where you wanna go?"

"Where?" I parroted, stupidly.

"Yeah, where."

"Well, I, uh—you maybe want to get a coffee?"

"Coffee?!" She sounded incredulous, possibly even a little disgusted.

"I mean, I was just..." I trailed off. "It was just a thought."

"Coffee," she scoffed, shaking her head. "You mean you ain't got a spot?"

"I mean," I stammered, "I have a roommate."

"A roommate."

"Yeah."

"Great." She shook her head again.

"Do you, uh—" I tried.

"No," she cut me off abruptly. "Not a chance."

"Well, okay," I said, resignedly. I could feel my face reddening with embarrassment in the awkward silence.

"Look, don't worry," she said at last. "I've got a plan."

She turned up the radio and continued driving north out toward the edge of town until the freeway ended and the highway shrank to two lanes, punctuated by occasional stoplights. Three or four lights past the northernmost exit ramp she hung a right and in minutes we were well into a platted but as-yet-undeveloped subdivision—all the streets and coves and cul-de-sacs laid out and paved, and even some of the streetlights, but none of the houses built yet. She drove on for several blocks before turning left down a side street and pulling over.

When she killed the engine the silence was eerie—a little spooky even. We were far enough off the highway now that you couldn't even make out traffic noise in the distance.

"How, uh," I stammered awkwardly, "how do you know about this place?"

"Real estate. I'm moving some new-builds out this way."

"Gotcha."

"And I guess it seemed kind of appropriate, hooking up with the high-school crush and all," she chuckled in that mellifluous contralto of hers. I think I just blushed. "Bart, I love my husband, okay? I just like a little fun now and then, you understand?"

"Of course."

"Good." She unfastened her seatbelt and leaned across the center console and before I knew it we were deep deep into a hot kiss, her heady Crayola musk mingling with the smoky menthol on her jacket and tongue as she probed my mouth aggressively.

How to describe the sensation I was experiencing in this moment? Here was this woman about whom I had fantasized for five years—to whom I had masturbated probably hundreds of times, more than I could count anyway—and I was sucking and nibbling at her full lips, inhaling her gorgeous fragrance, swirling and darting my tongue around hers—it was really happening! It couldn't have been more surreal if I'd been hooking up with a famous fashion model straight out of the pages of some magazine.

I sprung a raging boner in my pants—one seemingly indifferent to the fact that I'd pre-gamed not two hours before—and my hands fumbled awkwardly, pawing at her breasts through the cotton fabric of her dress and the Lycra beneath. Suddenly I felt her right palm on my sternum, authoritatively establishing a perimeter, while her left hand reached down and unzipped my jeans.

In a deft maneuver, her warm hand coaxed my hard throbbing bonder out of my fly and into the cool night air, whereupon she doubled over into my lap and took my head into her warm wet mouth. I gasped as her lips closed around the ridge of my glans and my head fell backward against the seat. Her head plunged up and down, up and down, up and down onto my rock-hard cock, sending shivery ecstatic waves throughout my entire body. The feel of her tight lips and slithering tongue, the warmth of her mouth contrasting with the cool night air and the slick coat of her saliva on my cock—I suddenly felt like I was accelerating too quickly; I was going to come!

I placed my hand on her occiput, saying "Angela..."

"Hmmph," she replied. Then: "Don't touch my hair."

"Sorry. But, Angela," I repeated, with increasing urgency. "If you keep that up, I'm gonna... you know... make a mess..."