A work of fiction. There is a girl, whose name I don't know, who matches the physical description and served as an inspiration, but all that inspiration happened in my mind.
It was one of those Relevant exercises that they give to senior English classes in high school: discuss "friendship," what it means, how you get it, how you show it. It was a bore, except that Kelly was in my discussion group. 1973.
I had drooled over Kelly for four years. She was perfect. Well, almost perfect. She was about 5'2" (short, compared to my 6'6"), with long, dark brown hair, gorgeous brown eyes, and a delightful chin line. In sum, a lovely face. Farther south, it just got better.
She had a body built for speed, not comfort. Not an ounce of fat, with small, but noticeable breasts, a tight, muscular waist, an incredible, absolutely to-die-for ass, and wonderful legs. I'd have hated to chase her. She probably would have outrun me. Her hip-hugger jeans hung low, and her short tops often exposed her delightful tummy (fashions keep repeating, don't you know?). She seemed truly more intimidating than I could handle. I'd barely ever even spoken to her, and didn't really know much about her, since any questions would have been turned back on me by teasing friends. So, I lusted from afar for this Mystery Woman.
"I guess I don't have any friends," Kelly said in our discussion group.
"What do you mean? You don't have any friends?" I piped up.
"I don't," she replied emphatically.
"I don't believe it,' I said.
"Why not?" she asked.
"Because I can't understand how someone like you can have no friends," I asserted.
"What do you mean, someone like me?" she asked warily.
"I don't know," I mumbled. "But if I had half a chance, I'd want be your friend."
She looked at me steadily. "What would you do with a whole chance?"
"Can we change the subject?" I gulped.
"No," Kelly said, "What if I gave you a whole chance?"
"I'd try to be your friend," I said meekly. The group had a good laugh at my expense, but Kelly just looked at me, expressionless.
We changed the subject and continued our small group discussion, engaging in Cooperative Learning and being Relevant Teenagers. As we were filing out of class, I felt a slight pinch on my elbow. I looked down to see Kelly.
"Did you mean what you said?" she asked as we walked down the hall.
"Mean what?" I asked in reply.
"About being my friend," she said, gazing at me steadily. It was very disconcerting to be stared at by such beautiful eyes.
"Yeah, sure," I said, my heart pounding.
"Want to come over after school?" Kelly smiled for the first time. I thought my toes would melt.
"Sure," I said, trying to sound nonchalant, and failing.
"OK, see you later," she said.
"OK."
"Hey, silly," she said as she turned away, "Don't you want to know where I live?"
"48 Bridle Lane," I replied with my own smile. I hadn't lusted for four years without doing any research.
"Call me if you can't make it," she said.
"668-8566," I smiled. Her eyes went a little wide, then she smiled in return and almost bumped into the wall. She giggled, turned, and walked away. I, on the other hand, floated down the hall about three feet off the ground.
Later, I passed by the sewing class. There was Kelly, in a long, light blue formal dress standing on a chair. The teacher was marking the hem. The dress clung to every delightful curve in her body, and dropped low in front, exposing the T-shirt she wore underneath. The sleeves were wide at the ends, and trimmed in fur. The teacher saw me in the doorway, gaping.
"She's been working on it all semester," Ms. Lines said, "Pretty impressive, huh?"
"Pretty gorgeous," I managed to blurt out.
Kelly smiled. "Thanks! It's almost done."
"I'm done," Ms. Lines said, standing up.
Kelly looked at me. "Could you help me down from here?"
"Sure," I said, putting my books on a nearby table. I walked over to Kelly, where she was just slightly taller than me on the chair. She faced me, and in one move put her arms around my neck and went sideways. I grabber her under her knees and back, and there I was, holding Kelly in my arms.
She looked at me and smiled, "Thanks! I needed this." Her arms squeezed my neck just a little, enough for me to know she did it, but not enough for others to notice.
I just stood there, not knowing what to say.
"Do you want to put me down?" she asked.
"Not really," But I gently lowered her to a standing position. She didn't pull away, though, and pressed against me.
"Thank you, sir knight," she said, looking up at me.
"It's among my greatest fantasies to be a knight in shining armor to a damsel in distress," I said quietly.
"Sometimes I think I need to be rescued," she said simply. "See you this afternoon."
After school, I put the top down on my car, a 1971 Oldsmobile Cutlass, and enjoyed the first really warm day of spring. I didn't want to hurry to Kelly's and appear too anxious, so I drove around, stopped and got a Coke at the convenience store, and then made my way north through town to Bridle Lane.
When I got there, it was all I could do to keep my jaw from dropping. There, in the front yard on a chaise, soaking up the late afternoon sun, was Kelly. But it was what she was wearing. Or almost wearing. It was a small, flesh-colored, crocheted bikini, with just enough stitches to keep her from being arrested. I parked on the street. She got up and bounced over to the car. I almost died watching. Her body was even more stunningly beautiful than I had imagined. Tight, and smooth, without an ounce of jiggle, except in her small, but ample breasts.
"I didn't know you had such a cool car!" She exclaimed. "When did you get it?"
"It's my folks' car. They let me drive it after my 18th birthday," I said, a little proudly, and a little sheepishly. Good thing I had to talk. It reminded me to breathe.
"When's your birthday?" she said, leaning over the passenger door, and giving me a nice view of her delightful cleavage in the tiny bikini top.
"December 23rd."
"Mine is April 26th," she said.
"Happy birthday!" I said, noting that it was last week. "Is it too late to celebrate?"
"I don't know," she said warily.
"Why not?" I asked.
