When I was eighteen, my mom was very patient with my rebellious teen clothing, letting me indulge in things like fishnet gloves and skater shoes. But the worst of my tastes revolved around the flared pants of the early 2000s. She silently observed as I experimented with green hair mascara and didn't object to my tube top purchases. I cringe when I look back at the pictures of myself then.
That was where I was at when Red started taking me to his friend Bill's trailer. Bill lived in the older part of town a few miles from us. It was a place he could fuck me and not have to worry about anything. Bill didn't care about much of anything. Especially his physical appearance. He was a barrel chested good old boy who blamed the northerners moving in for the high crime rate. I would listen to him and Red talk about it as his two sons, Billy and Nick, were packing up meth to sell. Then, after the pleasantry of small talk was over, Red would take me into a bedroom and fuck me.
Bill would still be at the table when we came out. He never wore a shirt. He would just be glistening with this dirty sweat that matted the hair on his shoulders and chest, staring at the television from his kitchen table. Red would hand him some money and we would leave.
It had been a week of going with him every day with the excuse of helping him do whatever work Bill had set up for him.
"Take those stupid pants off," Red said as we were barely out of our driveway.
"Huh?" I asked.
He hated that word.
"If you kick a pig in the ass, it would say the same thing," he told me on more than one occasion.
I prefer words like "sorry" and "pardon me" now that he educated me against making that sound.
He poured his beer onto my lap for that one. I reflexively raised my ass off the seat in the truck to move away from it.
"Sit the fuck down!" He screamed as he continued to pour.
I had to sit still as he emptied the bottle of Pabst Blue Ribbon onto my lap.
"Now take them off," he ordered again.
He would not be nice the third time. I already knew that much.
I pulled the oversized jeans off and pushed them to the floor with my feet.
"That's better," he said as he put his hand on my leg. "I couldn't see those pretty legs through all that. They make you look like a clown"
He laughed, and we drove off down the gravel road that led to the main road in town. No sooner had we stopped at the stop sign, Red had opened another beer and playfully tipped it between my legs. He let just enough out to soak the front of my panties and left me sitting in a wet spot.
I gave him a look like I didn't approve, but I know that didn't bother him. Red looked away like it hurt his feelings that I was mad. I knew he wanted me that way.
"Waste of beer anyway," he shrugged as we made the right turn to the old part of town.
He playfully pulled at my tube top, but I crossed my arms to keep him away.
"Come on," he begged. "Let me see those little things"
"Stop," I laughed.
I knew I should not have laughed. It only made him do it more. By the time we pulled into Bill's yard, he had exposed me at least a dozen times.
"You're a brat," I told him as I reached down to put my pants back on.
"Ain't nobody told you to put those on," he said.
He laughed like I wouldn't do it, but I opened the truck door and got out.
"Well, howdy!" Bill said as he opened his screen door.
I hated when Red was around him. He faked a southern accent and got dumber around his friend.
"She's a sight, ain't she?" Red said proudly as he followed me inside.
I had heard men talk about cars in the same manner.
"I wouldn't kick her out of bed unless it was to get on the floor," Bill laughed as the two greeted each other with a loud slap of a handshake.
Ignoring the macho display, I walked straight to the couch and lit one of the Winston cigarettes that were hanging out of the open pack.
Billy and Nick had their chins on the floor and were now staring at me like they had never seen a girl before.
Maybe they hadn't seen one in her panties and a tube top sitting on their couch.
"You always pick them," Bill laughed as he sat down at his table.
