"Yes!" I shout to Tom as we toss our helmets and pads into our lockers.
I'd gotten the green light to accompany Tom to Los Angeles for Thanksgiving. The only hitch, I promise to tour UCLA and USC.
"No problem," Tom replies as we walk toward the showers. "I'll drive you. But they're called the Trojans, you know."
"What?" I don't have clue what he's talking about.
"USC. They're the Trojans," he says making a little jerk off sign with his thumb and forefinger. "Do you really want to be known as a Trojan for the next four years of your life?"
I snap my towel at Tom's naked ass, but he's got great athletic instincts and evades it easily.
Tom does have a point. For some reason, I wonder if they distribute free Trojan condoms during USC campus tours.
Not likely.
Tom and I are post-graduate students recruited to bolster the Pine Creek Academy football team. Tom's the starting quarterback, I'm a tight-end.
A few hours later, my tight-end is on the hard plastic seat of a Pine Creek Academy bus bound for Pittsburgh International Airport.
The flight is packed with students and Tom flirts with half-a-dozen girls. (OK, maybe I do a little flirting too.) By the time we land at LAX, Tom has a date with a pretty girl wearing a Penn State sweatshirt and skin-tight yoga pants.
The woman who greets us at LAX is tall, slender, and wears a demure wool skirt with matching jacket that reveals little of her figure. Her face, except for full, expressive lips, is hidden behind oversized dark glasses.
"I'm Tommy's Mommy," she says with a childish giggle that causes Tom to roll his eyes at me. She takes my hand awkwardly, and when I bend down to kiss her on the cheek, she pulls away like a startled doe, leaving me pecking the dry California air.
"Ummmm, I'm Jason," I stutter, a little confused by her skittishness.
"Tommy's told me so much about you," she says. Her voice, though not unpleasant, has a high-pitched, little-girl tonality to it. "Why... don't you call me Maggie," she adds uncertainly.
"That'd be great, Maggie." Maybe I'm being hyper-sensitive, but it almost seems as if Maggie is wary of me.
When we got to their house in Los Feliz, the guest room is already made up. It's also white. Not just the walls, but the floor, the wooden bed, the side table, the dresser, armoire, curtains, bed spread. Even the electric clock. Everything is a creamy white.
Does someone around here have a purity complex?
The second thing I notice, having been raised in "Smallville," PA, where the nearest neighbor is half-a-mile down the road, is the view. Tommy's house is on a hillside and a carpet of lights stretch into the distance to where dark steel and glass skyscrapers are outlined against a glowing sky that makes midnight in LA look like dusk in Smallville.
A fragment of a song lyric plays in the back of my mind:
"Every night when the stars come out
Am I the only living soul around?"
Obviously not.
In the windows of some of the closest buildings I see lights, even shadowy silhouettes through gauzy curtains. It's almost midnight and behind some of those windows, pretty girls must be undressing, getting ready for bed. Behind other windows, lovers must be groping and caressing, climbing desperately toward a noisy climax, toward that one fleeting moment of psychological weightlessness where all is forgotten but the nerve-jangling pleasures of orgasm.
Beautiful oblivion.
And for some reason, I think of Tom's mom and they way she seemed almost frightened of me. How does her body look under her demure dress, anyway?
Does she have love handles around her waist? Has gravity taken it's toll on her breasts? Is she naturally blond? Or does she shave down there? What would she taste like? Would she be wet and slippery? Would I savor the aroma of her sex?
Twelve hours ago Gretchen and were saying goodbye for the holiday weekend with long and languid kisses that climaxed with my sperm spaying across her tongue while her vagina clenched my fingers and her clear liquid cum gushed into my mouth and down my cheeks.
In my rush to make the LA flight, I never showered after our steamy, sticky oral sex. Could I still be carrying her musky scent on my skin and clothes? Is that why Tom's mom backed off so suddenly when I leaned in to kiss her on the cheek?
If thinking about all this hadn't made rock hard, I might be feeling a little embarrassed. But at the moment, all I'm feeling is myself as I stand in the window, looking out over the city of angels with my fingers wrapped around a cock that has somehow escaped through the zipper of my jeans.
I'm about three strokes short of needing to finish what I've so absent-mindedly begun.
Since it's nearly 3:00 AM on my internal clock, I release my cock, pull the curtains closed, hang my jeans across the back of a white chair, and fall asleep immediately.
I dream that Tom's Penn-State girl is teasing my cock. She giggles and squeezes me with a skillful grip, her eyes twinkling in fascination as a little bubble of liquid flows down the tip.
"Are you going to show me your cum?" she asks, her warm hand fluttering softly up and down my shaft, her hot crimson lips hovering inches above my cock head.
I answer with a moan and push my hips into the air, aching for the moist warmth of her mouth and tongue. My cock twitches desperately and I take a deep breath sucking in the electric scent of our arousal. Except it's not the musky aroma of hot sex. It's not even the smell of sex and candy.
It's the fragrance of bacon, eggs and fresh coffee wafting from a tray on my bedside table.
The erotic dream fades like fog in the California sun, leaving me with a pleasant memory and a rampant, twitching cock.
Through half-open lids, I see I'm not alone. Maggie stands by the bed, her attention focused somewhere between my upper thighs and lower abs. During the night, I've kicked off the white sheets and comforter, exposing an engorged cock to anyone who cares to look.
And looking is exactly what Maggie does, studying me with the kind of clinical intensity you'd expect from a teenager at sex-shop peep show. After Maggie's awkward greeting at the airport, it somehow doesn't compute that she's now so transfixed by my erection.
Or does it?
Could Tommy's mommy secretly have thing for younger guys?
Now there's a stimulating thought. It doesn't take long before the exhibitionistic thrill of an attractive woman studying me with rapt attention sends a little shiver of excitement coursing through my erogenous zones.
Her gaze never wavers from my boy-parts which, make no mistake about it, are neither as long as a yardstick, nor as thick as a firehouse. Which makes the fact that she's so interested in me all the more flattering.
And stimulating.
I close my eyes. Imprinted on my mind is an image of my "Maggie's-lips fantasy." Which is to say, the pink tip of her tongue gliding suggestively across their glossy surface of her wet, sensual lips as she takes measure of my manhood. I imagine the steamy, warm sensation of those full lips parting and lowering onto my trembling cock.
I try to push this image out of my mind by thinking about college admissions tours and Pine Creek Academy football plays. I works for, like, 30 seconds.
