My first sexual experience came on the very last day of high school, a few weeks after I turned 18. Exams had finished, grade 12 was over, and I was looking forward to making some money at my summer job and hanging out with friends before leaving my small hometown to head off to university. But first I to submit photos for a couple of scholarship applications. This was way back before the internet, and I had to get the photos taken at my high school, 26 miles down the highway. Long story short, our family was pretty low-income, we had no vehicle, but I managed to scrounge a ride. Coming home after the photos, however, meant hitch-hiking. About 11 am, there I was with my thumb out looking for a lift back home.
Less than five minutes later a sporty red Mustang pulled over. To my surprise, the driver was a girl from my school, another grad getting her scholarship photos. I had never really known Pat, even though our school only had about 150 grade 12 students. Her family farmed about eight miles east, right on the highway towards my hometown, and she was happy to take me that far... and a bit further as it turned out.
Pat was a shy, quiet farm girl, very stocky and muscular from helping with the chores - the classic "fat bottomed girl" that a lot of guys fantasize about, especially with her long, straight blonde hair and sky blue eyes. At school she invariably wore blue jeans and conservative blouses, and her social circle was limited to a few other "4-A" girls. I rarely ever saw her speak to a boy in the hallways or in class.
But on this summer day, she looked great behind the wheel of the Mustang, in a beautiful short yellow dress, showing off her ample thighs. It was quite the eye-opener to see her follow the fashion example of some of her classmates, who loved to tease us by wearing mini-skirts and bending over at the slightest excuse.
Occasionally one of these girls would accidentally allow a glimpse (or a longer look!) of pastel-coloured undies while passing a textbook to a friend, or reaching deep into her locker. Being a bookish, shy teenager, living way out in the sticks, I rarely had the opportunity to spend much time with girls, so I treasured those "spank bank" moments, jerking off vigorously to the mental images late at night in bed.
My favourite episode came on a cool October afternoon while riding home on the school bus, watching as a classmate was dropped off at her family's driveway. Nancy was just a few steps from the bus, carrying a heavy armload of homework, when a sudden powerful gust of prairie wind caught the hem of her calf-length flower-print skirt, flipping it half-way up her back. The bus erupted in whoops and laughter as Nancy fought to get the skirt under control without dropping her books. For a few glorious moments, we all revelled in the exhilarating sight of long, bare legs, and pink panties stretched tight across her shapely rear end. It was a high point of my youth, but not so much for poor Nancy. She got on the bus the next morning, red-faced, eyes downcast, struggling to keep her composure as the boys snickered and elbowed one another. Luckily for Nancy, this was long before the days of phone cams, but as the story spread, her shame lived on in our collective imagination.
I recalled that episode as we passed Nancy's driveway, talking about our plans for the summer and life after high school. As she drove, I tried to check out Pat's legs without being too obvious, but I also thought it wasn't such a bad idea to let her see that I enjoyed the view.
Thrown together for a few miles, we were two young adults, enjoying freedom on a fantastic hot summer day, excited to talk about the next steps in our lives. Then Pat turned into her driveway, and told me her parents and younger brother and sister weren't home - they had gone to the nearest shopping mall for the day, nearly an hour from our rural neck of the woods. When she asked if I wanted a glass of water or a cold beer before hitting the road again, I jumped at the offer. After all, I didn't have to be home until supper, and I could walk most of the way by nightfall even if I didn't get another ride.
The farm was very modern for the 1970s - new tractors and equipment, barns and storage silos painted in bright reds and whites, big farmhouse, not to mention that Mustang - which seemed an odd vehicle for a practical, thrifty farmer to own. It looked like her family was doing pretty well, better than a lot of folks suffering through unpredictable cycles of grain and cattle prices.
Pat led me into the kitchen, and I got another eyeful as she bent way down to get a couple of beers from the fridge. The yellow dress rode up high on the back of her thighs, but not quite up to her panties. Later I wondered - did she really have to bend quite that far down, or was she just making the most of an unexpected chance to show off a bit?
We wandered out to the yard with our beers, as she pointed out recent improvements to the farm. Clearly she was proud of the family's hard work, and I could see where her muscles came from.
Going back inside, Pat sat down at one end of a long sofa in the living room, gesturing for me to sit at the other end. Both of us leaned back to relax and take another sip, and then she swung her legs up to stretch out across the cushions, demurely tugging at the helm of the dress. I couldn't help glancing down, hoping to see a little more from this new perspective, but she held her thighs close together.
