June Draws to an End

It is the summer of discontent, and this is assumed by the conclusion of the sloth- sloth being the angry pre-years of high school. Graduation day brings sincerity of glee in the minds of all the seniors (still ‘technically’ unable to buy a beer) at the handshake administered by the administrator and the paper, diploma stuffed in the other hand. Caps fly high in p.s. freedom.

Harold feels the humid brush of the discontent, more than most would acknowledge to ponder on; one of the lowest of the low-species meter in school. The last day among reptiles and amphibians, from the thirteen year stretch, isn’t closing soon enough. Nothing will keep young man Harry around the school premises once he is congratulated by all his “peers” and “teachers”.

Then, through the commotion of over three hundred families congregating in the faux stadium, Harold B. Carter spots her, Mrs. LoGuido, whom when she taught him in English 11 was Ms. Petrolli, yet ended up dating his math teacher from the same grade. This was so recent not many students recognized the two talking rather closely in confidence. Harry noticed, and the notification drove his inner-drive to daze and tears. True, she never expressed lustful intentions, but then he wasn’t quite legal, or appropriate for such thoughts. It is graduation day for Harry, eighteen and leaving the shit hole that has consumed him, and now in his midst was Mrs. Petrolli, the only little spark back from mid-muck memories, aged to thirty and with a man. Still.

“Hi, Ms. Petrolli.”

“Oh, hi Harold, I would assume you didn’t hear I got married last July.”

“Oh yeah. Uh, congratulations.”

“Yeah. So, I guess this is it, last leap from this place.”

“Sure is. You doing anything this summer?”

“Not much, I guess just keeping Pete company. Yep, just about that.”

“Ok, see you.”

“Wait, do you have a ride home?”

Funny she asked that; Harold’s entire family had gone to Jamaica and he would’ve joined, but not enough money for tickets meant no go. His friend Jimmy was supposed to attend and instead got caught up in druggie affairs with his brother and friend.

“Nah, I’m probably going on the bus-”

“Come on, I’ll drive you, we can make a quick stop at my house and we’ll get a bite to eat, k?”

Startled, Harry was, yet in full understanding of what the invitation could bring forth. “Alright, I’ll just grab my diploma- here- let’s go!”

Mrs. Petrolli, er, LoGuido’s car was a bright, beet red, medium sized Camry with almost a scent of cilantro and jasmine right on the dashboard. This smell kept the graduate in a semi-trance all through the towns to her house- 1221 Graniard Ave, Apt. 22D (22 was the top floor). An apartment it was revealed, and it was in a good part of the county on the good floor with the functioning elevator. Smoothly things proceeded to the door, then inside to the first real woman’s apartment Harold had ever seen. Relatives, aunts, and cousins could not compare to the tranquility, the essence of Sheila Petrolli-LoGuido’s domicile.

“You might as well take off that gown, I’m going to get changed, make yourself comfortable, Harry.” She said that last word almost in a sultry accent and with a certain level of authority.

“Cool.” He watched the brunette walk into the room and removed the totally blue cap and gown he had worn for three hours, relieved and-

The lady of thirty, brunette hair, chestnut eyes and classic lipstick smile stands in Harold’s sight with only white panties on, nothing more or less. Is Harold awake? Is he having flash flood dreams at his computer desk- no, this is reality at its core.

“Ma-ma-Mrs. Logui-”

“No, don’t call me that, never again. I haven’t the courage to say this until now, but, I’ve had a crush on you since you stepped in class that first day. I married Pete mostly for the money and I know I can get more out of him when I get my divorce set through.”

“Uh-Huh” I said with wide eyes, “I don’t know then if this is such-”

“Oh, come on, Harry honey, I know you’ve had a thing for me for these years, you just knew to keep legal distance and now: (grabs Harry’s crotch): you’re hard as a monument.”

Harold had redness come to his face yet was able to mutter words, “Oh yes, Sheila, I’m guessing I can call you that, I have been pining for you all this time, I just-”

His words were cut off by Ms. (soon to be) Petrolli’s swirling tongue darting to Mr. Carter’s mouth, the two dangling in a flesh dance and in a walking embrace towards her bedroom. He tears off his own clothes, pulls down her panties to reveal a clean shaven beaver, slit in glistening beauty.

“Oh yeah, my well hung graduate, stick me all the way, I need it, oh, oh yeah!”

She said this with a finger playing her clit like piano keys on one note. Harry moved her arm to the side and glided it in like a plane making the final landing way on the pavement. Only this then was repeated, again, again, and again.

(What fills the teenager’s testosterone driven noggin is the joy of her being his first lay.)

This dance, this mambo of the shroom and clam was in an infinite space of mind for the young Sheila and younger Harold, and the infinity had the juxtaposition to last as long as the gods commanded. Or, until-

“Oh god, oh, oh, fuck, ah, ah, ah Harrrrry, Ah, yesssss, ahhh baby, yesss!!!!” “Oh yeah, oh Sheila, here it comes, oh, oh, yeah, there is goes, ah, ah, ahh, yeah!”

The sounds of positive reinforcement crowd them in a few ecstatic moments, then gasping for air and the sweat....

It is twenty minutes after the loss of banality in Ms. Petrolli and Mr. Carters’ relationship; Harold knows this for certain. Naked, he stands up and looks around her room as she sleeps. He opens one drawer and finds in it something in peculiar meaning a vibrator, a playboy and ah, oh, a few staples pages of paper with writing. It reads: