“What’s so funny?” Wes asks.
“Look.” I hold my hair up with my hands. “Don’t worry, they don’t hurt.”
His jaw drops when he sees them. Then he smiles smugly. “Hey, do I have any?” he asks, tilting his head up.
“Yes!” I shriek. “You have a couple little ones, under your ear. I bet Paul and the other guys on the team will be teasing you like crazy at practice Monday.”
“Great,” he says sarcastically.
Then we both break out laughing. At the next red light, I lean over and hug him. “Between the smoke detector and this, we’ve had an exciting week.”
“A little too exciting for my taste, but yeah, in retrospect it’s pretty funny.”
“Hey, even if some psycho killer did try to get us, you’re so fit, you could’ve kicked his ass.”
“Dom, it’s really difficult to kick ass with a hard-on.”
I giggle nervously, and I wonder how long it’s going to be before I get a look at his hard-on. I’m also a little shocked he even said the word, but if tonight was any indication, he’s growing out of his shyness fast. We both are.
When Wes drops me off at my building, we make out for a good five minutes in the front seat before I
reluctantly go upstairs. I don’t care that everyone driving by, including the cops, can see everything that’s going on.
Now that parking in Wes’s car is officially a bad idea, we’re forced to consider alternative venues.
Amy’s lucky her mom and stepdad have season tickets or memberships to every sports team, museum, and dramatic arts center within a fifty-mile radius. They’re always out on the town for hours at a time, and Amy can bring home her hookup du jour without anyone being the wiser.
Unfortunately, both Wes’s and my parents swear by the “early to bed, early to rise” motto and stay home most evenings. But three days after we’re busted by the cop, I propose a solution to Wes during one of our now nightly phone calls.
“So, do you remember when we were looking at your photographs, and you mentioned your grandparents in SoHo keep a condo on Captiva Island? What’s it like?”
“Um, I dunno, it’s nice for a studio. It’s on the second floor, Gulf view. There’s an indoor garage, no elevator. Why do you—? Oh.” He chuckles. “I like how you think, Dom.”
“If it’s empty most of the time anyway, maybe you could figure out a way for us to get in?”
“Not sure, but I’ll see what I can do.”
“Good. I can’t wait till this weekend, either way.”
“Ditto.”
On Friday evening at Wes’s meet, I see his parents for the first time since we started going out. For all they know, Wes and I are already having sex, so I’m worried they’ll see me as some sort of slut-ho corrupting their precious son. I beg Amy to accompany me as moral support, and I make sure to conceal my not-quite-faded hickeys with a strategically tied bandanna.
When we get to our seats, the Gershwins seem to be their typical happy, vaguely spaced-out selves, outfitted in their usual pastel sweatsuits.
“Hello, Dominique!” Mrs. Gershwin stands up and hugs me.
I hug her back, feeling a lot more secure about everything. I figure she wouldn’t want to hug a slut-ho.
Then I shake hands with Mr. Gershwin, who says smilingly, “Good to see you, Dominique.”
Amy says brightly, “Hey, Mrs. G, Mr. G. Long time, no see.”
“Hello, Amy!” Mrs. Gershwin hugs her too. “So glad you could make it. And what fine taste in best friends you have!”
Amy nods in agreement, and I blush.
“The team’s been missing you, Braff,” Mr. Gershwin says. “You were the best distance runner by a long shot.”
“Thanks, Mr. G. I’m taking it up again at Amherst.”
When we sit down, Mrs. Gershwin leans over to whisper in my ear. “We’re so happy about you and Wesley. We knew from the first time we met that you were very special.”
Chills race down my spine I’m so delighted. “Thank you, Mrs. Gershwin,” I whisper back. “That’s really nice of you to say.”
Amy elbows me in a congratulatory way, and at the same moment Wes looks at me from across the field and winks. It’s all so perfect I almost cry. Here I am with my amazing best friend, watching my amazing boyfriend, sitting next to his amazing parents, who obviously think I’m amazing. January and February were such an emotional purgatory, but it was so worth it, just for this moment.
The streak continues that night when Wes picks me up with a kiss and a key.
“You did it!” I cheer. “You didn’t mention it, so I didn’t know.”
“I found it in Dad’s desk and got it copied during lunch.”
“You’re so sneaky! And I’m so glad, because—” I open the flap of my knapsack so he can see the contents. “I bought a sheet from Target to cover the bed with so we won’t have to worry about washing your grandparents’ sheets.”
He turns to me and grins. “Good thinking.”
A half hour later we’re in the studio. Wes keeps the lights on only for a moment so the power bill won’t reflect any more electricity usage than necessary. In those few seconds I can see there’s a small balcony that looks right onto the beach. The room is furnished with white wicker dressers and nightstands, a cedar and brass grandfather clock, peach-colored carpet and drapes, a mini dining room table, and, best of all, a huge white canopy bed. This will be the first bed we’ve ever been in together.
I unfold the new sheet and drape it over the comforter. Wes turns out the lights. Then I hear him lock the door.
Wes comes up behind me and cups my breasts in his hands. Almost as a reflex I reach behind me and rub the bulge in his shorts. Was our first kiss really just two weeks ago? Amy’s told me how difficult it is to stop making out once things really get going. I never understood that before Wes, but it is really difficult to stop, or even just to take things slowly. Now that we’ve gone this far, I can’t imagine there being a time when just a good-night kiss will be enough for either of us. And I hope it never is.
Wes and I kiss passionately, almost desperately, as we undress each other. He removes everything but my underwear. I take off his T-shirt and sneakers. Soon we’re on the bed with me on top. Then I sit up, straddling his thighs. He lies perfectly still as I unbutton and unzip his shorts. I’m assuming he has underwear on, so I don’t hesitate as I quickly draw his shorts down below his hips.
“Whoa,” I gasp like some shocked virgin, which I guess I am. I wasn’t anticipating seeing his erect penis right away; it’s protruding up through the flap in his boxers and resting against his lower belly.
“What’s wrong, Dom?” He looks down. “Shit, I’m sorry. I didn’t know—” He reaches down to his boxers, but I gently stop his hand.
“No, it’s okay.” I try to give him a reassuring smile, but my heart is beating so fast I think my face is twitching.
Even by the dim blue moonlight filtering in through the glass balcony doors, I can recognize the features of his penis from my anatomy books. The shaft, the head, the urethral opening—it’s definitely all there.
Only it looks so much more alive and urgent than any photograph could ever capture. I lean forward over Wes’s torso so I can study it head-on. Then I notice it bobbing up and down slightly with his heartbeat, as if it’s waving me on. I sit back on his thighs and take a deep breath.
I don’t feel ready to touch it just yet, so I start by easing my hands underneath his boxers and lightly rub the area surrounding it. His pubic hair is so long and coarse! It never occurred to me before that guys probably rarely trim this stuff, if ever. In Florida it’s always bikini season, so I’m constantly shaving down there.
Wes murmurs something unintelligible and closes his eyes. He’s obviously into this. Soon I close my hands in on his balls, but I’m not sure what to do with them. I’ve seen enough slapstick about guys getting kicked in the nuts to know they’re ultrasensitive, so I pet them in a tickly, f
eathery way. This is by far the most delicate part of Wes I’ve come across yet—the consistency makes me think of a baby bird, or squishy nectarine skin, scattered with hair. It’s truly surreal to think I’m holding Wes’s scrotum, his personal sperm generator.
Now I’m on the bed to the side of his left hip, and I ease his shorts and boxers down to his knees. As I sit there beholding the entire package, I picture myself in a Science Quiz match.
Now for the final question: Does a respectable and responsible seventeen-year-old girl stimulate the penis of her significant other in his grandparents’ vacation home while their trusting parents think they are out bowling?…Ms. Baylor?
Hell yes!
I lightly clutch Wes’s penis with my right hand and start to stroke it lightly, up and down the length of it.
Back in middle school, Amy and I would always sneak into her mom’s office and pore over her sex encyclopedia. I wish I had a better recollection of what it said about manual stimulation.
“Listen,” I say softly, “I’m just sort of exploring. I have absolutely no idea what to do.”
“That’s fine, this feels great,” he says hurriedly, over his heavy breathing.
I continue to stroke him, and it’s cool how the skin can move up and down a little, like it’s not really attached to whatever’s underneath. I try to vary the speed and position of my hand, but Wes just continues to groan in the same, quiet way. After a few minutes of this exercise, I’m wondering why he hasn’t ejaculated. Do you have to do something special to finish a hand job? I don’t remember anything about grand finale techniques in the sex encyclopedia.
I guess Wes can tell I’m getting discouraged because he wraps his hands around mine and guides me
through a few strokes. He says it responds well to pressure. When he releases his hold I tighten my grip.
“Hey, don’t pull it off.”
“Oh, sorry, sorry.”
“And can you take off your ring? It chafes.”
“Oh yeah, I should have thought of that.” I reach for my purse and drop in the mood ring.
“You know what feels good? When you touch the tip.”
“Oh, okay.” I take him back in my hands.
“And, um, don’t forget about these,” he says while pointing to his balls.
I have to hold back laughter—I thought guys were supposed to be easy to get off.
Now my right hand is stroking his penis, and the other is caressing his testicles. I’m feeling very ambidextrous. I wonder if I’d ever be able to get my mouth around his penis if I tried. But that’s definitely not going to happen tonight. Blow jobs are really serious business, and I’m not even sure what I’d need to do once I got down there. It’s tricky enough with two hands.
After five more minutes, still nothing. My hands are now sticky from my own sweat, so my palms keep tripping up and getting stuck unevenly on his penis.
“Ugh, I’m terrible at this.”
“No, no. You’re doing great. I’m not lying.”
“I feel like I’m hurting you. There’s so much friction.”
“Hey, could you lick your hands? Like, really salivate on them?” Wes has a desperate look in his eyes.
Even though the idea completely grosses me out, I give my palm a lick. I can already tell it’s not going to be enough, so I generate some more saliva in my mouth and do it again. I can’t bring myself even to look at my slobbery hand as I move it back to his dick, but it seems to do the trick.
“Okay, yeah, better, much better. Yeah,” he moans. “Can you go faster?”
I can barely feel my arms now, and my shoulders are sore, but I take deep breaths and keep going.
Every few seconds I alternate hands and lick them. “Hand job” is such a misnomer for this full-body routine. It’s like I’m a one-man band.
Soon a few drops of something hot leak onto my fingers. Wes’s breathing is getting heavier too, and suddenly he mutters breathlessly, “Tighter. Ah, Aah, Dom. Dom—”
I feel a stiffening of his penis in my hands as the tip expels a thick, creamy liquid. Wes’s legs tremble and his back arches as he groans loudly. I discover the warm, white goo cascading down my knuckles serves as a great lubricant, so I stroke even faster.
“Dom…you can stop…. Stop now!” he almost shouts.
Taken aback by his tone of voice, I instantly let go of his penis, which begins to lose its stiffness and bend over to one side. After a few seconds Wes places his hand on my shoulder reassuringly.
“Sorry, Dom. It hurts if you keep doing it after I come.”
“Oh, okay. I understand.”
Wes takes one of the tissues from the nightstand and wipes the semen off his dick and stomach. I look down at my palms, now a deathbed for hundreds of millions of tiny sperm that never had the chance to pursue their singular purpose. But I don’t feel guilty. In fact, I can’t remember the last time I’ve felt such a sense of accomplishment.
After washing up in the bathroom, I crawl back into bed. Wes shudders when my cold hands touch his warm, sweaty abdomen.
“So, was that okay?” I ask, though I’m pretty sure it was.
“Um, let’s see. Yeah! ”
I look down and am startled how much smaller his penis is. It’s a quarter of the size it was three minutes ago. He doesn’t look embarrassed to be lying before me naked, though, which is cool. I’m glad I make him comfortable.
I say, “In movies, this is always when the guy rolls over and goes to sleep.”
“Nah, I want to take my revenge first.” Wes reaches his hand for my underwear, and I’m instantly scared. What if he can’t make me orgasm? Or what if he can? In movies women make strange noises and even stranger facial expressions while it’s happening. I don’t think I want Wes to see me like that.
What if I squeal or scream or fart or say something stupid?
“Hey, listen, you don’t have to do it to me if you don’t want to. I mean, I don’t…I didn’t do that expecting anything in return.”
He screws up his eyebrows. “Are you kidding? I want to.”
“Well, the thing is, I’m sorta having that bad time of the month.” My period actually ended two days ago.
“Oh.” He looks disappointed.
“I want to, but I’d rather wait till it’s over.”
“Yeah, that’s okay. No worries, Dom.”
Now I’m afraid I ruined the good mood, so I try to turn the conversation back to him. “I’m curious about something, though. When you were actually, you know, what did it feel like for you, when it was happening?”
“You mean when I came?”
“Yeah. Then.”
“I dunno, it’s hard to describe.”
“I know, but I’m really curious what it’s like for a guy to have one.”
“Well, at first it feels sort of light and zingy, and then, bam! ” He claps his hands together. “It’s Chernobyl.”
“Chernobyl?”
“Yeah, Chernobyl.”
“Huh. So your orgasms are basically the physiological equivalent of a nuclear explosion at a Russian power plant?”
He laughs. “Yes, Ms. Science Quiz, it’s a meltdown.”
Wes climbs on top of me and rests his head on the flat space between my breasts. I keep one arm around his shoulders and massage his scalp with my other hand. I love this position. I feel protective and protected at the same time.
We lie like this until the grandfather clock strikes midnight. After we get dressed, we cover our tracks by smoothing out the bed and flushing the used tissues down the toilet.
Idon’t know if I simply forgot Wes told me he was going away for spring break, or if I blocked it out, not wanting to believe that we’re going to be separated for nine whole days. Either way, ever since Wes reminded me his family will be vacationing with the Skys in Paris, I haven’t been able to stop thinking about Wes and former girl next door Jessica running together along the banks of the Seine.
Amy says I have paranoia and insecuri
ty issues and that if Wes misbehaves in Paris, then he’s obviously wrong for me and I should be glad to find that out now before things go too far. That doesn’t make me feel any better, though.
The Friday before the Gershwins leave for France, the air-conditioning at their home breaks. His parents decide to escape the heat by going to dinner and a community theater production of Guys and Dolls out in Naples. They ask us to come, but of course we decline so I can help Wes study biology. Yeah, right.
We’re jumping at the chance to mess around at his place and not have to trek out to Captiva.
As soon as the Gershwins drive away, Wes and I race upstairs, slide into his bedroom, and almost violently strip each other down to our underwear. I’m taking a second to lay my watch and mood ring on his nightstand when I catch sight of the other Jessica lounging on Wes’s desk chair. She seems to be watching us intently, and we make eye contact. When Wes turns his back to switch off the lights, I stick
out my tongue at her. He’s mine now, bitch!
We’re on the bed and I reach for his boxers, but he pushes my hands away. “No, you come first, Dom.”
Then we both laugh and he says, “I mean, you first tonight.”
I nod and lie down on his bed. This time I feel ready.
Wes says, “I’ve only a vague concept of what I’m supposed to do. So I’ll need some instruction.”
“Actually, I’m just as clueless as you are.”
He crinkles his brow. “Haven’t you ever tried?”
“Huh?”
“You know what I mean.”
“Um, not really.” I blush. I’m embarrassed to admit I’ve been touching myself every day in the shower this past week, trying to psych myself up for this. It got to the point where it felt good, but never Oh God-ly. I can’t figure out what I’m doing wrong. Maybe I’m just thinking about it too much, or I haven’t been turned on enough when I’m by myself.
“Really? Never?” Wes asks.
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