I know you're going to find this shocking, but I've endured more than a few awkward moments in my life.
Uncomfortable instances, Embarrassing public errors. A whole host of stupid things, many of which have the lovely habit of haunting me right before I go to sleep. I'm not going to recount them all here because I'm already over my limit of soul-baring with this story. Besides, none of them compare to this one: dinner with Krissy's parents
I dressed up in tan corduroy slacks and a blue dress shirt (yes, it was one of my Blockbuster outfits, but it'd recently been dry cleaned). Years of temple had taught me how to tie a tie, so I put a yellow one on. At the last minute, I decided to leave the sport coat at home. Then I walked up the street to Krissy's house. My dress shoes felt uncomfortably tight the whole way -- a portent of what was to come.
Krissy's mother answered the door with a sneer. Not the sexy kind her daughter showed, but an actual one. Like the face a tiger makes when it sees prey walk across its territory. She didn't hiss at me, but I heard it in my ears, anyway.
Mrs. Thompson led me inside. Even from a month ago, that house seemed smaller. Darker, too, like the family had decided to start saving on electricity that evening. The potpourri smell doubly overwhelming.
I found Krissy and her father already sitting at a long, dark dining room table. It looked like they were about to conduct a séance. Which maybe wasn't far from the truth. My blonde girlfriend gave me a warm smile.
Krissy's mom gestured for me to take a seat. Mrs. Thompson had her short, red hair tied back in a ponytail. She was wearing a faded apron over a house dress. Her usual attire.
Krissy's father gave me a curt nod as I sat down. They had me facing him, of course. He was dressed in a dark suit, I assumed from work. With his oversized round glasses, parted black hair, and weak chin, he looked like the poor man's Christopher Reeve (clearly in the Clark Kent role). Fortunately, Krissy's younger brother wasn't there that evening. I had enough former nemeses to face that night.
We did an awkward round of hellos. Then Krissy's mother went into the kitchen and brought out a full, glazed ham. Like it was Easter dinner. She set it, gingerly, in the middle of the table. Three Thompson heads bowed and said Grace. I didn't know the words, so I sat quietly, tracing the whorls of my cloth napkin with my eyes. For a moment, I had the idea that I should make a chamotzi next, in a sign of solidarity. But I decided they wouldn't get the joke.
As the meat made its way around the table, I steeled myself. I expected an interrogation full of tough questions: college, area of study, future career -- all the way out to preferred pre-school for the kids and place of burial. All of it in an endless barrage that would leave me stuttering for answers. Questioning my very existence. Already, the sweat ran cold down my sides.
Instead, the Thompson family had concocted a far more effective trial for me.
They didn't say a word.
We spent the entire dinner in complete silence. The only sound was the clinking of silverware against the plates. Punctuated with the panicked thumping of my heart. Maybe it doesn't sound like much; it was ingenious. Every moment at that table was torture. Like the air itself was ratcheting me tighter on the rack.
I couldn't figure out where to put my hands. What to do with my eyes. I dropped a fork at one point, and you'd have thought it was a grenade. Every bite of ham, sweet and good, turned to ash in my mouth. I felt uncomfortably full after three bites.
All of it was one long reminder of where I belonged. And didn't.
After the family finally finished eating, I stood to help with the dishes. My dining room chair scraped loudly on the wood, because of course it did. But as I was about to grab my plate, Krissy hurried over and took my hand.
"I want to show Jacob something up in my room," she said.
The blonde girl didn't wait for her parents' reply. She didn't ask me, either. Krissy pulled me up the carpeted stairs, back down that hallowed hallway, and into her bedroom. My breaths came short, like we were sprinting.
Krissy threw the door shut behind her. She raced over to her princess bed and dumped her army of stuffed animals off the side. Then she shoved me back in their place.
Before I could even know what was happening, my pants and boxers were down at my ankles. Krissy's jeans found a spot next to the toys on the floor. She climbed on top of me and, just like that, impaled herself on my staff.
Krissy let out a short, sharp grunt as I filled her. But nothing more. Her movements, however, were wild. She humped me into the bed with a vigorous abandon. Slammed herself onto my cock again and again. Like she was trying to hammer it into her lungs. Her tits bounced so hard, I was worried they might fly off her chest (good boyfriend that I am, I did my best to hold them in place).
There was no pause for breath. No moment to even wonder if what we were doing felt good. Krissy's hips slapped loudly against me as she railed us both into the bed. A stream of near-silent grunts and gasps.
Sooner than I expected, Krissy's whole body flushed. Her breath caught in a sexy little choke. Her muscles strained, taut. Her back arched. She stayed like that, frozen -- fingers and toes trembling -- for what had to be a solid minute. Then, finally, she sucked in a ragged gasp of air.
The beautiful blonde fell forward. Her breath against my ear. Her eyes, deep, azure pools. They filled, like she was about to cry. Her expression stiffened. Her expression went cold.
"Fuck me," Krissy said, "Give it to me. Deep. I need to feel it so bad."
I grabbed Krissy's shoulders and flipped her onto her back. Where we were, the people downstairs, it all fled my mind. I drove into my blonde girlfriend so hard, it almost hurt. The slaps of our bodies grew louder. Percussive claps punctuated by the squeaks of her mattress. Krissy's rhythmic chant.
"Fuck me. Fuck me. Fuck me."
