So, you're young, and you need guidance about sex, and they send you to a religious leader, who either thinks sex is a sin, or isn't supposed to have had any, ever. Sounds like a government program. Doesn't make much sense, does it?
My take on an alternative. I hope you enjoy it.
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Ah, small town life. It's everything you ever thought it would be, and less.
Gimme a B... gimme an O... gimme an R... I... N... G!
Thank goodness for the internet and Netflix, otherwise I'm sure I would have lost my mind growing up there. Our town was so rural it made the Andy Griffith Show look like a major metropolitan area. I know, because one of the channels we did get had that show on reruns, every Tuesday.
When I was young, my opinion was much different, of course. Lots of friends my age to play with, lots of room to roam, and lots of sunshine in the summers. Friends with pools, friends with dirt bikes, friends with cool parents that didn't mind feeding the neighbourhood kids. It was fun then. If only I didn't have to grow up.
But I did, and the same area that was once my playground now became a prison, where time never moved. It used to seem like the days just flew by, so fast we ran out of daylight before we ran out of energy. Then I got older, and each day was an eternity.
An eternity with very little to do.
Well, for the adults, there did seem to be at least one activity that filled the void. Most of the families in the community were on the large side, and some were getting bigger with regularity, so the logical conclusion was that someone was getting laid. I suppose it's like the statistics about a spike in births, nine months after a blackout in a big city.
When there's nothing on TV, sex is great entertainment.
That didn't apply to us, however. Those of us who were in the no-man's-land between childhood and adult status. We had no such outlet, unless you count masturbation, which is something we all did, but never talked about.
To that end, I had a nice cozy little pocket carved into our hay loft, where I could have some privacy to deal with the urges of youthful sexuality. Tucked in there as well was a considerable stash of Hustler, Playboy, Penthouse, and various other men's magazines. It was my hobby. I'd make a visit there every day, at least once, and polish my hard cock lovingly while looking at the busty nude women in the glossy pages, all while yearning for the day that the woman I lusted over was more than paper.
That day was coming, pardon the pun, but not quickly enough for my tastes.
***
There were plenty of girls around to fantasize about, of course. I don't want to paint the picture of an all-male community, pining for females. Lots of girls my age, and their mothers.
The problem is that, being a very small community, everyone knew everyone else. So, if you had a date with a girl, the whole town knew about it. It was gossip for days in advance. No pressure there. With the whole town watching our every move, there's little wonder everyone was still a virgin right up to their eighteenth birthday, despite our best efforts to change that.
It's also little wonder that the teenagers here were eager to go away to college. At least there, they would only face the usual challenges of dealing with the opposite sex. I noticed that some of my elder friends became much more relaxed after they turned eighteen, something that none of them would talk about, but I presumed was because they were anticipating that first time. It was within reach for them now.
I had no idea how far off base I was. I wouldn't know for sure until I had my birthday.
In the centre of town, we had a small square, and on one side there was our local church. It was small, like everything else in town, but well attended, and every Sunday the entire population would squeeze into that one building for a few minutes of subtle peer pressure.
Pastor MacMillan was not a typical religious leader, preferring a kinder, gentler form of guidance over the fire and brimstone so often preached elsewhere. All he really did was remind us that we should be good to each other, and put ourselves in the other's place from time to time. 'Do unto others' was his stock sermon, and it worked just fine, as the town was quite peaceful.
As previously mentioned... so peaceful, it was boring.
The Pastor and his wife lived in the small house behind the church. He was a fair bit older than his wife, but there was surprisingly little gossip about that subject, at least among the adults.
Among the teen boys of the town, however, Mrs. MacMillan was a prime topic of conversation. It really wasn't fair, wasting such a gorgeous creature as her on a man who probably didn't appreciate her beauty as much as he should.
Even though she always dressed very conservatively, in long skirts and buttoned up blouses, there was no hiding her spectacular body, or her incredible beauty. Long, dark, almost black hair, with a fullness and wave to it. Plump, luscious lips, that looked very kissable without makeup, and even better on the few occasions she wore lipstick. Glamourous, dark eyes, surrounded by long, sexy lashes, and a tanned, Latina complexion. She was truly beautiful.
As for the aforementioned body, well, she was tall, and lean, and just about the only thing in this town that the word 'small' didn't apply to. To be fair, there were other women in the community who had lovely, ample chests as well, but Mrs. MacMillan had them beat. That she had every male in town drooling was a given, but she was not only married, she was married to the Pastor. So, public drooling was kept to a minimum. Add to that the fact that she was just about the nicest person you'd ever met, and you can see why most of us felt a little guilty about the thoughts that she sent rampaging through our heads.
As it turns out, those thoughts were a little conservative.
***
We had this tradition in our town, intended to usher those of us approaching adulthood into a spirit of community service. Every year, all those who would be turning eighteen in the next twelve months would form a crew that took care of various town projects for the year. Cutting grass, painting fences, pruning trees, trimming hedges, that sort of thing.
Not everyone who was drafted for this service went along quietly, as there were a few who viewed it as slave labour, and said so vocally. By some inexplicable coincidence, it was those same malcontents that wound up doing the worst jobs, a fact that made me happy my parents taught me to think before speaking. I was assigned to the main square area, where the town hall and Pastor MacMillan's church were situated.
In retrospect, I was very happy that was the case, but at the time, in the sun, on a day I'd rather be hanging out by one of my friend's pools, checking out their sisters... well, it's fair to say that while I was silent, I wasn't pleased.
I was up on a ladder, using a wire brush to scrape loose paint and rust off the scroll work at the top of a lamp post. It wasn't difficult work, but it was hot work. From my elevated vantage point, I saw Mrs. MacMillan come out of the church, and walk across the square, towards the supervisor.
She was dressed in her normal, very conservative fashion; a black skirt reached just below her knees, but was snug enough that it showed the curves of her backside and thighs underneath, while a white blouse was covered by a thin, tight-fitting beige sweater. She strode across my view in profile, with her long dark hair flowing behind her, and the impressive projection of her breasts jutting forward ahead of her.
She stopped, and had a brief conversation with our supervisor, smiling as usual the whole time. She gestured, and glanced in my direction, causing me to look away from her, and concentrate on my work, pretending I hadn't been watching her closely.
I was scrubbing furiously with the brush, prepping the lamp post for the next worker, who would slap on a fresh coat of paint. I didn't even see Mrs. MacMillan silently glide to a stop at the foot of the ladder.
"Hello, up there, mister Andover," she smiled.
