She turned away from me and began to search for her clothes at the foot of the bed. I rolled over and half sat up. "Aren’t you going to help me with this?" I asked, looking down at the enraged bandit between my legs
.
"Do it yourself," she said, and disappeared into the bathroom. I heard the click of the door lock, then water running. It didn’t look like my streak was going to hold.
Sheila’s parental predicament made me think of my own youth, and my first attempts at sex. A new girl had moved into the neighborhood and for some unfathomable reason she decided she liked me. Kathy Denison, I will always remember her name. Blonde, with skin the color of pale malt, she lured me away from the basketball court my dad had rigged up for me. Not that I had ever had a desire to be a sports hero, and shooting baskets can get tiring so it didn’t take much to get me to quit.
We were lying half-naked on the couch when my old man strode in, invading his neighbor’s field to extinguish this threat to his own carefully tended plot. It’s still embarrassing to remember, the old man’s head jerking as he strode out the door after breaking up our tryst. Seen from behind, his head and neck ran a straight line from shoulders to bald spot, the only interruption being ears, which popped out like side-show leaves. Dad’s hair was cropped short and the top of his head was slightly pointed, giving him the appearance of a military shell ready to fire. I’ve often wondered how a skinny guy like me came from a warhead like that.
The short of his demand before he rocketed out of the house like an ICBM from a North Dakota wheat field was that I get dressed and back to the basketball court. Actually, he was so upset that he said baseball, but as you can imagine I wasn’t in the position to correct him.
Once he’d loosed his silo of demands, it was back to shooting baskets for me. The old man was one of those macho types who believed that his son could be a sports hero by just practicing. No matter that I didn’t have his incendiary drive, not to mention the tubular physique. While I resembled Woody Allen, he resembled that Detroit Piston in their championship years, the one that looked like The Little Engine That Could, Vinnie something or other. Worst of all, Mom supported him, although I think it was more to keep me out of the kind of trouble I was enjoying that explosive afternoon with Kathy.
As parents, Mom and Dad were always around--family values that worked to my disadvantage. They used to stand on the sidelines at my soccer games and scream, "Go get the ball Stan! Get the ball! Get Agressive!" Like if I didn’t knock someone over on every play, I wasn’t trying. It was beyond embarrassing. I felt like a mainstream beer--lacking the ingredients, in this case testosterone.
I dogged it, of course, being more interested in protecting life and limb, although at that age it was intrinsic. And in hindsight, my folks were no different than the others in our suburban enclave, well meaning and misguided. I never openly resisted their wishes, but did everything I could think of to avoid excercise. I even followed one of the strategies my old man railed against since his days as a Marine. Too many recruits, he said, hung toward the middle of the pack to avoid being singled out. But that sounded like a good strategy to me.
I thought my old man’s attitude was best described in one confession that he made to me. He once said that he knew I wasn’t going to be a pro ever since I was a baby. He knew this, he said, after he entered me in the county fair baby crawling contest. I’d lost to babies several months younger than me, he said, and that’s when he knew. That said everything.
The water stopped running in the bathroom, so I decided to take matters into my own hands. Quickly stroking nozzle, I imagined Sheila soaping herself down, her hands lingering over her breasts, then dropping into the crevice of pleasure. Water flowed over her, lucky water, the sustainer of life, awakening the organs of reproduction. I let my imagination flow with it, deep into her.
The door opened and she stepped out of the bathroom in a puff of steam, like a nymph appearing from the kettle. A kettle nymph, I like that.
She looked at me and frowned.
"Hey, can I get some help here?"
"Pig." But she came over to the bed and pushed me onto my back.
"Just tell me when you’re ready to cum," she said, "I just showered."
For Sheila this was more of a favor--probably tinged with the guilt that came in her type of package--but I was very excited. A shower-hot body atop me, her body writhing while she moved up and down, knees powering the rise and fall of the brewing equipment, her breasts jiggling to a rolling boil.
"Okay!" I gasped after several minutes and she pulled off. I turned sideways and let fly, semen and seed shooting out like a shaken lambic uncorked. I admired the wet stain, proud of the distance I’d achieved. There’d never be a problem impregnating a women with that shot, I thought. A pollen provider of the first degree, they’d have to keep me out of the hop fields, where they preferred only virgin female plants.
Sheila got up and started dressing. "My parents are gonna kill me," she said, sounding more fearful than a micro when Anheuser-Busch starts giving away kegs to steal the local tap handles.
