Chapter 2

Some of us dreamed of having the sweet attentions of the homecoming queen or the cutest pompom girl. We were setting our sights too low, you know.

At every school there was at least one other girl -- seldom involved in much of anything -- who was so appealing, so downright enthralling -- that she seemed above the mundane and childish activities and traditions of high school.

Just such a girl was Carol Pitocki. Tall, beauty without peer, always dressing elegantly and moving regally, you never saw her at a football game or a dance. She was the kind of young woman who attracted the attention of teenagers when she was in fifth grade, and when in high school, dated college boys and older.

So, in some ways, the true measure of just how unlikely the improvement in my interpersonal situation was not in banging the principal on her desk, or sodomizing the head cheerleader in her convertible, but in cuddling with Carol Pitocki in front of a fireplace on a rainy afternoon.

She loved to talk about feelings, and the true nature of love, and what the future held. The lovely 16-year--old girl, a junior to my freshman, she loved to wear thick, cable sweaters and designer jeans and sip coffee which we chatted about the "meaning of life." I have to honestly say that it was as big a thrill to just sit there and feel her soft breath on my face as it was to hear Ellen McCarthy beg me to pound her middle-aged (but very tight and hot) cunt or feel Jenny Kennedy's supersnug anus strip its way up and down my rigid teenboy phallus.

Or at the other end of the social spectrum, perhaps true high school immortality might come from finding a diamond in the rough, in turning a neglected, lonely girl into someone sexy and uninhibited.

You may express curiosity, envy or doubt at my situation, as well you should. It seemed more impossible than leaping over tall buildings or running faster than the speed of sound. But there I was, gently moving a stray strand of lovely hair from Carol's model-pretty face while I listened intently to her discourse.

Earlier, I wrote about how my Uncle Mike had taken pity (disgust?) on me and decided to impart his crooked wisdom of life to me. Up to that moment, I wasn't sure I wanted to hear anything he had to say: with a string of divorces and firings, his life has been a decidedly mixed performance.

", but Jack, my boy," he would say, "the measure of a man isn't how far or fast he falls, but how well he bounces back." And he did have a point. Despite his many annoying qualities -- including a know-it-all look perpetually plastered on his face -- he did "bounce" well, from one wife to a prettier lady, from one good job to a better one.

So it was on the late summer day when he began his tutoring of myself, a lesson that began in a most unlikely way.

Uncle Mike stuck the cigarette back into his mouth, stood and grasped the baseball bat while I looked on with a little bit of concern.

"Always keep your eye on the ball. Nice level swing; make contact; follow through," he said, as he made a couple of slow, practice passes with the Louisville Slugger. I was more perplexed than ever. What was this about batting? I didn't understand. And then --

WHOMP! I felt a sharp, powerful blow to my stomach. It pushed up my diaphragm and all the air belched out of my lungs. The "wind knocked out of me," I staggered and fell over, crashing to the concrete driveway with a doubtlessly stunned look on my face.

Uncle Mike then crouched down and whispered rapidly into my ear. He said:

"Sorry about the surprise attack, but no gain without pain, eh? For the next minute or so as you gasp for breath, you're in a very suggestible state, just almost like you've been hypnotized. What I'm going to say will go right to your subconscious where it will do you the most good.

"Hear me well: You are better than all those clean-cut all-American bastards that lord it over you and your friends. You are strong. You are graceful, relaxed, cool under pressure and supremely confident. Every pitch you hit; every shot you take goes in. You are shockingly honest and candid, and as a result of the foregoing, you are completely, absolutely, irresistible to all girls and women.

"You dress nicely, but not too trendy; you look out for the little guy; you don't follow other people's rules unless they make sense to you; you are able to laugh at yourself and suppress the urge to be cruel to others. But first and foremost: confidence. You have it! Nothing and no one stands in your way save your own conscience."

Of course, at time, as I lay there choking for air and thrashing about, the words were just a blur of sounds. But the subconscious mind hears and remembers; it remembers everything.

Eventually, I was able to catch my breath and pull myself to my feet.

"What... happened?" I said thickly, my head still swimming.

"Oh, I was just showing you some batting techniques and you stepped right in front of one of my swings. Knocked the wind right out of you. But," he said, a twinkle in his eye, "I've confident that you'll be all right after this."

"Umhh," I replied, feeling not a little weird. "I think I'd better lie down."

"Do that," he said, and sat down in his chair, reaching for a beer. "Take a little nap. And when you wake up, you'll feel like a whole new man."

So I did. And I did.

Amanda Powell was not the prettiest girl at Brooksville High School. She had too many freckles, she was at least three or four years out of style and her hair never quite seemed to be in any recognizable hairdo. But she was smart and pleasant and often quite unhappy.

Except not at this particular moment I'm going to describe. What's happening in my happy memory is in a secluded little knoll of trees in the park a few blocks from my house. It's dusk and Amanda Powell, 14-year-old skinny virgin and innocent has buried her face in my crotch.

She had hungrily ripped open my jeans and yanked down my shorts. Seeing my half-hard cock, she moaned a "Wow!" and popped the head into her mouth. With frisky enthusiasm, she began to bob her face up and down, and the predictable quickly followed; my cock hardened and lengthened and soon the combination of her active mouth and jacking hand had me approaching the moment of truth.

"Uh, Amanda, you're doing great," I managed to say, "but if you keep that up, I'm going to... "

She raised her face up, her lips wet with saliva and my own precum. "Cum? Cum in my mouth? God, Jack, what do you think I'm trying to do? I'm dying to taste your delicious cum! I love sucking your wonderful dick!"

And she did. As I lay there on the soft grass I felt her exceptionally talented mouth work its magic on my eager, happy boner, and it wasn't much longer before I felt my balls prickle, and then...

"Oh, God, Mandy, here it fuckin' cums!" I grunted, and then thick, long ropes of spunk started to shoot cannon-like out of my cock. The white stuff squirted forcefully into her mouth, which kept on sucking and slurping as I continued to unload my cream, jet after jet, pulse after pulse.

"Wow," I said, sweetly. "You are so good, Amanda. That was just the nicest." Her eyes were still upraised at me as she nursed at my prick. She popped her mouth off the head and grinned.