Caution: This Action/Adventure Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including mt/ft, mt/Fa, ft/ft, Teenagers, Consensual, Romantic, Humor, Harem,
Desc: Action/Adventure Sex Story: Chapter 1 - A coming of age story about a young man who is not nearly as ordinary as he thinks he is.
My name is Janus Paul Pulaski III, but everyone calls me Johnny. My grandfather uses Janus; my father is Paul. I am a high school senior, and I just turned seventeen. This story is a writing assignment for senior Honors English. The idea, according to Miss McElroy, is to write our life story 'stream of consciousness' then edit and rewrite it later.
"Let your recollections flow onto the paper without regard to content," she said.
Okay, Miss Mac, just remember, you asked for this.
I couldn't possibly tell my story without telling you about my family first. Once you read about them, anything I tell you about myself will probably bore you. See, I'm a pretty ordinary guy compared to my extraordinary family.
My Grandfather, Janus Paul Pulaski, Senior, was born near Krakow, Poland in 1930. His father was a farmer tilling nine acres of beets, onions and carrots. Papa J remembers that his family was poor, close-knit and happy. All that changed in the autumn of 1939, when Nazi Germany invaded Poland from the west and Russia poured in from the east. The invading forces quickly routed the Polish Army and the conquerors partitioned the country. The Krakow region became part of the German protectorate under the rule of a despot named Hans Frank. My grandfather's family still farmed their land, relatively undisturbed until 1941, when Germany invaded Russia. Shortly after, drunken German soldiers raided the Pulaski farm in November of 1941; Janus believes they were after liquor and women. My grandfather, along with his older brother Viktor and his older sister Katrina managed to escape into the foothills as the farm was burned and his parents killed.
Janus, Viktor, and Katrina made their way further into the Carpathian Mountains where they eventually joined a Polish resistance unit of the Free Polish Army. At the age of twelve, my grandfather became a soldier. Sixteen-year-old Viktor was killed in a failed attack on a troop train in 1942; Katrina died of pneumonia in the harsh winter of 1943. My grandfather fought on.
In 1945, my grandfather's guerrilla band fled westward in front of the advancing Russians. Grandfather Janus ended up in a displaced persons camp in the American sector of Germany. My grandfather refused repatriation to a communist Poland. Instead, he traveled to France, where, in 1947, he enlisted in the French Foreign Legion. He was seventeen years old.
Janus Pulaski enlisted in the Legion under his own name and, ironically, served with some of the same former German soldiers he fought against in Poland. Grandfather spent six years in the Legion, serving with the 2nd and 5th Foreign Parachute Regiments in Indo-China and Algeria.
In 1953, Papa Janus immigrated to the United States. It took him a year to learn enough English to enlist in the US Army. Because of his years of prior military experience, and his ability to speak several foreign languages, he was chosen for Special Forces training and assigned to the 10th Special Forces Group in Bad Tolz, Germany. In 1964 he was medically retired because of wounds sustained during his second combat tour in Vietnam. He retired as a Sergeant First Class at the age of 34. All total he had spent over twenty years in someone's army.
My grandfather settled in Milwaukee, Wisconsin, when he retired, lured to the city by its large and active Polish community. Trained as a combat engineer, he started working in the construction industry. It took him less than two years to become a construction superintendent supervising commercial building construction. In 1966 he met, fell in love with and married my grandmother, Nadia.
Nadia Kaminski was second generation, Polish-American. Descended from Polish Royalty, she could trace her family back to King Kazimierz, King of Poland from 1447-1492. Nadia was the perfect wife for Janus Pulaski; she polished up his rough edges and supported him in all his endeavors. Janus and Nadia had two sons, Viktor, born in 1967 and my father, Janus Paul, Junior, born in 1968.
My father grew up in a happy home, Nana Nadia made sure of that. My father and his brother, my Uncle Viktor, were complete opposites. Viktor was gregarious, outgoing and ambitious, my father was quiet, contemplative and happiest when working on something mechanical. Uncle Viktor was tall and slim, with aristocratic features. Victor seriously exploited the royal heritage passed down from my grandmother. He played it up in college as a means of connecting with the right crowd. After breezing through college, his growing list of connections landed him a job as a stock analyst in Chicago; within a year he married his first heiress.
My dad was tall as well, but he had the heavily muscled build of my grandfather. After high school, my father eschewed college in favor of a full time job as an auto mechanic. At eighteen he had already earned a following for the small shop my grandfather helped him open. One July day in 1985, Sonia Krupchek pulled into Pulaski's Auto Repair with a badly overheating engine. By the time my dad had finished replacing a split radiator hose on her Honda Accord, she had informed my grandfather that his son was going to be her husband and the father of her children. Janus Senior shook his head in wonder as the prim looking young woman left the garage. She seemed smart enough but with her dark blonde hair in a tight bun and her glasses perched on the tip of her nose, she seemed hardly the type to snag his son.
That was the last time my grandfather ever doubted anything my mother said. That afternoon at five, the Accord pulled back into the garage. He watched in wonder as the totally transformed woman took about five minutes to bewitch his son.
Sonia Krupchek was twenty-four years old when she met the Pulaskis. She was a graduate student at Marquette University, working towards a doctoral degree in physics. Yep, my mom is one smart woman.
My grandfather was more than pleased that Sonia was attending a Jesuit school, you see, my grandparents were very devout Roman Catholics. Heck, you'd have to go to the Vatican to find their equals. Why my mom zeroed in on my dad is family lore. Dad claims that it was because he was irresistible; Mom says it was because he didn't talk much. Whatever their reasons, they were meant for each other.
Anyway, Paul and Sofia were married in 1986; Mom finished her dissertation that summer and accepted a job with the National Aeronautics and Space Administration. She was pregnant with my sister, Katrina, when they made the move from Milwaukee To Florida. They decided to settle in Palmdale, a small town twenty-five miles north of the Kennedy Space Center. Janus Senior and Nadia sold everything they owned and moved down too. No way were they going to be separated from their grandchildren. Future grandchildren were also the reason they gave for subsidizing a four bedroom, three-bath house in a nice neighborhood for my parents. My grandparents purchased a smaller house about a mile away.
Katrina Maria Pulaski was born in June of 1987. From the minute she departed the womb everyone knew she was something special. I swear, Katrina was born with a plan for her entire life mapped out in her head. By the time I was born in November of 1989, Katrina was talking, walking and reading. My parental units must have used up all the good genetic material making Katrina because I didn't turn out nearly as well.
Hmm, as I read back over this I noticed I forgot a few family members. I also have maternal grandparents, Gustav and Sylvia Krupchek. The elder Krupcheks are both professors at The University of Wisconsin at Milwaukee. Oh, and did I mention they were both hippies? Yep, card carrying throwbacks to the sixties they are. Right down to the orange and white Volkswagen microbus with about a hundred Grateful Dead stickers in the rear window. Gus and Syl (even Mom calls them that) bought a condo on the beach in a clothing optional building. They visit every summer for at least two months. On the surface, you'd think that Janus Senior and my mom's folks would be anathema to each other. After all, politically, Papa J is slightly to the right of Attila the Hun. But, it's not like that at all, mainly because my mother and father laid the law down to both sets of grandparents early on.
Now seems a good time to talk about my father. At first blush, Paul Pulaski seems as if he were the most ordinary guy in the family. Not so. Not so by a long shot. I'll tell you right now, flat out, my dad is my hero. Sure, he doesn't say much, but when he does talk, people listen. He has very little formal education, yet he is as smart as my mother in a lot of ways. Ask anyone who has ever met him and they'll all tell you, "Paul Pulaski is the most honest man I ever met". The longest speech I ever heard my father make was when I was twelve. I was in awe of how everyone looked up to him so I asked him why.
He said, "Don't lie, don't cheat, don't steal and don't ever quit. Treat everyone with respect until they stop deserving it. Never hit a woman or a child. Your integrity is the only thing that can't be taken away from you, to lose it you have to give it away."
So, now that you've met my family, it's time for my story. Everything I'm about to tell you is true to the best of my recollection.
My life up until the start of the ninth grade was normal enough to bore you to tears. I have brown hair and hazel eyes, I'm not movie star handsome but at least my features fit my face. I was a happy kid, by and large, all through grade school and junior high. I earned good grades, had lots of friends and didn't have a care in the world. Man, oh man, did that ever change once I started high school. Ninth grade was my personal hell. The main reason my freshman year sucked so badly was because I hadn't started puberty yet. I was scrawny, hairless and had a dick the size of a Vienna sausage. Of course my plight was compounded because my sister was two grades ahead of me, effortlessly shattering every sports and academics record in the school. Katrina was six feet tall and a slim hundred and thirty-five pounds; I was a puny five foot six and one thirty. It was humiliating. My only refuge was my schoolwork.
After Christmas break, just as I was resigning myself to a life as a eunuch, I sprouted my first pube. Yes! I was as proud of that hair as one boy could ever be. By the end of February, I'd grown a nice little patch and had my first wet dream. Soon after that I discovered the joy of whacking off. For the next couple of months one of my hands was pretty much permanently attached to my dick. I became an expert wanker; so good I could change hands and gain a stroke. I was perpetually hard, regardless of how many times I choked that thing into submission.
It was not just my hormones and pubic hair growing either. All of the sudden my body hit a growth spurt and by March I was five-eight and one-fifty. Puberty that had eluded me for so long had arrived with a vengeance. Girls started to notice me about then but I was so shy around them I couldn't marshal a coherent sentence if my life depended on it. After gurgling and mumbling like an idiot in front of Marcie Winters, a junior varsity cheerleader that I adored, I decided to ask my dad for some advice.
That evening when Dad came in from work I buttonholed him in the garage. Dad heard me out then shook his head sadly.
"Johnny, I'm not the person you need helping you. Your mom is the only woman I ever seriously dated."
At my crestfallen look he put his big meaty hand on my shoulder.
"I think the person you need to talk to is your Uncle Vik. If anyone knows how to talk to women it's gotta be him."
Duh, Uncle Vik, of course! Viktor Pulaski could talk a hungry dog off of a meat truck. Vik was currently married to heiress number three, this one a billionaire thanks to breakfast foods and feminine hygiene products. Last we heard, Viktor and Alexandra were in Poland. Viktor had talked Alexandra into helping him regain my grandmother's legacy. It cost ten million Euros in bribes to reestablish the Kaminski title and another fifteen million more to purchase part of the original land holdings including a forty-four-room castle. The new Count and Countess were in the process of restoring the ancestral manor in preparation for my grandparents visiting there that upcoming summer.
I called Uncle Vik the next day right after school. After some chitchat about the family, I got to the point. Uncle Vik chuckled when I finished my lament.
"Johnny, I don't think I'll be able to help you much because the only advice I can give you is: dazzle them with brilliance or baffle them with bullshit. Basically that's all I do and, if you are anything like you father, that wont be your style. I think what you need is a female's prospective, maybe Katrina can help you out."
I mumbled my thanks, trying hard to mask my disappointment. Katrina is the absolute last person in the world I'd ask for help. I felt geeky enough without my sister adding her two cents worth. Besides, my sister was the object of some spectacular jerk-off sessions so it might be difficult for us to talk when all my blood would be south of the border.
Now wait a minute — just because I choked my chicken thinking about my sister naked doesn't make me a pervert. My sister, wet from the shower, with a too small towel wrapped around her tall lanky body would give a medical cadaver a woody. I use to position my self at my door nearly every morning for a glimpse of her as she strolled from the bathroom to her bedroom. Then I would jump in the shower and flog my log thinking about the towel dropping. You have to admit that as fantasies go, that one was pretty tame. It only occurred to me as I write this that she might have made those trips for my benefit. After all, I'm sure she owned a bathrobe, so it wasn't necessary for her to wear a towel just big enough to cover her butt cheeks every morning.
So anyway, back to my problem. Uncle Vik's suggestion had merit; all I needed was a potential confidant. I wracked my brain thinking of candidates; I went through Katrina's friends, the few girls I knew and family friends. None of them seemed to fit my requirements. Then, with epiphanous suddenness, it hit me, Mrs. Wentworth.
The Wentworths moved into the neighborhood when I was twelve. They lived on the next street over and a block north of my house. That meant they lived in my lawn mowing territory. Stan Hoffman, Buddy O'Neil, Richie Caldwell and I divided the subdivision up the year before so we wouldn't be competing for the same jobs. Of course I was the only one of us that actually looked for jobs. The others guys received fat allowances so mowing was a lark for them. I on the other hand was expected to work if I wanted more than the five spot I received each week for allowance. There were not any lazy Pulaskis.
So I introduced myself to the Wentworths on the day they moved in and gave them my sales pitch. I had to be creative to compete with the professional lawn services, especially in pricing.
Jesse Wentworth was a mean looking dude with a shaved head, bulging muscles and a cobra tattoo on his neck. He wasn't very tall and appeared to be in his early thirties, probably ten years older than his wife. Leah Wentworth was just the opposite of her husband. She was sweet and soft spoken, about five foot five and slightly over weight. Leah was one of those women just on the edge of being pretty. Oh, don't get me wrong; she wasn't a bowser or anything. It's just that her features sorta didn't go together; know what I mean? Her nose was a bit large for her face, her eyebrows were thick and bushy, she wore unstylish glasses, and her dirty blonde hair was chopped haphazardly short. Like I said, she was sweet though, and always seemed to enjoy talking to me. I learned a lot more about Leah as time passed, I'll share what I learned with you later.
Before the Wentworths moved into the house an older couple named Scofield lived there. The Scofields were snowbirds, spending the winter in Palmdale and the summer is Connecticut. The Scofields had been about my best customers. I was really sad when I found out they had been killed in a car wreck. Mrs. Wentworth gave me a cold soda when I collected for my first mowing. She sat on the porch with me chatting while I drank the soda. I found out that the Scofields had been her parents.
Jesse Wentworth was an asshole, plain and simple. Every other word out of his mouth was an 'F' bomb and he treated everyone like shit. A little over a year after they moved in, Jesse was busted running a methamphetamine lab in a mobile home he had rented. He was caught red-handed with the drugs, a big wad of cash and a sawed off shotgun. Nine months later Jesse received the mandatory fifteen-year maximum prison sentence, no time off for good behavior, no early release. I ended up with a nice little gig with Mrs. Wentworth mowing and keeping up with the little bit of outside maintenance her house needed.
Alrighty then, I had my candidate picked, now all I needed was enough courage to ask her to advise me. Surprisingly, the next Saturday that I went to mow her lawn, that little problem solved itself, sort of. I remember the day was warm and windy for March; I had worked up a pretty good sweat mowing. I rang Mrs. Wentworth's doorbell, looking forward to that frosty Coca-Cola. Mrs. Wentworth answered the door.
"Hey, Johnny, come on in, it's too windy to sit on the porch."
I followed her into the house; it was the first time I'd ever been inside. As we made our way to the kitchen I glanced into a room off to the side of the family room. The room had a universal weight machine, a bowflex and some free weights resting in wooden racks. I stopped dead in my tracks.
"Wow, Mrs. W, that's a nice setup."
She nodded, "Jesse was fanatical about working out. I guess he has plenty of time for it now."
She stopped talking for a few seconds and seemed to be thinking. Then her smile got bigger and she said, "I'll make a deal with you, Johnny. You can use this stuff anytime you want as long as you teach me how to use it and allow me to workout with you. I need to lose thirty pounds while I'm still young enough to do it."
"Gosh yes, Ms W you have a deal," I said sticking out my hand for her to shake.
She clasped both of my hands in both of hers, "we have a deal if you call me Leah." She amended.
Oh yeah, that'll work, I thought. Not only will we be together so I can ask her stuff, I get to use the weight equipment too. We walked into the kitchen and had a glass of iced tea while we developed a plan for our self-improvement. I was in charge of finding exercises for each of us on the Net, and for developing our routines. Leah was going to study up on diet and nutrition, low calorie for her, lots of protein for me. We agreed to meet again after school on Monday and get started.
Monday we started working out using Jesse's exercise equipment and a few pages of exercises I downloaded from the Internet. Leah had a portfolio of diet and nutrition information for each of us; she went way past me in the info-gathering department. It took us about thirty minutes to complete our workouts, then Leah gave me a short class on how I could build muscle without steroids. I have to say (and this is important for what happens later) that when Leah Wentworth decided to do something, she did it to the hilt. Leah taught me the difference between being involved in something as opposed to being committed to it.
"Think about the breakfast you had this morning, Johnny," she said. "The chicken that provided your eggs was involved, the pig that provided the bacon was committed."
By the end of our first week she had purged her house of anything containing sugar or fat, dieting with the discipline of a Franciscan monk.
Over the next few months Leah gradually opened up and told me about herself. Hers was an all to common story of marrying an abusive jerk then sticking by him. Her misshapen nose and chipped front teeth were presents from Jesse. Jesse had damaged her self-esteem even more than her face.
I was bench-pressing two hundred-fifty pounds for the tenth rep, when I felt her cool fingers slide into the leg opening of my shorts. My prick uncoiled from its slumber until it was a gleaming ivory monolith. Her eyes widen in surprise when I was fully erect. "I didn't know you were so big, Johnny," she said, "I've got to have you in me now."
Well, that's the way it was in my fantasies anyway. The reality was that Leah and I became good friends. We talked about every subject under the sun and encouraged each other during our workouts. Yes, she told me what she, as a woman, liked or disliked, although she added the caveat that she was a hopeless romantic. In return, I answered her questions about what type of female appealed to me, and why. By the end of May, Leah had lost twenty-five pounds and I was up to five-nine and one hundred sixty-five pounds. Heck, I even had a little six-pack action developing on my abs. Leah and I were congratulating each other after our weekly weigh in when Leah floored me by saying.
"Johnny, my breasts have shrunk to nothing. No matter how much I work out they'll never get any bigger." Jeez, she sounded sad.
Leah always wore sweat pants and a loose sweatshirt; the only change in her appearance I had noticed was that her face was slimmer. Where I pulled what I told her next from, I'll never know.
"Leah, you have the talent, money and ability to be or do anything you want. If you want bigger breasts, buy them. I think it's time you started doing things for you."
Leah looked at me oddly; her eyes slitted like a cat's. I knew that look by now; what I said was making her think. Well, dammit, it was true. Leah was very bright and she had a major trust fund from her parents that had been shielded from Jesse. I cracked up when she told me that while she was married to Jesse she only received an amount from the trust fund equal to what Jesse made in salary each month. Jesse had to work even though his wife was worth a few million dollars.
Two weeks after my little self-improvement speech, Leah picked up the conversation again.
'Johnny, I've been thinking about what you said a while ago, you know, about doing some things for me. I decided you were right. Then I had a bout of conscious about being greedy. I guess residual Jesse is still messing with my head."
When I nodded my understanding she rushed on, " So, I've applied for admission at UCF (University of Central Florida). I'm going to do the whole dorm experience and everything. Also, I'm leaving for a spa for a couple of months before classes start. I want it to be 'a new me' making a fresh start."
"I'm happy for you Leah, you deserve something good for a change."
"Yeah, well remember you said that because when you turn fifteen and can date, I want to be the first girl you take out, you owe me that Johnny, and you are the only man I trust."
Her declaration caught me by surprise, but on reflection it made sense to me. Taking out Leah would allow me a date with someone I was comfortable with, plus, hopefully she wouldn't laugh at my social ineptness. Of course for Leah, I was that safe date experience she probably needed before she actually sought any relationships with guys her own age. I stuck out my hand.
"Deal," I said.
Leah told me I could have the exercise equipment, which would have been great if I had somewhere to put it. I got my buds Stan Hoffman and Richie Caldwell to start working out with me and the equipment went into Stan's garage. Stan, Richie, Buddy O'Neill and I had been hanging together since the third grade. We swapped around being best friends but we always hung out together. Last year Buddy moved to Texas so we were down to three. My friendship with Stan and Richie was strained when they matured so much earlier than me. I had shied away from being around them because I was ashamed of my physical self. Not any more though, and my friends were glad to have me back.
I didn't go to Stan and Richie for advice about women because I'd been listening to their bull about sex for years. Both of them had tales of semi-conquests and fleeting liaisons that they were always eager to share. Stan had the added benefit of an older brother who told him the ropes. Both of my friends thought my sister was a goddess. Stan and Richie both had younger sisters.
You can't believe how happy I was that I grew so much. Heck even the Moose (my nickname for my sister, she called me Runt) commented on how I wasn't such a shrimp anymore.
So about here I need to put in a sidebar about my sister. I was as in awe of Katrina as everyone else. The woman was superhuman. She was a cinch for valedictorian, already had a perfect 1600 SAT score from her junior year, and was the captain of the volleyball and soccer teams. Yet, despite all her successes she was a nice, down-to-earth, pretty high school senior. During the summer between junior and senior year college recruiters courted her in droves even though she made it plain that she was going to the Air Force Academy if offered an appointment. It wasn't bad having her for a sister, although like I said, until I started growing I was the butt of some cruel ribbing. None of that was the Moose's fault though. She stuck up for me when she needed to and let me fall on my face when it was to my benefit.
We talked some, she and I, but we were never confidants. Katrina was a private person and like I said, so very focused on what she wanted from life. We didn't have much in common until I started playing high school sports. I don't think I'll ever rise to the level of maturity or whatever that I'll need in order to deal with Katrina as an equal.
Katrina had an active social life to go along with everything else. She dated a wide variety of guys from college grad students on down. She never went steady with one guy though. She told me once, right after I started dating, that she loved sex in any shape, form or fashion. She also said that, from a purely mechanical standpoint, she was the best she ever had. Incredible.
Football tryouts started the first of August, ten days before school started. My ass was the second one in line at sign up. Coach Boyette took my application and did a double take at how I'd grown.
"Them balls finally dropped, huh Pulaski? Bout damned time."
The coach and I had a relationship from last year when I was riding the bench on the Junior Varsity. Because I was a quick study with a good memory, I became the coaches walking playbook. Since his personal playbook ran to 225 plays, I was in demand.
"Gimme something tricky that'll get a first down on the ground," he'd say.
"Fake 27 sweep, 32 dive," I'd regurgitate.
Coach Boyette was almost as tough as my grandfather. He believed that discipline and desire were as important as talent. Because I took my dad's never quit rule to heart, I was Boyette's kind of player. As a JV, I received the same instruction as guys who were much bigger and more talented. If a starter showed an attitude, coach would yank him from the game and put me in for a couple of plays. I played every position except quarterback that year, gamely flinging my puny body against opposing behemoths.
So anyway, I got signed up. I put down free safety and split end as my positions. Those were the only places where I figured brains and my slightly above average foot speed would work. I was almost five foot-ten by then and weighed a solid one-sixty-eight. Tryouts were actually enjoyable for me; it was a lot of fun using my new body. I made the team, firmly second string, but still on the team. I was the 'nickel back' on defense and the fifth eligible receiver on a few desperation pass plays. Best of all, though, I was on the special teams: kickoff, kickoff return and punting. I was the Palmdale Banzai.
School started the second week of August. The state kept moving the start date up because of anticipated hurricane related school closures. Before long I figured they would have us go all year around and end the charade. I quickly reentered the routine of high school life, much happier than I was the previous year. My new stature and deeper voice made me much more confident in myself even if my natural shyness prevented me from being the life of the party. In class I answered questions when called on but I seldom volunteered information. Socially in general, I guess I was the same way; I could hold up my end of a conversation okay as long as I didn't have to initiate it. With the guys, that was cool but with the girls it was a disaster. I tried to be more out going with girls but I just couldn't seem to focus. It was weird. And it sucked a big old pink doggy dick.
I'll tell you how bad it was. At my buddy Richie Caldwell's house one day, his little sister Jenny pulled me aside. Jenny had just turned fourteen and was a freshman. Somehow without me noticing, she had grown up a whole bunch.
She came right to the point, "Are you gay, Johnny?"
Oh shit, I could have died right then and there. I looked quickly around to make sure no one was in earshot.
"No," I hissed, "what gave you that idea?"
She gave me this seriously condescending look as she continued, "Cause if you are, it's no biggie, you know?"
"Jesus, Jen, will you stop saying that. I like girls — exclusively. Now what made you think I'm queer?"
"Michelle figured it out because you are the only one of our brothers' friends who don't check us out all the time. Michelle said she did everything but strip for you and you just ran off. That doesn't sound like any guy who likes girls to me."
The Michelle in the conversation was Michelle Hoffman, the younger sister of our third buddy, Stan Hoffman. Michelle and Jenny were best buds for life; you seldom saw one without the other. I remembered the incident Jenny mentioned. The memory made my dick twitch in my pants. Two weeks ago when we were all swimming at Stan's house I saw Michelle topless when I passed her room on the way to the upstairs bathroom. Michelle was right, I bolted like my ass was on fire, scared shitless she'd tell her folks and I'd be sent to prison as a peeping pervert or something.
"I liked what I saw," I said defensively, "but you don't go after your friend's sister."
Jenny looked at me incredulously. "Richie gets a hard on when your sister drives by here in her car. You better discuss that rule with him again, I think it got superseded after he saw her in a bikini last year."
"Okay, Jen, whatever you say. We cool now?"
Jen stood there for a second or two acting like she was thinking then gave me a bright smile.
"I don't know, Johnny, I think we need proof."
As I look back on that conversation I cringe in embarrassment at how easily this woman-child manipulated me. Instead of laughing off the whole thing as a misunderstanding, I did exactly what I later learned the fiendishly clever Michelle had plotted.
"What kind of proof?" I asked.
"If you went over to Michelle's and you two made out, then no one could say you were gay cause Michelle could swear you weren't."
Yes, it was a flimsy story in retrospect, but you have to remember that I was just getting over a traumatic freshman year. Even though I had absolutely nothing against anyone's lifestyle choice, I certainly didn't want even a hint of that attached to me. Michelle Hoffman, way to bright for her age, figured that out and used it to entrap me. Still I played for time.
"Umm, okay, I'll call her and arrange it," I stammered.
"No, I'll call her and tell her you are on your way and I'll cover for you here," she countered, "now go."
So off I trudged towards the Hoffman house. Convicts on death row were more motivated for their last trip than I was. I was about to be busted as a sexual slacker by the evil sisters of my two best friends. My grandfather would finally get his wish and I'd have to enroll in a Catholic school. I'd go on to Seminary, become a priest, and die a virgin; the secret of my shame expunged by the Vatican just like the dudes in 'The Da Vinci Code'.
Michelle answered my knock.
"Gee Johnny, don't act so happy to see me," she pouted.
"You called me a fag, Shelly, you're right, I should have brought you flowers."
I don't know where I found something flip to say, considering the circumstances. I guess I was just too angry to remember I was shy. Michelle must have noticed the same thing; she gave me a funny look and pulled me into the house to the family room. After we were sitting side-by-side on a love seat Michelle started talking.
"I don't really think you're gay, Johnny, that was just a way to get you to make out with me. I didn't mean to hurt your feelings or make you mad. But you and Stan and Richie always call each other names like that anyway. Now you'll hate me forever."
Towards the end of her little speech her bottom lip started trembling and she unleashed the one weapon I was defenseless against; she cried. I awkwardly put my arm around her and tried to comfort her. She plastered herself against me, both arms snaking around my neck. Her new position made me acutely aware of her bigger than average breasts pillowed against my chest. The Hoffmans were of German descent, all of them blonde, blue-eyed and robustly Teutonic. Michelle would never be petite but she would forever be a nice handful. The tiny amount of will power I possessed crumbled to dust and mighty Kong started to stiffen. (Hey, it's my dick, I'll name it what I want.) In an embarrassed panic I tried to turn away from Michelle, she tightened her arms and turned with me, ending up on my lap. She felt my erection immediately and gave a little wriggle with her butt.
"Oooo Johnny," she cooed, "did I do that?"
Do you see a pattern emerging here, one where I am always on the defensive when it comes to dealing with women? I figured you could. Heck, Stevie Wonder could see it. I peeled Michelle off and sat her beside me.
"Yes you did that, Shelly, I told you I'm a normal guy and you're a pretty girl."
I must have said the right thing because Michelle kissed me right on the lips! She didn't use her tongue but she sure took her time; her lips were warm and moist. She finally pulled her head back and gave me a dreamy look.
"You are the first boy, I ever kissed like that, Johnny," she sighed.
Once I admitted to it being my first serious kiss also, things instantly got better between us. She was surprised at how little experience I had until I pointed out that like her, I had just reached puberty. By the time I left fifteen minutes later Michelle had conned me into a pact where we would keep each other updated on what we learned about sex and love and whatever else went with it. Seems Miss Smarty Pants Michelle was as bereft of experience as I was. Since I was within three weeks of being able to date, Michelle figured that I'd be doing most of the passing on. She said that was fine with her because she trusted me more than anyone she knew, including Jenny Caldwell. Oh, and we made out some too, just so we could say we did.
Edited by Bert