The first time I ever made out with a girl was inside a car, about a half hour from Pittsburgh, in a small town called either Industry or Ambridge or Rochester, depending on what mile marker you are on. We were parked behind a former Zayre’s, which was a department store ala Target in the 1970s, but the store had long been closed and reopened in the late 1980s as a Gabriel Brothers closeout store. The last time I drove past it, there was no store there. The point is, at one point, this road was littered with malls and mills and so much traffic, and now, it was a ghost town. The mills had grown as cold as the evening, a mid-March rainy late night, with storm warnings on the radio that we kept on, because we were convinced that a tornado could rip through at any moment.
The entire car was shaking, more from the wind than from us. There were no lights anywhere, save for the blue tones on the dashboard of my parent’s car. We both sat up front, tentative, trembling, not sure where to go or what to do.
Our lips charged and met at one another. I remember the first time I kissed her that this what was I fantasized about my entire teenage years, and I used every waking moment of thought about it to try my best to belie my lack of experience. My lips slid from hers to her throat, across her neck, behind her ear, her breath coming in soft, warm gasps in my ear, ragged, incomplete. I could tell by her pulse that she was enjoying this at least as much as I was as our lips would once again meet; her tongue invading my mouth, bringing with it a sweet flavor that I’ve never encountered before or since, my tongue brushing against hers. Both eyes closed, hand on her cheek and neck, for what seemed like hours, just kissing being enough…and now, knowing that it could never be enough, in these days, but then, it was.
Hands roaming almost everywhere they could, both of us, finally allowed to indulge ourselves, finally alone for once, after months, just the two of us. Away from class, away from parents, from friends, alone in a storm tossed Grand Prix in the middle of somewhere, the radio playing a hockey game as my fingertips touched the smooth skin of a young girl’s belly for the very first time. And again, that’s never enough, especially when your lips feel like they are on fire and your skin is hot to the touch and so is hers and the windows have fogged over more than once.
The first touch of a black satin bra is something to be celebrated. To be remembered. Even now. Seeing a girl life her sweater above her head, exposing flesh pale from the winter, feeling that audible moment when a bra falls away, actually seeing what you’ve wanted to see all those years.
My hands were rough from painting and working and sculpting, but the flesh of her nipples felt softer than anything I could imagine. Her eyes were closed, rolled back, maybe, even. I studied her face, her dark raccoon eyelids fluttering and her chest going up and down as I marveled at her small breasts with thick, round areolas. I had never seen breasts like this before. All I knew was what I saw in movies, in magazines, not a normal girl’s breast that came alive to your touch, that responded to your fingers with growing hardness, that filled your lips as you opened your mouth and took them in, licking small circles around them. Obsessively, my mouth, between her breasts, alternating between them, driven mad by them.
Her hand rubbed my chest, pushing up through my shirt to feel my bare chest, rubbing slowly, slowly, deliriously slowly lower toward my body. Involuntarily, or voluntarily, my hips shook and jumped, trying in my boy way to get my lower body closer to touch. I’m not good at waiting…and what boy is? We give in always so slavishly to our own touch at a minute’s notice, ruining slowness and taking one’s time, until one day we are forced to learn it.
I was embarrassed at first, as we kissed, as I thrusted myself near , I kept trying to keep my growing erection away from her. I wanted her touch, but still, didn’t want her to think that was all I wanted. This being our first time.
“I love to torture you,” she said, as she stared at the bulge in my jeans. Her eyes were on me. Again, a dream, as I had never had anyone do that before.
Her thin fingers tentatively drew a line across the outline of my hardness through the denim, forcing a loud noise from me and a shaking of my body. Never touched, but wanting. My hands pawed with more intensity at her breasts and we continued kissing, her rubbing my stomach and then lower, the side and palm of her hand across my erection.
It was torture. Slow, painful, blissful torture, the longest and most built-up orgasm of my life. I wanted to touch her the same way, but she wasn’t ready. And I respected that. She just wanted to make me feel good, and I did, and when I came, it was still inside those jeans, covering the entire front. The whole time, I looked out, ahead, watching traffic lights buffeted by high winds, their lighst casting trails into the never ending night.
There were only a few more times we were so fortunate to be together like this. The one other time that I remember more, she asked me if she could torture me again. I love that still, that someone thinks of me in that way. That someone wants me in that way, and I miss it sometimes.
This time, I couldn’t stand the pain anymore, and even though she worried and, well, I worried because neither of us wanted to go too far, I unzipped my jeans and she rubbed and tortured me, her words the latter again, through my boxers. It was then I learned that not even that would be enough. I was mad in my desire to touch her, and slowly rubbed her inner thighs as we kissed until she slid her legs apart and rested her feet above the dashboard, opening her jean covered thighs to me as I rubbed between her legs, smelling a woman for the first time as her sex rose from its denim prison. I was so close to orgasming, just from touching her. Her hand pulled back from my cock, and I opened the fly of my boxers. The moment my hand pulled myself free, I came all over the front of the car, her hand, mine, her legs, my legs, possibly everywhere that I could. Uncontrollable.
Even now, fifteen years later, I wish that we had gone further.
All it takes to get me going is remembering her hair. Or eyes. Or her long, but endearing nose. Wondering what it would have been like to feel my fingers slide inside of her. Or to feel her head in my lap.