The teenage lad who’s growing into a man sooner or later finds that the most unforgettable girl that storms his life is often the unexpected one.

“Wendy ... wait! Why are you so mad at me? That movie was a boffo!” said a young lad who was hurrying his steps to keep up with his date, a skirt-wearing girl who was making a dash to the movie theater’s exit. Her black-on-white saddle shoes acted as fast-walking beacons that signaled her disappointment.

“The movie was boffo! That’s all you can say! You sit the whole time and watch that stupid movie!” replied Wendy, a blonde teenage girl who had that entitled look and gait that told all onlookers that she was a popular, cheerleading type of girl.

“That movie wasn’t stupid! I had a great time, Wendy, and I wasn’t being cold to you; I held your hand the whole time!”

“Holding my hand ... He was holding my hand! Why, Robbie, why do you have to be such a square? Why do you think I picked a seat in the far back of the room, where it’s all dark?”

“Well, I ... I dunno, Wendy ... This is the first time I have a one-on-one date with a girl and I thought that...”

“Robbie ... Whatever you were thinking, you were thinking wrong! And oh, there’s Steve and Midge along with his friends ... Hey there, Steve!”

Wendy magically recovered her smile and waved at Steve, one of the star players in the high school’s football team. Predictably, he was wearing a varsity jacket with his team’s colors—aquatic green and cream yellow. Equally predictably, he had a nice haircut, very short around the ears and forming aesthetically pleasing waves overhanging his pale forehead.

He had an air of look-at-me boy that never left his baby face. Robbie’s heart sank. He knew that his gone-awry date was now bound further south.

“Hey, Wendy! What are you doing with that hopeless square? Why don’t you come with us to the malt shop?”

Steve invited Wendy while looking sideways at one of his friends, Ted, who was without a date. He didn’t even look at Robbie. Wendy wasn’t looking at him either. She nodded to Steve’s offer.

“Where did you get these square clothes, in your grandpa’s closet?” bellowed Jim in a jeering tone. “They stink of mothballs! Mothball Head, that’s what we should call you!”

Jim was Steve’s other sidekick. Steve joined him and officially approved the new nickname: “Yeah, Mothball Head! Look at him! He’s wearing a double chest suit, in tweed, with a hat ... On a date with Wendy! Ever heard of sweaters, Mothball Head?”

Unlike Steve, Robbie was indeed wearing a suit and a fedora that he actually wore well; he looked like the teen version of a well-educated man. His brown fedora was a nice match with his fir-green outfit, complete with brown-leather shoes he’d had shined by Arty, one of the best shoeshine boys in Philly.

Wendy joined sides with Steve and Midgie, another pom-pom kind of girl who was best friends with Wendy. She took a step toward them, but Robbie held on to her hand and refused to let her go.

“You’re my date for tonight, Wendy!”

“Let me go, Robbie. Dating you was a mistake! Let me go, I say ... Robbie, you’re hurting me! Steve! Help me!”

As he saw and heard Wendy’s trouble, Steve left Midge’s side and walked right at Robbie along with Tim and Jim.

Steve was a tall teenager, standing almost six feet tall with rather broad shoulders and a trim waist. His two sidekicks, Tim and Jim, were the average, typical boys from an upper middle-class neighborhood. Needless to say, they also wore their varsity jacket with a bold “A” sewn on the left chest.

Steve wouldn’t have been so brave if he had been alone facing Robbie, who stood 6’1” and weighed around 190 pounds with broad, meaty shoulders.

“I think it’s time to fix that mothball clock of yours, Mothball Head!” said Steve in a confident tone, emboldened by the presence of his friends.

“Don’t call me that again! I’m warning you, Steve!”

Tim and Jim started to laugh as they heard Robbie. Did he really think he was going to handle all three of them by himself?

Steve looked at his rival with an amused expression, although there was some surprise in his features too, for he didn’t expect Robbie to hold his ground in front of them. He spoke, trying to sound mean...

“I think you should take a walk, Mothball Head! Get bent! Hey ... Knuhhh!!!”

Robbie had struck with blinding speed. Tim and Jim looked at each other, right where Steve had stood between them.

Steve was down on the floor, holding his nose with both hands. He was bleeding profusely. Scarlet blood overflowed his hands and trickled down on the hall pavement.

“M ... My n ... nose! My nose! You broke my nose! You sneaky alligator! You gonna pay for this! Aaahh, God damnit, it hurts!”

“Mama’s boy’s not used to pain! Go cry to mommy, Steve!” Robbie taunted his foe as he stood before the other boys in his southpaw boxing stance; he gave a stern face and a deadly stare at Jim and Tim, whose hearts turned to water as they saw their leader defeated with one punch.

Robbie was a boxer?! They wouldn’t believe it, but the proof was right there on the floor.

“Look Robbie, we have no quarrel with you. It ... It was Steve’s idea...” said Jim, his mocking, self-assured expression suddenly morphing into a submissive, sheepish face.

“Yeah, it was all Steve,” added Tim, “and sorry for calling you moth ... Well, uh, I mean, Robbie, have a good evening!”

While Tim and Jim were making their peace and backpedalling, Wendy and Midgie knelt at Steve’s side and comforted him.

“Look at what you’ve done, Robbie! You’re a hooligan! A hooligan!” shouted Wendy at the top of her voice for the entire theater hall to hear.

“I’d rather be a hooligan than a crying mama’s boy! Go weep in his arms, daddy’s girl! You’re a great fit together!” Robbie shouted back as he left.

A small crowd of onlookers had formed during the confrontation.

Robbie almost bumped into a pair of policemen, who wore pointed peak caps and dark uniforms. Both were as tall as him and one looked like a human bear; he must have weighed a full 250 pounds and his uniform must have been especially made for his Herculean measurements; something like a size fifty-two.

“Nice punch, my boy! That’s the way! Give them a good fight and show them who’s boss!” said the first officer.

“Hi, Robbie! Are you lifting at the club as usual tomorrow?” added the bigger officer. “And don’t worry, kid, I saw the whole thing! They were three against one; it was self-defense all-right...”

“What?!” Wendy yelled as she saw the policemen being all friendly with Robbie. “You’re not going to arrest him for what he did?! Did you see how he hit him? What kind of fuzz are you?”

“It was self-defense, and if I were you, young lady, I’d shut my mouth and go take a walk!” replied the Herculean officer.

Midge took the hint, but Wendy wouldn’t admit defeat. She kept yelling at the fuzz...

“But he broke his nose, officer! Steve is a star football player for St. Anne’s ... He broke his nose! I’ll tell my father, officer, and when...”

“ ... Young lady, my patience is running short! Shut up and go get some air, or else we’ll detain you for disturbing the peace and you’ll spend the night at the station!” barked the big officer, smiling at whatever he was thinking.

“Spending the night at the station ... That would do her good!” added the second officer, smiling a mile wide as he shamelessly looked at the way Wendy’s varsity sweater was neatly shaped by her rather generous breasts, then he checked her plaid skirt and concluded his inspection with her lower legs, all the way down to her bobby socks and her size-five saddle shoes.

Midge got the hint and urged her friend to drop it.

Wendy finally dropped it and sulkily attended to Steve along with Midge. She was scared at the prospect of being taken to the police station, but deep down, she felt a secret jolt of excitement as she pictured herself in a cell, alone, surrounded by three or four policemen, all of them grown men who would urgently strip her out of her teenage clothes and have their way with her!

The sweet sixteen felt it ... The slutty girl within her would enjoy taking each and every one of these men inside her. They would properly break her in for her future husband, and she’d climax in their law-enforcing arms.

As she helped Steve to his brand-new Studebaker along with Midge, Wendy was soaking wet under her skirt.

After some friendly talk with the policemen, Robbie went his way. It was a fine night in May and it felt great to walk on that boulevard without a trench coat.

Robbie found he wasn’t missing Wendy that much.

“I’ll find a nicer girl!” he told himself as he walked, smiling as he relived his all-too-brief fight with Steve. He didn’t enjoy hitting people, but he had been delighted when he heard the bone-cracking sound as he broke Steve’s nose.

Nobody at school knew he was into boxing for two years, before he switched to Olympic weightlifting, only a month before, in early April. Steve and his friends would try and hide his defeat from the public eye, but sooner or later, this was going to be the talk of the school—Robert Glover could pack a real punch.

Robbie didn’t like that. He liked being left to himself. Worse, this kind of rap didn’t attract the kind of girls he liked and it also attracted the principal’s attention, the wrong kind of attention.

What a fool he had been to think that dating a daddy’s girl like Wendy would work out fine. Yes, Wendy was very pretty, but she wasn’t a girl for him. He needed someone quieter and more mature.

“All things come in their due time!” Robbie heard an old man say as he went by a small street; the man was speaking alone, but the words rang true and hit home.

Robbie then took an avenue to the diner he was headed for. He was hungry, and he needed fuel for tomorrow’s lifting session.

Robbie had just started out in Olympic weightlifting. He had fallen in love with the sport after seeing John Davis give an exhibition in town. John Davis, the ebony-muscle legend, had won the gold as a heavyweight again; it was his fourth consecutive world title since he had gotten back from the Pacific War.

After winning the title in Paris, the 1947 championship in Philly, then the Olympic gold in London, the nonpareil John Davis dominated the 1949 competition in Amsterdam. He was poised to win again next fall, in Paris like four years before.

Robbie had begun training in a dingy gym located in the less-commendable part of town, near a Chinese restaurant where he worked part-time as a dishwasher.

He was one of very few white lifters in this all-black joint. It was a rough gym, but it was also one of the strongest gyms in the world. John Davis trained there whenever he was in Philly.

The place was in disrepute; it was even rumored that the black lifters sometimes brought white whores and gang-fucked them in the showers. There was even a tall tale about such a gang fuck involving white girls—proper, well-bred girls—at the H&H restaurant in the wee hours. Robbie didn’t believe a word of it.

Thus, Robbie didn’t want the folks at school to know he was training in that gym, in that part of town. He was attending this prep school on a scholarship due to his nearly perfect grades. His folks didn’t have the kind of money to send one of their kids there.

He sat in a classroom along with mates whose fathers were lawyers, doctors or executives, while his father worked as a plumber.

Robbie finally walked into Wendy’s Special, his favorite diner.

“Hi, lad,” said the cook. “I can’t sell you beer, but I can make you the usual on the grill!”

“Hi, pops!” Robbie answered. “I’ll still have a beer; a beer of the sugary cane!”

Robbie and Sam “pops” Jeffries always said this when they saw each other. They had been pals for two years, and Henry knew the lad’s habits.

Sam started a cheeseburger on the grill with extra onions and mushrooms while filling a glass with Brownie’s root beer. Robbie got seated at his usual table near the front window, facing the door, like he had learned to do in a film noir he had seen the year before, at the theater of course as his parents didn’t have this new thing called a television set.

He had started reading the newspaper while slowly sipping his root beer, waiting for his late-night dinner, when he heard some faint sobbing.

Turning around, he spotted a girl he hadn’t notice. She was sitting in the far corner all by herself, near the juke-box. She had her back to him; he saw the movement of her shoulders and understood she was sobbing all right.

The way her chestnut-brown hair captured the diner’s tawny light was very attractive and fascinating. Robbie walked to her.

“Excuse me, Miss, I know this isn’t my business, but would you like to have a soul to speak to?”

“N ... No ... Please leave me alone...”

“Well, Miss, my date dropped me at the theater and I had planned this dinner to be a meal for two, and I see you’re all alone here, so that makes two of us.”

Robbie suddenly grew a bit nervous as he spoke; he was noticing how pretty she was. Something in her face told him she had probably reached her twenties, although she still had that pristine look of the teenage girl.

“I don’t date teenage boys, my young sir!” the girl said with a tear glistening on her cheek.

Robbie took a napkin, and did something a bit bold—he himself took the liberty and wiped that tear off her cheek.

She started with surprise and looked back at him with curiosity. She didn’t expect so young a boy to do something like this. This boy was clearly a teen, she could tell from his apple-cheek face, but he was tall and just as broad-shouldered as any grown man, if not more, and his hands looked like they had strength in them.

“Oh, gee!” she realized in her thoughts... “This dark-haired fellow is going to be quite a man in a few years! He’s already got these big, strong arms a woman can lean on,” she thought.

“Please, Miss,” the lad said, “it’s my date, so it’s your treat! Be my guest, Miss. Please, you’ll feel better after having something more than that half-empty cup of coffee...”

The young woman silently nodded, then the high-school teen gleefully changed tables to join her.

She didn’t have much energy for arguing and besides, she felt curious to know more about this lad who sounded kind and honest. She also noticed some ruggedness about him; this young man could stand for himself and be as tough as a hooligan if need be; she could sense this. She liked this. Yes, she liked him.

These sorts of bad boys, rugged and kind, always got under her skin. She knew the trick was to find a genuinely kind one, something that was easier said than done. Thus, she let the lad sit in front of her while the place was filled with the fresh aroma of grill-cooked ground beef.

“I’ve been coming here for two years, Miss, and let me tell you that you won’t find better burgers in town! The owner carefully buys his meat at the Italian butcher shop two blocks away, so it’s always fresh. By the way, I’m Robbie! Nice meeting you...”

“Helen, I’m Helen, the older girl said as she wiped her tears. And yes, you’re right, I’ll feel better after I have something to eat. Thanks for the meal!”

“Don’t mention it!”

The two youths looked at each other. Robbie felt she liked him. Her brown eyes were amazing to look into. He suddenly had no idea what to say.

Helen liked him even better from up close. This lad was about seventeen years old, it was all apparent in his features, but he was buying her dinner and she suddenly got slightly aroused from thinking of their age difference—she was twenty-one years old, and this high-school kid had the nerve to patronize her! And the strange thing was, she didn’t complain. Being pampered felt nice.

“So, what’s on your mind, kid?” Robbie said, remembering a line from Humphrey Bogart in Casablanca.

Helen burst out laughing.

“Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! You just called me ‘kid’! And I could be your big sister! Ha! Ha! Ha! You’re such a funny young fella...”

“Well, uh, Miss, at least you’re not crying anymore, but please, tell me what it was that you were crying about.”

“Ooh, it’s good to feel cheerful again! Thanks, lad!”

Robbie and Helen both suddenly realized he was holding her hand. He loved the feel of her dainty hand under his while she felt a strong jolt of socially forbidden arousal course through her.

Her cheeks blushed as she pictured him, a lad who still got apple cheeks, forcefully taking her in his arms and kissing her before urgently lifting her up on that table, where he would slide her panties down from under her skirt, flip up her skirt and make her his woman.

Her body started craving this, and she could tell he would still be kind and tender while giving her the favor of his manhood. When she was in Hollywood trying to make it as an actress, men took advantage of her. It had been a while since the last time a man actually made love with her.

She knew she would let this teenage boy take her if he wanted to and what’s more, she was in the safest days of her month; the best time to be a bit careless.

“Why not...” she whispered softly.

“Why not what, Miss?”

“Why ... Why not telling you what I was crying about...”

“Well, yes, I’d like to hear the story. At least, if you’re some movie star in a bad jam, you know I’m not a journalist and I won’t tell anyone you’re in town!”

Helen burst out laughing again. Sam, the cook, brought Robbie his cheeseburger and fries. He said the lady’s burger would be coming right along in two or three minutes. She caught the older man briefly looking down at her perky breasts as he spoke. There was something warm and tender about this rather large man, and besides, she enjoyed being the center of attention.

Robbie slid his platter a few inches toward her, and she began eating French fries with him.

They felt great as she ate; they were crisp, hot and tender in the middle. They had a bit of that hash brown taste and it got her going for more.

“Hey, Sam! Please, bring us an extra helping of your fantastic French fries and another root beer! The lady’s hungry after all!”

Then, Robbie looked into her sparkly brown eyes and added: “The lady’s a bit hungry and I like to look after the little chick!”

As she heard this apple-cheeked lad calling her a little chick, Helen laughed and wanted to playfully scold him for not acting his age, but something suddenly stopped her and her cheeks blushed once more.

“Why not?” she thought. “That kid is seventeen years old, and I’m no longer in LA. Kids under eighteen are jailbait in California, but here in Pennsylvania, I would be doing nothing illegal by giving myself to that big boy!”

As she thought these words, Helen felt a wild rush of excitement nearly sweep her off her chair. While eating a fry, she caught herself wondering what his teenage dick would feel and taste like in her mouth. She refrained from directly asking the kid whether he’d like it if she went under the table to give him a blowjob.

She was positively blushing as the kid ate his meal with a healthy appetite. Sam brought her burger along with the extra serving of French fries and a mug of root beer.

As she ate, Helen looked at the sugary foam spilling over the mug’s brim and wondered what it would feel like to take the lad’s hot foam in her mouth ... Or Sam’s for that matter. In both cases, there was an age difference that carried an arousing element of social transgression. She refrained from masturbating and ate her burger while enjoying the arousal heat that her petite body was now basking in.

A few sugary drops of root beer spilled on his hand as he drank and took a peek at Helen’s breast shapes—their youthful curves were rather modest in size, but they did stand out, encased as they were in the mint-green t-shirt she wore under a saffron cardigan.

She caught him peeking and smiled as they both kept on eating.

The cook also had his eyes on her while pretending to wipe glasses. As far as Helen could tell, this fifty-year old man didn’t look that bad for his years. She was convinced that he was a well-behaved gentleman who wouldn’t do anything inappropriate.

Helen quickly told her story to her teenage date. Her studio in Hollywood had dumped her. She had come so tantalizingly close to making it as an actress, but now, at twenty-one-years of age, she found herself with the prospect of doing it all over again; starting out again on the small jobs with all these dirty old men who would use her to fulfill their own sexual fantasies.

“What a bunch of old, chiseling rats!” Robbie said as he finished his meal.

As she bit into another French fry, Helen told him she was back in Philly because her sister had found her a job. She had taken a flat near the H&H restaurant and looked forward to a simpler, less worrying life. Robbie felt like he’d like having a part in that simpler life of hers.

She greatly enjoyed having the attention of both men in the room; she began craving for more.

Sam was still pretending to wipe an already-crystal-clean glass while contemplating the chestnut-brown light in her hair. She wore it in wavy locks that fell down onto her shoulders, all perfectly highlighted by her saffron cardigan. Robbie kept looking down at her breasts, shyly, the way only a teenager could do.

She slid a foot out of her penny loafer shoe and started caressing Robbie’s lower leg through his tweed suit pants. The lad started and looked at her with big cow eyes as she playfully smiled at him. Her foot found its way under his pant leg; she really enjoyed the skin-on-skin contact. Helen was certain the lad was presently experiencing a raging erection.

As she took a sip from her root beer with her gaze locked on his, she felt a huge wave of horniness surge within her and growing into an unstoppable tsunami. She realized at this very moment that she’d love to have sex with both of them.

From the way they were looking at her, it was a fair bet to say they would oblige.

The modest curves of her breasts showed between the saffron curtains of her cardigan. Helen wasn’t busty, she knew this, but she also knew that somehow, her modest boobs had that something that attracted male gazes.

While she finished eating, Helen enjoyed the male attention she was getting. She pictured herself being laid down by both men on a table, with her t-shirt and bra tucked up for their enjoyment. Would they like the modest circles of her areolas and her pale nipples? Would they be disappointed to see they weren’t brown nor offered a very sharp contrast against her pale skin? Would they be put off by the fact that her right breast was slightly smaller?

She felt her breasts swell with arousal under her bra as she finished eating her French fries. As she drank her soft drink, she suddenly had the crazy idea of asking that teenage kid whether he’d like it if she took off her shirt and spill some root beer on her breasts to give him a special, sugary taste of her girly flesh.

Oh, God! She pictured his teenage mouth sucking her nipples or both men enjoying her. This would be ungodly delicious! In each case, there would be an inappropriate age gap; the cook was about her pop’s age, and this lad would make her feel like a young teacher getting intimate with her own student.

She could have this if she wanted to. She was in control, and this felt amazing after being dumped by that stupid studio because she wouldn’t be the director’s whore. Well, now she could choose her own time and place, but would she do it?

As she finished her root beer, Helen looked in her purse and couldn’t find any nickels. She felt like dancing in front of these men and that juke-box looked pretty darn inviting with its golden arch and its mahogany chest that contained treasures of jazzy sounds—treasures that would turn sadness into mirth for the time of a tune.

Helen excused herself to the ladies room and when she came back, she walked straight to Sam to make nickels out of a dollar bill.

As the fifty-something man stood at the cash register, she once again caught him peeking at her breasts and smiled.

“Excuse me, Sir, but this scar on your forearm, did you get this from the war?”

“Ha! Ha ... Honest, Miss, it’s nothing as glamorous as that. I simply got struck by some machine back when I was a youth like this nice fellow (he motioned at Robbie). I was working in some ski factory in Vermont.”

“Vermont? America’s snow playground?”

“Rightly so. I loved my time there; the snow, the fresh air, the talks by the fire ... I would relive this all over again, Miss...”

“Well, Sir, that scar ... it ... You wear it well; it looks manly and so it fits you,” Helen replied, smiling.

Sam felt something come alive under his apron. Did she just flirt with him? God damnit, she was so young and pretty! He never saw her coming; that was for sure. He thought of his wife of twenty-five years and felt the pang of guilt, but it was just flirt for fun; he didn’t need to worry about being led into temptation as she was not going to seriously try to seduce a man of his years.

As she walked away toward the jukebox, Sam looked at her hips. Her gait was light and graceful, making her hips smoothly dance along with her cardigan that hung loose over her slim waist and caressed her curves like a moving saffron curtain.

Sam was hard under his apron; he just couldn’t take his eyes off her moving hips and butt. She smiled, knowing he was looking and deliciously sensing his gaze.

Her gray skirt was well adjusted to her size; it did show her curves. It stopped a couple of inches down her knees so Sam and Robbie also had a vantage point on the smooth paleness of her lower legs that stood on brown loafer shoes. Her feet were number-five small, and she wore no socks!

Robbie was looking too. As she walked past him, he caught sight of her at a sharp angle, where both boobs looked stacked together as they gently protruded out of her open cardigan, like girly knolls forming gentle curves on her mint-green shirt.

Upon feeling Robbie’s gaze on her, Helen refrained from cupping her breasts and kept her hands down on her hips, like a good girl should. She was going to dance for him and for Sam! The mere anticipation of what was to come had her nearly melting on the spot.

“If these two only knew...” she thought. “I’m soaking wet and if they jumped me right now and grabbed me, I’d let them do anything they want!”

Helen enjoyed every step of the way. She took her time, taking sexy steps that showcased her beauty. When she reached the jukebox, she made a point of leaning a bit more than she had to, thus offering them the grey-clothed curves of her peachy derriere.

She stood five feet two and barely weighed more than a hundred pounds, but she had curves to feed men’s lust, and she knew it.

Sam was mighty pleased. He felt ashamed of lusting after so young a lady, but his dick didn’t care. It would enjoy her womanhood with the same uncaring boldness as a hooligan robbing a bank.

The loafers Helen was wearing without socks and the smallness of her feet made her look like a girly teenager. Indeed, she had played a teenager in her very last movie—these loafers were what remained of her lost Hollywood dream.

The nickels clicked in the jukebox. Helen selected her first tune—the Chattanooga Choo Choo from the Glenn Miller orchestra. It was getting a bit old, but she’d always loved that song and it wasn’t too much up-tempo to begin with.

As the brass instruments filled the room with rolling notes that mimicked an approaching steam train, Helen started dancing.

She moved with a natural grace of rhythm and movement. Both men had only eyes for her and her dancing breast shapes that tantalized their lust as she swayed to the swinging jazz sounds.

Helen smiled at them and made a point of showing both men an equal share of attention. She was making up her mind about what she was going to do next, but first, she wanted to show them that she could really cut a rug.

After the swing tune, the jukebox played more recent hits and moved into genuine jitterbug—Good Rockin’ Tonight by Wynonie Harris, Herthquake Boogie by Milt Herth & His Trio, Barnyard Boogie by Louis Jordan, Shim-Me-Sha-Wabble by Graeme Bell & His Australian Jazz Band and Boulevard Bounce by Lucky Thompson...

She was dancing her heart out! She turned her body loose and let it show her feminine soul through these bebop tunes with up-tempo rhythms; she took a breather with the quieter Boulevard Bounce.

Robbie was so transfixed by Helen’s dancing that he didn’t notice the two men who had come in and ordered a cup of coffee along with a piece of the specialty maroon pie.

Sam served them without his eyes ever leaving Helen’s dancing; his arousal slowed down his walking as he served the steaming coffee.

The newcomers, who wore rather shabby clothes and worn-out hats, were already steaming just as much as the hot cups; Helen had captured their undivided attention.