Mmm. Warm apple pie. Warm apple pie with just a hint of vanilla, sort of like pie a la mode.
At perhaps the most magical moment of my life, that amazing smell was giving my senses —primarily my sense of touch — a good run for its money.
I was balls deep in Angela Talarico — the first time for both us — and while it wasn't the smoothest or the best either of us would have in our lives, it was still our first, and it was a sensory overload for me ... and yet, in the middle of it all, I could smell the combination of her perfume, hair spray and yes, sweat, and she smelled amazing. More than 40 years later, I can close my eyes and remember that smell.
I don't remember the actual fucking quite as well as the smell. I won't pretend it was lovemaking; it was two virgins trying to pretend it was lovemaking in the back seat of my mother's 1972 Ford LTD. It was prom night our senior year, and like many teenagers, we lost our virginities on this special night.
It was noteworthy, however, that Angela and I didn't go to the prom, or to any of the other weekend activities that everyone plans around the event. I walked up behind her in the line at the movie theater, and she smiled self-consciously. I returned her smile, and we both laughed. While almost every other senior at Commack South High School was at the prom, we two losers had both come unaccompanied to the movie theater on a beautiful May evening in 1974.
Angela and I had known each other since my family moved to town five years previously. Officially, I am Nicholas Trczynknarvski, and because both of our last names began with the letter "T," I very often sat right behind Angela in the several classes we had together through the years. In that time, we had gone from mere acquaintances to pretty good friends to... whatever the hell we were calling this. Regardless, she was my first, and I was hers.
They always say that the clerks at Ellis Island shortened a lot of immigrants' names when they came over to the United States because they couldn't spell them or understand them. If that's true, than I don't even want to know what my real last name is. I always felt that I should score a 100 on every spelling test I took just for spelling my name correctly. Maybe that's why to my family I'm Nikki, but to everybody else who's important in my life and even everyone who isn't, I'm just called "Trick."
Except to Angela: I have always been Nicholas, pronounced with all three syllables instead of slurred into two.
It was easy to tell Angela didn't think much of me for the first year my family lived in town. I was a small skinny seventh-grader with a lot of dark brown unruly hair. Depending upon who you talked to, I was either a quirky genius or a lazy bum, and probably both were true to some extent. I could get great grades if I wanted, but I rarely had the inclination. I was bored to tears most of the time at school, and my competitive fires were dulled when I found out how many kids were cheating to get good grades. Most days, I just showed up, kept my mouth shut and was one of the many anonymous kids.
Angela, on the other hand, was almost my polar opposite. She was incredibly smart — probably the smartest kid in our grade — and was as competitive as anybody I had ever met. She was relentless and wasn't going to let anybody hold her back. She barely tolerated when the lesser lights asked questions of the teachers, probably because she felt they were slowing down her education.
She also didn't have much tact at that time in her life, and was very direct when dealing with everybody. Along the way,
somebody
must have explained tact to her, and he or she at least got her to be tolerable. Nobody wondered why she didn't have too many friends.
Not only was Angela a force to be reckoned with in the classroom, she was a force to be reckoned with physically. She was 5-8 in seventh grade and towered over almost every other girl in our grade. She was also about 150 solid pounds, with early boobs and a fairly large back-end. Despite the oversized glasses she wore, I thought she was pretty, with dirty blonde shoulder-length hair, dark blue to hazel eyes and northern Italian pale white skin.
For comparison purposes, I went 4-11 and weighed 68 pounds. That might have had something to do with young womanhood not exactly knocking down my door.
I had two classes with Angela in seventh grade, and I bet she didn't say more than a dozen words to me the entire year. That was pretty typical of how the year went for me anyway, since I was the new kid in school and pretty much nobody talked to me.
My social life picked up a nick in eighth grade, but my relationship with Angela stayed consistently cool. Then in ninth grade she occasionally deigned to talk to me for a few words here and there. Either way was fine with me, because I had made a few good friends at this point and had a small social life, and as for dating, well... Angela didn't date anyone because I don't think there was a guy in our high school that had the inclination or the guts to ask her out. The rumors in the hallways were that she was gay, which in the 1970s was not a good thing.
Long Island was a mecca for Italian girls, and all I had eyes for in ninth grade was Jennifer Armoroli, a darker-skinned southern Italian who had the greatest legs to stride the earth and wore shorts skirts with nude pantyhose to show them off. To quote Bob Seger, "she was a black-haired beauty with big dark eyes, and points all her own sitting way up high, way up firm and high."
My love was only from afar, because I never had the guts to ask her out.
Between my freshman and sophomore years, biology smiled upon me and I grew five inches over the summer to get to 5-7-1/2, and 116 pounds. It was like the whole world sprang anew for me, and girls that previously wouldn't give me the time of day suddenly realized I was alive. Yeah, I still had that mop of long unruly hair, but now I was actually taller than many of the girls who were previously looking down on me, literally.
Maybe it was because we were now seeing almost eye-to-eye, Angela seemed to be a lot friendlier to me. We actually had a few conversations of depth, and I started to see that she wasn't an automaton without feelings. In fact, she had quite a few feelings, and I got the sense that there was a real girl somewhere in there just waiting to break free. I went out of my to talk to her and with her. Of course she was still the driven Angela, but I got to see a part of her that I don't think many others saw. We even sat together at lunch a few times and talked. I learned that she wanted to be a cardiac surgeon, and was going to attend Cornell on the way to making that happen.
Me? I was going to be a taxi driver... no, just kidding. I wanted to be a sports journalist, and was headed to the University of Missouri. She told me she thought I could do more with my life, pointing out how well I did on the big state tests and stuff like that, where everybody was on equal footing. She noted that my scores weren't too much lower than hers, especially considering that I didn't waste any of my "precious time" studying. We had become such good friends that I took her snide comments to be her way of trying to push me harder. Somewhere along the line, she must have been successful, because I wound up at Marist College studying to be a translator. I was fluent in French by my junior year in high school and knew all six tenses, which is pretty good because most French people only know four. Italian wasn't much harder for me.
Although she didn't have a lot of friends, Angela was on a bunch of committees and in a bunch of activities throughout her high school years. When one of these groups had a special to-do, very often I was her "date." While we weren't an item, it did draw a lot of looks from our peers.
Angela had the very occasional date in high school. Not that I had a lot, but I had more than she did. For prom, senior year, I had asked out a girl I liked but had not yet dated, and she turned me down. I was disappointed, but not crushed. I had several of my friends try to persuade me to take another friend who really wanted the prom experience but had not been asked. My heart wasn't in it, however, so I told them that I wasn't going to go with just anybody. And that's how I wound up at the movie theater by myself on prom night. Apparently, loser is spelled "T-R-I-C-K."
Angela and I watched the movie together, and it was only 11 when it was over, so I asked if she wanted to get a beer with me. New York was an 18 state for alcohol at that time, and there was a bar in town that I had been a regular in since I hit that mark, and that's where I took her. I don't think she ever drank beer before judging by the look on her face at her first few sips, but she took it like a trooper and downed her half of the pitcher I bought. We were just talking like regular people, although I could tell she was getting a little buzzed as she started to giggle and trip over some of her words. We were sitting in the 1-2 spots at a four-person table, and somehow she seemed to be getting closer to me as we talked. I decided one pitcher was enough for the night since I was driving, and after paying the waitress we both got up to leave. We were practically standing on top of each other at that point, and I'm not quite sure what possessed me, but I leaned in and kissed her softly on the lips. The kiss lasted maybe three or four seconds, but I could see she was flushed when we broke apart, although neither one of us stepped back. She then leaned in and initiated the next kiss, although this one was not soft. At that point, all my ability to reason left me.
The next thing I was aware of was moving my car to a dark spot at the back of the parking lot, and both of us getting in to the large comfortable back seat. Again, I'm not totally sure how we both got out of our clothes. We were kissing and fumbling with body parts, and I remember having my tongue deeply embedded in her mouth before she moved her head back and told me I needed to move my body up a little bit to enter her. I did as she bade, and slowly started entering. My dick found a little resistance, and that's when I realized she was a virgin, too.
"Special night for both of us, I guess," I said softly, and seeing the smile on her face, I went back to easing myself inside of her.
She was holding her breath a bit until I felt a sort of a pop come from her pussy, then she exhaled heartily and let out a moan. She started to move with me at that point, and everything was right with the world for the next five minutes. At that point I could feel this incredible, pleasurable pressure building up in my balls, and then my strokes became erratic as I started to ejaculate inside of her. She continued to make small moaning noises every time I thrust until I finally ran out of cum.
I was laying half on top, half to the side in the back seat, and both of us were breathing heavy when she suddenly started to giggle. I immediately got defensive, wondering if I had done something wrong, but she put a finger to my lips to quiet me.
"Do you know how many of our friends are going to be doing the same thing we just did tonight, but spent $200 or more for the privilege of doing it? We just spent, what, $12?"
I got the joke and joined her when she started laughing again.
