to act like you belong here,” Dad likes to say whenever he gets us lost on vacation, which is every vacation. I don’t care if I belong here or not, but somebody needs to give my dick a map.
Laura reaches down and clasps me in hand. “It’s okay, Hank, I can do it.”
She clasps me in her hand, pulls me inside her. I push for the first time, but way too hard. “Ouch,” she says under her breath. “Careful.”
“Sorry,” I say.
“It’s okay.”
I reenter her as “Don’t Stop at the Top” segues to “Rhythm of Love.” I try to be gentle this time, cupping Laura’s left breast in my right hand and propping myself over her with my left forearm to her side. Our bodies move in an awkward harmony, forgiving one another’s missteps. I can already tell positioning myself higher is more pleasurable for her, less so for me, and that when I drop my torso below hers, the reverse is true. My lips get carried away on her left nipple, remembering Beth’s sharp teeth and maybe returning the favor with a little too much relish.
“Easy, Hank.”
“Sorry.”
“Just relax.”
Easy for her to say. She’s not the one about to unleash sixteen years of pent-up hormones and testosterone into the world. As Klaus Meine serenades us with “Passion Rules the Game,” I move my arms around Laura’s body, reaching down to dig my fingers into her bare ass. I lift her into me. Laura arches her back and moans.
I shudder, releasing myself inside her.
I stay inside Laura for what seems like forever. Or at least, I wish it was forever. Holy shit, this is awesome. For the last five years, I’ve chosen masturbation over this? I’m a fucking idiot.
We stare into each other’s eyes, panting and sweating. I pull out and roll off her only after my wrists go numb. We both try to catch our breath as the guitar solo kicks in for “Media Overkill.”
“You practically made it through four songs,” Laura says.
“Is that good?” I ask.
“I would think four seconds is impressive for a sixteen-year-old.”
“I might have masturbated earlier in the day.”
“When?”
“Whenever. Keeps me sane.”
“So you do it a lot?”
“Define a lot.”
“Two or three times.”
“In a day? Yeah, that’s about right.”
“I was thinking in a week.”
I lean in, kiss Laura on the cheek. I can feel the room starting to exhale.
“I take it everybody knows then?” Laura asks.
“That I masturbate two or three times a day?”
“No, dumbass. That we’re back together.”
“Yeah, I told everyone Monday morning before school.”
“How’d Beth take it?”
And the room puckers up one more time. “Why do you care what Beth said?”
“Well…” Laura says. “You know.”
“I know what?”
“She and you were…”
“We were friends,” I say. “We are friends.”
“Friends with benefits?”
“Jesus Christ, Laura. Can we just enjoy tonight?”
“Time’s up, lovebirds!” Kent pounds on the door.
We turn on the lights. I watch Laura get dressed. I see her naked back and the curve of her ass in full view for the first time.
“Are you sneaking a peek at me, Mr. Fitzpatrick?”
“That depends.”
“On what?”
“Are you going to stop being a jealous hose beast?”
We snuck back into Kent’s room and had sex two more times that night. I attended the greatest rock concert of my life, and yet, of the five bands and twelve hours’ worth of music, aside from a vague image of a choreographed human pyramid involving Scorpions’s Klaus Meine, Rudolf Schenker, and Matthias Jabs during the intro to “The Zoo,” I can’t recall one song from the show. What’s more, I don’t give a shit. My amnesia is glorious. My smile is so big it hurts.
Virgins have no fucking clue how good life can be.
Chapter sixteen
Laura meets me at the door wearing cutoff jean shorts and her white bikini top. She pulls me into the house, standing on her bare tiptoes. She kisses me while squeezing my ass. Her aggressiveness surprises me. I push her away.
“What’s wrong?” Laura asks.
“No ‘hello,’ or ‘I’ve missed you’ first?”
Laura smiles, grabs me by the front belt loops on my jeans and pulls me into her. “And here I thought I was the one who needed to be romanced.”
“What about your parents?” I ask, our lips nearly touching.
“Gone for the weekend,” she answers.
“You’re kidding me.”
“Nope.”
“So we have the whole house…”
“To ourselves.”
I stare at her eyes, then at the area in question below her waist. “And I suppose you’re going to tell me you’re free and clear to, uh…”
“Hank…” Laura unzips her shorts. “I’ve been open for business since Friday morning.”
Losing your virginity the day before your girlfriend starts her period is like winning the lottery and being forced to wait a week to cash in your ticket. Contrary to popular belief, “blue balls” is not a figment of a teenage boy’s imagination, much less some psychosomatic last-ditch effort to get some action. I did the research after Dad’s vasectomy reversal. There’s a medical term for it—epididymitis, defined as an inflammation of the epididymis, or scrotal sac. Blue balls occur, more or less, when the scrotal sac is stopped up with sperm that left the testes but not the penis. The vas deferens is the conduit for the sperm from the testes to the urethra, and whenever it’s blocked it feels like someone is wailing on your balls with a Louisville Slugger.
Laura
