It never happens how you think when you're an eighteen year-old virgin. You imagine the flowing drapes and the passionate romance--that sweet tension in the air that let's you know that everything is going to be purely miraculous. You imagine dancing in formalwear after the Senior Prom, you imagine things involving time, fluidity, and that unique kind of planned-spontaneity that never happens in real life. Somehow, though, its always the backseat of your Dad's car with a girl you never knew well enough, fumbling around like the first time you tried to type your name, with only fifteen minutes before you have to make it to curfew.
This is a story about those fifteen minutes.
I'd been dating Paula for a few weeks, nothing significant, though I confess I only dated her because of her looks... nothing about her personality appealed to me, certainly not the cutsie little girl stuff she obsessed about. Chatter, giggling, and shallow gossip was every conversation we ever had. No, I didn't date Paula for her social skills.
She was a cheerleader, that was status enough for me, my senior year of high school. She was a cheerleader, and I was about the most average man alive--put that together and I could tolerate her purely annoying habits until graduation. As long as she was on my arm for all social events, I had it made (and no small level of access to the rest of the cheerleading squad, who started looking at me with a different pair of eyes once I was "good enough" to date one of their own).
At 5'9", Paula was a short girl... I say short because I tower at about 6'6". Hardly the bruiser sort, I'm more the Clark Kent wishing he were Superman--timid, soft-spoken, and a bit clumsy. I suppose, in retrospect, she was tall for a girl, but how could I notice? It was her genetics which gave her the edge on everything else... red-head. Damn, but aren't red-heads always cute? Short red hair, wavvy and to her shoulders, a nice tan (which always blew my mind, as I didn't think red-heads could do that), and nothing short of 34B-23-36. Paula was a lithe figure with every package in the house hard-up to tickle under her skirt. Her most spectacular feature, of course, was her ass--despite all her shit, I could always look at the ass and keep it together. Once we started getting more serious, a hand cupping most of one of those gorgeous and athletically-firm fenders was all it took to remind me that I was in it for the image and could put up with her for another few months. So, we were screwing like jack-rabbits, right? Hardly.
She was a "good girl".
Man, I always hated that term. Like a girl cannot be good and have her cherry popped? Geez, the most I ever got out of her was a few drinks at a friend's birthday party and she let me grind myself to nigh-satisfaction on her ass while we danced like white-people who wished they knew how to do more than grind on each other. It was torture. I went home every afternoon my senior year and finished the job her assets had started. I sometimes wished I were more aggressive and could just "take her" in that way that every action hero in the world "takes" the reluctant damsel. But, I didn't know the first thing about sex.
Scratch that, I knew a lot about sex... but the kind of sex that friends talk about in fourth-period using words and descriptions of body-parts that are only seen in magazines or an uncle's video collection. If I followed the word-on-the-street about scoring with Paula, I'd have to have a ten-inch dick (because every friend I've ever had in highschool says that's what they've got), a desk (because everyone bent someone over a desk), and a perfect slut of a girl (because what girl would ever let me bend her over a desk and proceed to tag her with my ten-inch dick within the first ten minutes of meeting me?). I had none of those things.
Like I said, I was an average guy, but that's a relative term--"average". Seven and a bit--that's me. But consider how big a hot-dog is, put it up to a He-Man action figure. Big dick, right? Now put it up to your own crotch. Tiny dick. For a guy standing 6'6" and 231 lbs., its slightly less than impressive looking. Proportionally speaking, it'd be like looking down (for the average height) and seeing five-and-a-half inches of glory...!
Not that it mattered, Paula wasn't ever interested in seeing it. Well, turns out she was, I just didn't really know it. Mr. Oblivious.... that's me.
It was a Thursday. I remember that because cheerleader practice was always on Thursday and I spent that hour after school in the gym watching them practice in their sports bras and gym shorts, while excusing myself to the bathroom every ten or fifteen minutes. Well, on this particular day, I was getting really bored and decided to see what they talk about when I leave--Lord knows they had every reason in the world to figure out why I kept leaving. Its not rocket science, they knew they were all gorgeous, they knew I wasn't getting any, they knew that if they ran that one drill where they all spin around with their asses to the crowd, bend over, and pitch their pom-poms up under their legs, shoot back up, and then catch them with a twist at the hips and a wink to the crowd... well, you get the picture. They could "make" me have to "step out for a bit".
So, I step out... no big deal, I could give a damn what fourteen cheerleaders think of my masturbation habits--so long as they didn't ban me from practice (which, that should have been my first guess). I curled around the gym and walked under the bleachers, hoping they were talking about me. While there, of course, I realized I could just whip it out then and there... two birds with one stone.
Ok, yeah, I realize how dumb that is, in retrospect. Suspension? Yeah, if I'd gotten caught. I'd have died of embarrasment, first, though.
So, the captain of the squad's name was Lisa. Now, Lisa was about 5'1" tops and built like an athlete. All serious, all authority, and with the exceptions of the dimples and pony-tail, she could pass for "mean". She was the one I could hear the easiest...
