Without exception, all sexual encounters and feelings in this story are by people 18 or older.
On a Friday afternoon shortly after my tenth birthday I sat at the kitchen table with my head down on my folded arms, sobbing. My mother came over to comfort me – sort of.
"What's the matter, Amy?" she asked, touching my shoulder.
"It isn't fair, it just isn't," I continued to sob, not really answering her question.
"Tell me about it, Amy."
"Well, my friend Jamie dropped a plastic bottle out of her backpack when we were going back to class after lunch. I picked it up but couldn't return it to her yet because the bell sounded and she sits on the opposite side of the classroom from me. So I put it on my desk so that I wouldn't forget it," I replied before stopping to sob some more.
"So what's the problem?" Mom asked.
"Well when Mrs. Morton came by my desk a little while later she saw the bottle – it was for something called 'Alive' I think," I continued before Mom interrupted me.
"Aleve?" she asked.
"Yeah, that's it. So I had to go to Principal Johnson's office with it and he said that it was bad for me to have it and that I had to serve detention all next week." I sobbed some more then lifted up my head to look my Mom in the eye. "I was trying to do the right thing, but now I'm in trouble – it's just not fair, Mom."
"Did you tell the Principal that it was Jamie's bottle?" she asked.
"No, because when he told me that it was something kids weren't allowed to bring to school I didn't want to get her in trouble too," I sniffled.
"Sometimes it may seem that life just isn't fair even when you do the right thing," she philosophized while stroking my head; "but it's God's will."
I didn't see how "God's will" had anything to do with it, but that seemed to be my parents' cop-out response to every question. They never had a solution, just a trite adage.
I was in a total funk until my thirteen year old brother, Rob, came home from basketball practice. He was my best friend, my protector, and my advocate when my religiously severe parents wanted to punish me for one transgression or the other against the Lord, like wanting to put lipstick on.
"Knock, knock, Squirt," I heard his familiar voice as the door to my room opened while I wallowed in self-pity on my bed. As he entered he said "Why the long face?"
"Rob, I got detention all next week for trying to do the right thing," I grumbled, on the verge of another bout of crying.
"Hey, cool Squirt," was his smiling reply. "Now I'm not the only black sheep of the family."
"No Rob, it's..."
"Listen, Squirt, when other people are jerks you can't let it get you down. You need some quality time with your big bro, and you'll forget all about it," he chuckled. Then he started to tickle me until I agreed to play my favorite video game with him. Then he let me win the video game (he said that he didn't but I know that he did). Then he spent the last of his money from moving lawns for neighbors to take me for ice cream even though Mom would have a conniption fit. By the time that I went to bed I was a happy camper.
I had a wide variety of other demonstrations that life wasn't fair throughout my teenage years. These included Rob getting suspended for a week for beating the shit out of three boys in my grade who were harassing me by grabbing my emerging boobs (I was well ahead of my classmates in the tit department) even though the school itself took no significant action against them; and when Rob was sixteen him having to go without a car that he worked hard to buy with his own money when our father let the insurance lapse and it was totaled by a hit and run driver when it was in his workplace parking lot.
I don't want to give the impression that life has been completely unfair to me. I was born with some significant advantages. They included having much better than average intelligence, much higher than average empathy (which I consider a benefit), and good looks.
As far as good looks are concerned, I was born with, and developed by my own sweat, all desirable female physical equipment. My face was pretty enough that I could have become a model as a teen (although my parents would hear nothing of it because "It would be consorting with the devil"). I was constantly hit on by guys who called me either "Killer," as in "killer thighs," or "Busty Betty," because I had a full D by the time that I was seventeen, or "Sultry Sue," because – well because I assume that they thought that I was sultry.
When I was nineteen I got admitted to the college of my choice. My parents had agreed to pay my expenses, which was fortunate since their income was high enough that I didn't qualify for need based scholarships. After my first semester, however, the situation changed. Quite unexpectedly – at least to me – my parents ended up getting divorced. The reason was even more unexpected given the severe religious beliefs that they both espoused when I lived at home – they both were having affairs.
The contentiousness of their divorce, which I refused to be drawn into, plus an inexplicable change in their attitudes about education ("You can get a job at a fast food restaurant and work your way up; a college education is over-valued," according to my father), left me without means to continue the second semester of my freshman year even though I had worked hard and had gotten good grades. "Another 'life isn't fair' moment," I groaned to myself as I shook my head.
My brother Rob came to my rescue once again.
Rob had always worked while going to school and even though he had not graduated from college yet he had saved enough money to cover my first tuition payment for my second semester, and books. He just gave it to me, although I promised to repay him. That bought me enough time to apply for a loan for the second and third tuition payments my second semester; he even co-signed the loan.
"Hey, Sis," he counseled, "you can't go into debt too much for your education. If you can't swing a job to pay for next year's tuition, you need to drop out a year; so get good grades this semester so that you can easily get back in once your economic situation changes. Also, while you can come live with me this summer – returning home is not an option considering what's going on with our hypocrite mother and father – you're still going to have expenses this summer."
"You're right, bro. Got any ideas for employment?" I queried.
"None off the top of my head. Just consider what your strengths are, talk to friends at school about what they're doing, and let me know if there's anything that I can do to help," he responded.
"Thanks, Rob, you're the best."
I got the loan in time to pay my second tuition installment and for my dorm and meal plan. I spent an inordinate amount of time talking to people about part-time and then summer employment to pay my way. One of my friends suggested that I talk to a senior named Gwen Swanson who always seemed to have enough money without getting loans, and who was estranged from her parents. The friend pointed Gwen out to me and said that she often went to the Student Union between classes because she had her own off-campus apartment.
Gwen was really exotic looking. She had long slender legs, shoulder length silky brown hair with auburn highlights, a striking face, and a regal demeanor. Unlike most college students she wore classy and fashionable clothes. She looked eminently successful.
The next day I sheepishly went up to Gwen at the Student Union right after lunch. She was sitting in a booth. I waited until a handsome guy sitting with her left, then apprehensively approached her.
"Hi, you're Gwen, aren't you?" I gulped.
"Yes...," she expectantly replied.
"I'm Amy Boston, a freshman here. I badly need a part-time and/or summer job and one of my friends told me that you were the most successful money-maker on campus and that I should ask your advice. Do you have a few minutes to talk?"
Gwen looked me over carefully – I can't actually describe her demeanor as she did that, but it was not hostile.
"Did your friend speculate on what my part-time job was?" she asked with raised eyebrow.
"No – I'm not even sure that she knows. She just said that you really have your act together and that you'd be the most worthwhile person to talk to," I replied.
"I've got a class in fifteen minutes. Why don't you come to my apartment tonight – it's only a ten minute walk from here. Can you do that?" she said.
"Yes; that's really nice of you, Gwen. What time, and what's your address?"
"How about 8:00 p. m.; here's my address," she said scribbling on a sheet of paper.
With that she got up and walked away, giving me a quick smile. Being up close I was surprised to see that she was as tall as I am – five feet ten inches – and that she had the poise of a fashion model. "I wonder if she is a model?" I asked myself, and then thought better of it. "She's not skinny enough to be a model," I mused since she looked much better than someone who starved themselves, like models are known to do. "I guess that I'll find out tonight," I chuckled to myself as I walked to my next class.
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I got to Gwen's apartment building a few minutes before eight. I couldn't fucking believe it. It was about as far from student housing as you could get; it looked like a first class building. It even had a security guard.
"Amy Boston to see Gwen Swanson," I self-consciously told the security guard.
"You're on the list," he said with a big smile after checking a clipboard in front of him. "She's in 3C, elevator on your left."
"Thanks," I said, returning his smile.
Obviously the guard had called up because Gwen was waiting for me with her door open when I got to the third floor. She was now dressed casually in Daisy Duke cutoffs and blouse. She looked HOT (and I don't mean because the air-conditioning was broken; it was working just fine).
"Hi, Gwen; thanks for seeing me," I chimed.
"Would you like a glass of Pinot Noir?" she asked as I walked into her apartment.
Though I was not yet twenty, and I didn't normally drink, I knew that Pinot Noir was wine, and I wanted her to like me so I said, "Sure, if it's not too much trouble."
"No trouble," she replied.
I was shocked by her apartment. It had classy furniture with color-coordinated drapes, what looked like original artwork on the walls, and a hardwood floor with an oriental rug. While it was small it gave the vibe that it was really expensive; certainly everything was in good taste.
