"Why can't I get just one fuck? Why can't I get just one fuck? I guess it's got somethin' to do with luck, but I've waited my whole life for this day!"
It was 1990, in the middle of a conversation with my friend Cyndi about my prospects at the upcoming winter semi-formal, I spontaneously recited the words of the Violent Femmes' forbidden anthem, "Add It Up."
"Just shut up and listen, Will," Cyndi scolded, pushing me off her sofa while her boyfriend Ron giggled.
"She doesn't look it, but she's is a slut. If you play your cards right, I'm sure she'll put out. Trust me, Jane is a total whore. Can't keep her legs closed."
"Well, you oughta know!" I relied sarcastically. Cyndi laughed and punched me in the arm while Ron laughed even louder.
"Assholes!" she yelled as we all fell apart.
Guilty as charged. Cyndi's boyfriend was my best friend Ron, she was faithful to him, but for sport she made it her mission in life to play matchmaker to ensure that everyone she knew got laid as frequently as possible, bless her.
I suppose it was me who was the slut for willingly playing her promiscuous game, but at that moment, gender politics were obscured by the demands of my gargantuan libido.
Cyndi had done well for me up to this point, finding me two forgettable girls who after lots of effort relieved me of my virginity, but I do I remember feeling incredulous at Cyndi's less-than-charitible description of her neighbor as a prospective date. But within moments of meeting Jane, I was convinced it was wishful thinking, another one of Cyndi's wild fantasies.
Jane's house was as palatial as it was gaudy, especially compared to the ramshackle disorder of my own abode. Her father was some sort of elite corporate attorney and the place was full of pastels, and fake-gold, carved rococo furniture, and tacky portraits. Everything was expensive and nothing was comfortable. Impressive, but not welcoming.
My initial impression of Jane was that she was much the same as her house. She opened the door with a nearly undetectable smile and wordlessly invited me inside to meet her mother. She was no beauty by the standards of the day, but her body called to me. She had a round face had almost black hair and black eyes and pale skin. The contrast was stunning to me at least.
Her shoulder-length poker-straight hair had meticulously cut bangs set against her milky complexion gave her round face the aspect of a half moon. Like Cyndi, she was Jewish, but with her thin slits concealing dark eyes she could have passed for native of anywhere from France to Japan.
Looking lower still, I saw she wore an ice blue silk dress with a thin layer of delicate black lace underneath that peeked out at the hem, sleeves, and neck. It clearly cost a small fortune. It was almost knee length and would've been relatively conservative were it not for the fact that it probably hadn't fitted her properly for at least a year. The fabric strained at her hips and her ample bust, bunching in the middle as every few minutes, she tugged at the hem to prevent her thighs from escaping. Just like her house, impressive, but not welcoming. But I wanted her badly all the same.
"Jane was a double-D cup by eighth grade," Cyndi had told me earlier. "The rest of us were jealous, but she hated all the extra attention. So if you're smart, don't say anything about her boobs."
I tried to bear this in mind as I clumsily tried to affix a corsage to the front of her dress. Her dress has a relatively high neck line, but unmistakable thin line between her breasts indicated that her bosom was heavily compressed by her garments. I mused to myself that if I wasn't careful with the needle and the flowers, they might pop.
If she was entertained or impatient with my fumbling she didn't show it as she stood there impassively watching me finally succeed at anchoring the blooms after maybe the eighth attempt.
Her father was mercifully absent for all this and her mother was reassuring, taking a crude photo and encouraging us with her thick Brooklynese, "have a great time, you two!" as she shoved us out the door.
When we got to the dance, I looked around and I became aware of Jane's size. No, Jane was not fat, she was a woman surrounded by girls. All my experience up to this point had been with girls who were like me, as skinny as a rail.
This made the present experience more awkward, since I was a late bloomer, more boyish and gawky than a man even at 18, making us appear the most contrasting couple at the event. She had a body that could easily fill an orphanage, and I could have passed for her firstborn. In retrospect, the picture of us as a couple is hilarious but at the time it was mortifying.
To make matters worse, she was nearly silent as I drove her to the dance and I began to despair as I was getting no signals of any kind. I had tried conversation on every topic, school, music, friends, and the various scandals and intrigues of Cyndi's wild life, but at most I'd been able to raise one dry smile, and that was by accident when fumbling with my napkin during dinner. Just my luck. Girls only laugh when I'm not trying to be funny.
Her responses to everything was generally three words of less. Her eyes were thin and her mouth closed with perhaps slight disapproval, periodically scanning the room and we sat. Was she distracted or bored? No, it wasn't that. There was no impatience or distance in her eyes, but she maintained a cool neutrality through the entire meal.
As my hopes faltered, my erection remained hopeful as I stole glances at the perfect curve of her legs bound into her black stockings.
Cyndi and Ron bounced over from the dance floor to us, Cyndi grabbing our hands dragging us to our feet. Cyndi was a force of nature that could not be deinied. They disappeared into the teeming crowd as quickly as they appeared.
Jane and I clumsily swayed through the end of "Lowrider" when the slow ballad "Lady in Red" came on. We were nowhere near our table, so I smiled sheepishly at her and she obligingly put an arm over my shoulder pressing her chest against mine. My hand rested on the small of her back feeling heat radiate against me.
Even compressed by her dress, her breasts stood out so far that I felt relief that she could not feel my straining erection. It also made it less likely that I would step on her feet, a perennial problem of mine at dances.
But all that changed as she shifted her weight for foot to foot, her belly brushed against my upward-pointing organ. In the periphery I could see her expression looked unmoved. This was the worst possible response. I was torn between relief at not being detected and disappointment for not arousing any sort of reaction.
Despite it all, I wanted her more badly than ever. She smelled of rosewater and I shifted my hand down a bit, letting my fingers rest at the top of her ass. I let my fingers glide up and down the crack, but still no response. Her eyes remained fixed outward, unmoved.
