Chapter 3

Marty's Ice Cream Parlor didn't pay much for ice cream delivery charges that summer. Twice, Annette drove over to pick it up herself from the Creamery -- after spending the day with me in my hometown.

I took her to meet my folks. They liked her. (What's not to like?) I could tell they thought she was out of my league, but they didn't say so.

My sister thought Annette was out of my league, and said so.

"She's 'way out of your league," my lovely older sister declared, the very first night Annette visited us at home.

"OK. So she's out of my league. But I can -- aspire to greatness, can I not?"

"Aspire all you want, Lumpy," she said, calling me by my childhood nickname. "But she's going to stay out of your league."

"When school starts again, I'm going to be able to see her more often. We'll both be sophomores. I'm going to have an off-campus apartment."

"You think you're going to make out like a little bandit, don't you?" Sis said. "You're seeing yourself in that apartment, wearing one of those Hugh Hefner robes, and seducing Annette, the Ice-Cream Princess."

"The thought has crossed my mind," I admitted.

"Never happen."

But a week didn't go by that Annette and I didn't see each other. Usually, I chugged over to Newark in the Chevy. But those two times, she came in my direction. I took that as a commitment of sorts. After all, there had to be dozens of guys -- ex-high school classmates of hers in Newark -- panting after her. If she actually took the trouble to drive over to see me, it couldn't be just for the ice cream.

Delivery charges weren't all that high.

That Friday night, during the after-hours at the Ice Cream Parlor, I told Annette about the coming school year in Columbus.

"I've got my own apartment, next month, just south of the campus."

"Any roommates?"

"No roommates! It's in a kind-of boarding house. It's just a kitchenette and a bedroom, but it's got it's own teeny bathroom, and it's kinda private -- it's off the back of the house, on the main floor."

"Landlady?"

"Yeah. She lives there. I think there's 4-5 rooms for rent. But mine is primo -- with the private bath and all."

"Private entrance, too?"

"Sort of. I mean, if you come in the back door, you just turn right into my part -- off the kitchen."

"So if the landlady's in the kitchen, she sees you come in?"

"Yeah. But she's already said I can have guests over."

"You're thinking, that would be me," Annette said.

"Yeah. That's what I'm thinking."

"You think she's a big liberal? Doesn't care what you do in your apartment, 'long as you pay the rent?"

"Well. I'm not sure. But I think if we kept it, y'know, quiet..."

"But -- what if I turn out to be a screamer?" Annette wanted to know.

I laughed. "I hope you do! It would be good for my ego."

"Maybe the landlady would throw you out that same day."

"It would be worth it!"

"I'm still going to be living in the dorms this year," Annette said, wistfully.

"I can be your home away from home," I offered.

"Maybe."

By this time, Annette and I had graduated to a slightly more advanced relationship. I had learned, for example, that her athletic body felt every bit as good as it looked. Her breasts, while not particularly large, were quite wonderful to hold, bare, in one's hand: Hefty. Substantial. Very warm to the touch.

She was only an ice-cream vendor's daughter, but she had some cones of her own!

Much more recently, I had learned that Annette reacted quite favorably to touchings of an even more intimate nature, below the Mason-Dixon line. Just that past week, as soon as my ice-cream hands had regained their 98.6-degree normalcy, I had caressed her in after-hours intimacy in the back room of Marty's Ice Cream Parlor, and found her warm, fuzzy center to be a moist, lovely, happy place to be.

I was hoping that this Friday night -- just three days later -- my mouth might visit the places where only my hands had been, to date.

Annette remained as out-of-my-league as she'd ever been, but there had been no indication, so far, that she was aware of that fact. And I was intending, very soon, to taste something that I had every reason to believe would be far sweeter, even, than two scoops of Strawberry Banana!

We were wrestling quietly in the semi-darkness of the Ice Cream Parlor's back room, with little chance of detection, by parents or otherwise, but also with very few creature comforts. There were no couches, no soft easy chairs. Not even an adequate, comforting bit of extra floor space in the cramped back room.

"I wish there was someplace we could go to be alone," I moaned.

"Yes. This is -- fun. But it would be better, if we had a place."

"We could go someplace, in my car."

"You mean -- park?"

"Yeah. Or. Whatever."

"Whatever?"

"We could get a room. I mean -- you wouldn't have to do anything -- or anything. We'd just have, y'know -- privacy."

"You mean, if we had a motel room, instead of just this little room behind the ice cream counter, you wouldn't have your hand up my pants -- like you do now?"

"I just mean -- I'd be satisfied to just do -- the things you wanted to do -- and that's all. But we could have privacy."

"And you'd want to take my clothes off -- right?"