Love at a Tender Age (John Warren Wells on Sexual Behavior)

by Lawrence Block

  We left soon after that and he just drove and drove. We parked for a brief time, but just enough time to get heated up. He put his hand up my pullover and squeezed my breasts while we were kissing. Then he put my hand on his crotch. Believe me, I didn’t know what to do with my hand. I knew, yet I didn’t. (Do you understand? I know I don’t.) After a few minutes we disengaged.

  We drove toward the school. I couldn’t understand why, though. Then it dawned on me—the woods. Part of the school grounds are comprised of woods. They are off-limits during school hours, but after we usually take the woods as a shortcut home. Needless to say, Greg knew every inch of the woods.

  We walked and walked and I was lost. Finally we got to the place. It was very beautiful, surrounded on all sides by trees. He grabbed me to him and held me tightly for a long time. All the time we were there was one long kiss. He unzipped my jeans, pulled my panties down and fingered me. Meanwhile, I had unzipped his fly and I was massaging his cock.

  I was standing against a tree. Finally my jeans were completely off. I knew that there were many different ways to screw but what he did next surprised me. He put his hands under my bum and lifted me up. Let me tell you right now that it didn’t work. We then tried the conventional way—didn’t work either. He just couldn’t get it in, and God knows I tried to help him. Shortly after we left the woods. Ever since, Greg and I have really gotten on together, despite various problems.

  Next: one of my teachers, who I shall call Mr. K. Mr. K. has the reputation of being “a fairy nice man.” Well, if he’s gay, he sure hides it well. Mr. K. is allegedly twenty-nine years old and is very handsome. Just to tell you some nonsense, I’ll tell you about the time when he changed seating arrangements.

  That morning when I came in, he called me over and told me that I distracted the boys dressed as I was. (I had on a sizzler outfit, not too short, but scoop neckline.) I didn’t say anything, but went back to my third-row seat. As soon as I sat down, he announced that we could pick any seat and keep it for the duration of the year. I chose one in the last row. Finally, after everyone had picked a seat, there was one left—right in front of him. He asked if there was anyone who would like to occupy the seat. Of course no one volunteered. All of a sudden he got a childish grin on his face and said, “Julie, would you like to sit here?” I said no. “Well, come sit here anyway.” What could I do but sit there?

  At that time I despised him. I argued with him every chance I could get. I called him names. Once I called him a sadist, which he thought was rather funny.

  Gradually my hatred of him turned into awe. He mystified me. I love to figure out a person, if you know what I mean. I couldn’t figure him out, and I still can’t. He was like a 3000-piece jigsaw puzzle with 2 pieces missing. One thing I liked about him was his shrewdness. I also admired the way he said crazy things and the kids believed him. He lied. He was odd—uncouth, unconventional, un-everything! All the class time I spent trying to analyze him. One Saturday he saw me at the shopping mall and offered me a ride home on his bike. I love motorcycles and I just couldn’t refuse. When I got on, I instinctively put my arms around him. Then we approached his apartment. He said he wanted to get something (he did, an extra helmet for me) and asked me to come along. I figured what the heck and I went with him.

  When we got in his apartment, I practically had to burrow my way to the couch. He went to get some wine. While he was doing that, I took the opportunity to clean up a bit. He came back with the wine and I asked him how he knew that I drank wine. He said, “My, but you are a naive one, aren’t you?” I asked him what he meant and he said that he had heard about our Saturday night “wine parties.”

  He said he wondered why I disliked him. I was about to tell him when he took my face in his hands and whispered, “Do you know that I like you very much?” I was kind of carried away and can’t really explain exactly how I felt. He said that he was taken with me the first time that he saw me. I didn’t believe him because I had caught him in more than one lie.

  Then he showed me a picture in his wallet. It was a candid shot of me. I still don’t know how he got it.

  He kissed me again and caressed my breasts. Then he undid my halter. I couldn’t understand the change in him. He was so soft, gentle, loving. He kissed me all over. I don’t remember how we both got our clothes off; all I remember is the beauty of it all. Not rushed like the time that I was in the woods, but soft, calm, wonderful.

  (Much of this encounter I don’t wish to write about yet. I still want to feel as if it were all mine without telling someone about it.)

  It finally got so that I yearned to please him. But when we got to the point of sexual intercourse, he couldn’t get it in. He asked me if I was a virgin and I said yes. He said that he loved me more than ever and that I was a smart girl. We carried on for the rest of the day and that night I came home feeling so full. That’s all I can say. I felt full. Of what, I don’t know.

  Mr. K. and I still get together occasionally.

  Well, Mr. John Warren Wells, you must agree that I am a wordy person. Imagine—nine pages to relate two experiences. There’s so much more to say, but I feel as if my left hand will get the urge to chop off my right hand if I don’t stop.

  Do you regret that you wrote and said, “Just rap on at length?” Not that I did it purposely, but I guess that phrase “at length” triggered something in my mind. I won’t blame you if you deliberately throw my address away . . .

  I just remembered to explain why I couldn’t see you that day you happened to be in Detroit. I really wanted to and I was greatly upset when I missed the opportunity. That day my Mom had grounded me for the night before—which, by the way, is another chapter in itself. Also, even if I could have met you, I don’t drive and I don’t know my way around Detroit that well. Perhaps next time we can better plan it.

  Peace, love, and moonshine,

  Julie

  The pattern is an interesting one—the illegitimate child of a young teen-aged mother, her biological father presumably unknown, her mother’s desire but inability to keep her—note that her biological mother is always referred to as “the girl”—her experience in foster homes, her adoption, and the ultimate loss of her second father. One wonders at the part of Julie’s story that exists between the lines. Why, for instance, did she attend eight different schools while changing her residence only once?

  Here are her two most recent letters

  Dear (a) Mr. Wells, or

  (b) Mr. John Warren Wells, or

  (c) John, or

  (d) or Jack, or

  (e) Warren, or

  (f)—(fill in as desired)

  Please state your preference as to the salutation. Thanx!

  I got your letter on Saturday and was planning a quick response, but that night there was a terrific accident. Saturday night (to give you an idea of what a hyperactive teenager’s night is like) I was planning to go to a party if it rained, a hayride if it didn’t, a band festival before the hayride, and an exciting party after. Well, it didn’t rain at the beginning, so I made it to the hayride. Everything was going well until a guy fell off the wagon and the tractor went into reverse and ran him over.

  After that, my memory blots out. All I know is that I was very drunk, and when I got home, I was very sick.

  Although this isn’t relevant, my favorite wines are muscatel, Catawba Pink, Strawberry Hill, and Burgundy. In fact, I have a 1966 Burgundy that I’m saving for some special occasion, whenever that may be. I may have it on my birthday, which is coming up soon. I can hardly wait, but then again, I don’t want to get old. Oh, well, that’s my problem! I am trying to enjoy my youth as much as possible while I can!

  Would you believe that I’m now what is called a “mistress?” I kinda dig that title. I’m not really a full-fledged mistress, but I’m getting there. Actually, he’s the father of the children I baby-sit. He’s 33 and some dude. His name is Ray and he’s in the process of getting divorced. It all started two months ago, and i
t happened quite unexpectedly. If you think that you might be interested in my little “affair,” please tell me so. I daren’t write anything that may bore you.

  I am sorry that I can’t write a longer letter, but things have a way of piling up, and there comes a time when one must sort things out . . .

  Love, sunshine, and (best of all) moonshine.

  Julie

  Attention: to whom it may concern

  Dear Whom,

  Since you failed to stipulate how I am to address you, I figure I must refer to you as “whom.” Unless, of course, you do decide to inform me as to your preference. Until then . . .

  I do hope that you are feeling much better. Funny, I was tremendously ill for about a week. Did you know that I have to take tranquilizers to calm me down? The doctor told my mom that I am a hyperactive child. Just because I like to keep moving doesn’t necessarily mean that I’m hyperactive, but my doctor won’t change his mind. Soooo, I chuck the tranquilizers! I don’t want to be slowed down. I enjoy the pace I’m keeping.

  Well, now to the ever continuing saga of Miss Julie. You want to know about my little affair. Well, you asked for it. Here it is:

  It all started on August 5th, 1972. That was a Saturday and I was to go to my best girlfriend’s surprise birthday party. I never made it. You see, the guy I baby-sit for, whom I shall call Ray, phoned me about 4:30 that afternoon. It was just a normal conversation until he asked me if I was going anywhere that night. I answered yes, that I was going to a party at about eight that night. He asked to come on over at about 7:50 for a few minutes. Still, nothing struck me as peculiar until he asked me what I was going to be wearing. I was planning to wear jeans and I told him so.

  He asked me to wear one of my dresses, and requested that I wear a particular one—my cheerleading dress from my last school. It really doesn’t look like a cheerleading dress. It’s just a short, fitted, low neckline dress.

  Then I knew why he asked me over.

  (The first time I saw him, I must truthfully say that I was physically attracted to him, but I quickly shoved it out of my mind. After all, he was a married guy in his thirties and, I thought, very much in love with his wife. Little did I know. Oh well, at least I was 50% right. He was married!)

  Anyway, when he asked me if I would come over, I thought, “What the heck, why not?” I went over there and his two little kids were there. Regardless of that fact, he poured me a huge glass of Catawba Pink and told me to go into the living room. So, I went into the living room. In the meantime, he shoved one kid in the bathtub and the other in bed. Then he came into the living room and put on a record . . .

  He asked me to dance. We danced and still nothing. Then he went to help his kid with the bath. While he was doing that, I sat down in this little kid’s rocking chair, drinking my good ole wine. He came back in and stood behind the rocking chair, pushing it back and forth. I looked up at him and zap it happened.

  We kissed “passionately” and then he told me that ever since he first saw me he wanted to kiss me. Also, he said that I was pretty wild. I guess he said that because when I kiss, I french-kiss. I don’t like the regular kind of kiss—it bores me.

  After a few more kisses he said, “You want what I want, don’t you?” I didn’t answer. Then he said, “If you don’t, then why are you breathing heavy?” This time instead of waiting for an answer, he kissed me again and pinched my bum. We went back into the living room and I sat down on the couch. Then he sat on top of me, facing me. While we were kissing his kid got out of the bathtub and saw us like that, but he hasn’t said anything yet, thank God! Anyway, he put that kid to bed and we continued to carry on.

  He kept telling me I was a “tiger” and that I drove him crazy every time he saw me. Then we went to the basement. There is a mattress there completely covered by huge pillows. As soon as I got to the bottom of the stairs, he picked me up and laid me there. Then he got on top of me and kissed me a few more times, this time squeezing my breasts. Finally he said, “I can’t stand this any longer,” and he unbuttoned my dress and unzipped his fly. Without taking my panties off, he spread my legs and knelt over me.

  I can’t really explain what he was trying to do, but I’ll try. It seems like he was trying to ball me through my panties—I mean, he was thrusting and all, but my panties kind of blocked his way, if you know what I mean. This kept on for a while. After a time, he carried me back upstairs and we continued. He asked me if I was a virgin, and when I said yes, he didn’t believe me. He said that I was doing too good to be a virgin. I really wasn’t doing much—just meeting his thrusts. After all, I still had my panties on.

  Soon he took my panties off and he said he was going to rape me. I told him to forget it. See, the first time I have complete sexual intercourse, I want to be fully prepared. I want to use the proper precautions and I want the guy to be careful. Slow, gentle, and careful. Also experienced. I don’t want a guy that’s a virgin because there would probably be too much fumbling.

  Anyway, Ray was certainly not a virgin, but he was too rough. After he had my panties off, he tried to penetrate into me but he hurt me so much. He was in too much of a rush. He really hurt me. He realized that, so he asked if I had ever been fingered. Then he went to work. He did it to me as it has never been done to me. My whole body was shaking. It was fantastic. Then he went down on me. I went from one climax to another. All I can say now is “Wow!”

  A little later, we went outside for a walk to cool off. When we got back, he lay down on a chaise lounge on the patio, He motioned for me to sit astride of him, which I did. He unzipped his fly. He wanted me to go down on him. I really would have, but the thing that I’m embarrassed to admit is, I don’t know what to do after he’s in my mouth. In fact, I don’t even know how to give a hand job. I don’t know how I’ll ever learn how, because I’m too ashamed to admit that don’t know how. But that’s my headache now.

  Well, that whole episode occurred a few months ago. That scene has been more or less repeated at least sixteen times since then. The reason that I said I’m his mistress in a way and in a way I’m not is this: we’ve never really had intercourse. I want it so much, but he is too rough.

  Now there is another guy that’s more predominant in my life. He’s a leading unmarried disc jockey here. He’s really fantastic. He knows about my little affair but feels that he’s going to “protect” me. He says he wants to marry me. In the meantime, he’s educating me. It’s kind of cute. He says the part that is lovable about me is my being naive. Naive! Oh, well . . .

  Love and Peace and Sunshine,

  Julie

  A Letter from Betsy

  High Jack,

  I have just read your book Doing It! and am very impressed and realized something I think is really cool. When articles or people talked of swinging or fetishes of any form, I always pictured the participants to be in their late teens to thirties. I think it’s fantastic to realize that it’s not only a sport for the young, that the older generation is so open to such practices.

  I realize that to anyone over thirty this seems like a ridiculous letter and kind of naive, but the people I associate with (I’m nineteen so they are mostly nineteen to twenty-five) seem to think anything but the conservative man-on-top position was their own invention. I too was formerly guilty of the same illusion. Now I realize that the so-called “conservatives” could teach us a few things about awareness and the “New Morality.” I just want to say thanks and chalk one up for JWW.

  Betsy

  P.S. Hi again Jack,

  I just decided after writing what I wrote that I might as well take advantage of your knowledge and your understanding nature.

  I enjoy it immensely when someone goes down on me, but can’t get over the feeling that it is dirty. Not dirty meaning improper but dirty meaning it stinks, and that the guy only does it because he knows it pleases me. It sounds dumb but I really want to know truthfully if a guy enjoys it or just says he does because it’s the cool thing to do.
r />   Now I’m not dirty or crusty or anything. It’s just that the natural secretions seem unpleasant to me, especially when I’m horny, and I can’t seem to accept it when people say that it tastes good and things of that sort.

  So when someone starts working his way down I usually stop him. Or when he’s at it I am so taken up with the thought that he’s forcing himself to do it that I can’t get off on it. Any suggestions to help me get over it???

  I Knew A Lot About Fucking but Nothing About Girls

  Dear Mr. Wells:

  I have read and enjoyed several of your books . . . I believe you have written a book about experiences of older women with younger men and boys. I cannot recall the title of it at the moment. If so, I would greatly appreciate to know how I could obtain a copy of such a book. If you would send it to me I would gladly pay the cost and your expenses, or if you cannot do this, then if you could tell me the price and who to send away to for it.

  This is a subject of much interest to me and I have read whatever I could find on the subject, although much of those available are made-up stories to my way of thinking rather than true experiences. If you have not written such a book but know of one by some other writer which is factual and well written, please tell me what it is, etc.

  Peter

  I replied briefly, to the effect that my book on the subject was out of print, that my publishers did not seem to have copies in stock, and that I wasn’t able to suggest any source for the book, or to recommend any other books on the subject. I ended by inviting Peter to write about his interest in the subject, and any experiences of his own he might care to discuss. I did not really expect to hear further from him, however.

  A while later I received this letter:

  Dear Mr. Wells:

  I doubt if you remember me. I wrote to you some time ago concerning obtaining a copy of your book on older women and their sexual interest in boys and young men. I have still not been able to get this book but have been looking for it in second-hand bookstores . . .