Month 2

Nine

It was a gray day, one of those overcast, still days, where the clouds didn't move, threatening rain, but never getting around to making good on the threat. As I was about to leave the house for my evening run, the doorbell rang. I told my mother that I'd get the door, and when I threw it open, Jenny Hall stood in front of me.

Jenny is a big girl, I mean really big, somewhere around six-feet tall with lots of extra girl-flesh, a mass of auburn hair, dancing green eyes, and a round, pretty, rosy-cheeked face. Like me, she wore sweats and running shoes. We'd lived in the same neighborhood for years and were friendly with each other, but I'd classified her "girl," so I didn't talk with her very much. I don't think she took my silences personally. She may even have understood. Misfits understand misfits. It's a law of nature.

"Hey, Paul," she said. "You're just the guy I wanted to see."

"Hi."

"Look. I've been watchin' ya run, and you're lookin' mighty fine, Paul, mighty fine. Rumor has it you even have a girlfriend, one of the purdy ones. Well, I wanna look fine, too. I wanna look svelte." She giggled. "Ooh, I do like that word. Svelte. Notice how it sort of rolls off the tongue. Gives me tingles, it does. Anyway, I figured if I was ever goin' to be svelte that I needed to do somethin' about it, like run. I tried runnin' by myself, but I... ah, darn it Paul, I don't have the self-discipline. I don't have the willpower. So what I thought, I thought maybe you'd let me run with you. I'm ready now, dressed for it right down to my bran' new runnin' shoes, and I promise I won't hold you up, or nothin' like that. Waddaya say? Will you let me run with you? Please?"

When she flapped her long eyelashes at me, I couldn't resist. "Sure, but... to be honest, Jenny, I'm running two miles now. When I started I couldn't make a mile."

"I hear ya, Paul. Jus' let me run with you as far as I can. I'll drop off then, and you can keep goin'. Like I said, I won't hold you up. I promise."

I shrugged. "Okay, let's go." I closed the door and we walked down the driveway. I started off with a slow pace, loping leisurely, hoping she'd stay with me.

"You usually run faster, don't ya?" Jenny said, panting already.

"A little," I replied while looking straight in front of me. I'd discovered watching Jenny run made me dizzy. She didn't look properly put together, sort of like a jogging rag doll, a big doll, fully stuffed, flapping along, no bones, just steaming girl-flesh sheathed in thick cotton.

"Do what ya normally do. I'll keep up as long as I can."

I picked up the pace a little. I don't know how she did it, but she stayed with me. I knew why she did. She was a misfit. I knew about being a misfit. I'd been one for years, out of sync with the norm. Jenny and I, we were a pair, like lean Jack Sprat and his fat wife. I was short and scrawny; she was tall and fat, both out of sync, abused by our DNA, our habits, or whatever emotional baggage we carried that made us remain what we were. Until my growth spurt, I couldn't do anything about my height, no more than Jenny could do anything about hers, but with effort, I could've put some meat on my bones, just as Jenny could've done something about her weight. Well, she was doing something about it now, and I was proud of her.

"You want to be svelte, huh?" I huffed.

"Oh, yeah. I got right purdy curves underneath, buddy boy, I surely do. I jus' need ta peel off a few layers to show off the purdy parts."

I laughed. "I had to add a few layers, and still need a few more."

"And mighty fine layers they are, too. How far have we gone?" she asked, gasping for breath.

"About a half-mile." More like a quarter-mile.

"Hot damn! A personal best!"

She staggered. I slowed.

"Go on, buddy boy. I'm all done in. Thanks."

She stopped, dropped the heels of her hands onto her knees, her head sagging between her legs while she gulped in oxygen.

While running in place, I asked, "Will you be all right?"

"Yep, more than all right. Same time tomorrow?"

"Sure."

She met me everyday that week, and each day offered her a new personal best to celebrate. By the end of the week, she was up to an honest three-quarter mile. I enjoyed her companionship. I actually missed her when she staggered to a stop and waved me on. She became more coordinated, less dizzying to watch, and she beamed with pride when I told her I thought she'd peeled off a layer.

"Thanks for noticin', Paul. I'm down ten pounds, only forty to go."

"Are you on a diet, too?"

"Oh, yeah."

"Which one?"

"Mine. I call it the HRZS Jenny Hall Diet. The initials stand for half-rations and zero snacks"

"Sounds workable. Why, Jenny? Why are you making the effort now?"

"As apposed to last year or the year before?"

"Uh-huh."

"Watchin' you change was part of it, but only a small part. The truth of the matter, buddy boy, is I wanna boyfriend; I wanna little romance in my life; I wanna get laid, darn it!"

I chuckled, and the chuckle soon turned into a belly laugh. I laughed so hard I had to stop running, finally collapsing on a patch of brilliantly green winter grass.

Jenny laughed with me, but she wasn't happy, I could see.

"What?" she finally said, indignantly. "Thinkin' about fat ol' me getting laid is fallin'-down laughable?"

"No, no. It's just that you surprised me," I said between hoots. "Ah, heck, Jenny, I'm laughing at myself, not you. I'm just starting to understand the mystery called girls, and to hear one say she's getting svelte to get laid just cracked me up. I didn't think girls went around thinking about trying to get laid. I thought it was a guy thing."

"Now that's funny, buddy boy."

I wiped the tears from my eyes with my fists and rose to my feet. We jogged off together.

"Why is that funny?" I asked after thinking about her statement.

"Girls think about getting laid all the time, especially those of us not likely to get sweaty with a guy any time soon."

I chuckled. "You get sweaty with me everyday."

"You know what I mean. Stop teasin' me."

"Sorry."

"Tell me; when you were short and skinny did you have any fewer urges than you do now?"

"Urges?"

"Quit teasin'! I'm serious."

"Okay, okay." I wiped the grin off my face. "No. I was as horny then as I am now."

"Yeah, 'cept now if you get the urge you can call on your purdy, petite girlfriend to help you satisfy it."

"If only that were true. Claire likes my kisses, but we haven't moved much beyond kissing."

Jenny skidded to a stop and put her hands on her wide hips. "Do you mean to tell me that little snip of a girl is holding out on you?"

"No, no, you've got it all wrong, Jenny. I respect her..."

"Respect!" she shouted. She shook her head, the mass of sweat-dampened auburn hair waving in the air. "A durned fool! That's what you are." She sighed deeply and shook her head again. "You've been helpin' me, buddy boy, so I'm a gonna help you. The next time you're kissin' and huggin' with that girl, you do a little touchin', too, if you know what I mean. Oh, keep it romantic; us girls, we sure do like romance, but unless she's frigid or somethin', if you don't start movin' things along, you just might be lookin' for another girlfriend real soon. Do ya hear me, Paul? Do ya hear me?"

"Loud and clear, Jenny girl. Load and clear."

Ten

I'd erroneously believed I'd started to get a handle on the mystery called girls, but Jenny's revelations popped that bubble. I was confused. Ergo, I needed help, but whom should I turn to?

I'd spoken about girls with Mrs. Jensen, but each time I brought up girls, her body language told me she'd rather not delve into the subject. She had told me that girls fantasized more about romance and love than sex, that older women became disillusioned about sex and merely coped, a bitter concept I suspect came from a personal perspective that I hoped didn't reflect a worldview.

I also assumed that Jenny's comments on the subject were as personal as Mrs. Jensen's. She believed girls thought about sex all the time, just like boys, that unless a girl was frigid or something, her urge to get laid was felt as strongly as any boy's. She had mentioned that the sex should be romantic, so there was a tie-in with Mrs. Jensen's attitude about love and sex.

I could ask Claire, but the idea of asking my girlfriend to tell me about girls seemed inappropriate. Just the thought of it made my hands feel clammy. That left me with three sources: Mom, Dad, and Carrie.

I started with my sister.

"Jenny tells me that girls think about sex all the time, just like boys, except their fantasies are more romantic. Is she right or wrong?"

Carrie's eyes widened. "Jeez, Paul, what brought this on?"

I shrugged. "I'm trying to figure out girls, and I'm getting mixed signals."

She giggled. "No doubt. That's 'cause a bunch of girls are as varied in their attitudes about sex as a bunch of boys."

"Makes sense. What about you? Do you think about sex a lot, from a romantic point of view, of course?"

"Maybe, describe 'a lot.'"

I tried to quantify my mental meanderings about sex and made a guess. "Two or three times an hour."

Carrie laughed uproariously. "Hound dog! My big brother is a hound dog."

I didn't fully understand or appreciate her analogy but granted she was probably accurate. "Please don't be disparaging. I'm in serious trouble here, Carrie. Please answer my question."

She blushed. "Being a hound dog must run in our family. I'm not as bad as you, but almost."

"Thanks. Next question. For you, what makes sex romantic as apposed to just plain sex?"

She shook her head. "Paul, I don't know all that much about sex. Perhaps you should ask someone with more experience than I."

"We're talking about fantasies, here, Sis, not the sex act itself. You fantasize about sex, don't you?"

Her blush deepened. "Yeah, I guess."

"Well, are your fantasies romantic or down and dirty?"

"Romantic... mostly." She sat up straighter and twinkles entered her eyes. "How about yours?"

I laughed. "Down and dirty... mostly... I think. That's what I'm trying to figure out. What makes sex romantic as opposed to just plain sex?"

Carrie squirmed nervously in her seat. "I don't know. I was going to say love, but romance comes before love, I think, so love isn't the right answer either."

"What's romantic?"

"I don't know. Caring maybe. Compliments. Flowers. Opening doors. Pulling back chairs." Her eyes became unfocused. "A tender touch. The look in his eyes." She shook her head and her eyes locked on mine. "That's the best I can do. Maybe you should read one of Mom's trashy romance novels."

I didn't take Carrie's advice. I figured a romance novel would be as biased as Mrs. Jensen or Jenny.

I approached my mother next. "Gotta minute, Mom?"

"Just about. If I don't start dinner soon, it'll be too late." She grinned. "And as much as you've been eating lately, preparing dinner takes longer than it used to. I need to fix dinner for five, not four."

I blushed. "Sorry."

"Oh, Paul, don't be sorry. I was teasing. You're growing like a weed. You're putting on weight, but it looks like muscle to me, not fat, so all the food you shovel down must be good for you." She gave me a hug and kissed my cheek, needing to move up onto her toes to reach. "You're getting so tall, turning into such a handsome young man. I'm so proud of you." She rubbed her lipstick off my cheek with her fingers. "Now, what did you want to talk about?"

"Sex," I said.

She laughed, honestly at first, but I noted some nervousness creep into the laugh before it ended.

"Perhaps you should discuss the subject with your father."

"I will. I need a male perspective, too, but he was never a girl, and you were. I'm trying to understand girls, Mom, and I'm confused."

I opened the refrigerator and spied a plate of leftover fried chicken. Grabbing a leg and a napkin, I sat at the kitchen table.

"You'll ruin your dinner."

I raised an eyebrow.

"Never mind." She sat across from me. "Waddaya want to know about girls and sex?"

"When you were a girl, did you think about sex a lot?" I asked between bites.

"Yes," she said, which surprised me. When she recognized my surprised look, she grinned. "If you're asking if girls think about sex as much as boys, I'd have to say yes, maybe more so, but I think girls are more romantic about the subject than boys."

Ah, a consensus. Romance is important to girls. "Tell me about romance."

When she finished telling me what she considered romantic, I decided Carrie hadn't been far off the mark. According to my mother romance carried the emotional element that cried out that you respected and cared about the other person and did things that demonstrated how you felt.

My next question would embarrass me, possibly Mom, too, but I needed the answer.

Blushing, I asked, "Do girls want to have sex as much as boys?"

Mom didn't blush. "Some of them, others, no. Why do you ask?"

"Claire and I haven't moved much past the kissing stage. I've been told if I don't move things along, I might need to find another girlfriend."

"Humph, typical male attitude."

"The comment came from a girl, Mom."

Her face went slack. "Really?"

"Yeah. Was she right or wrong?"

Mom shook her head, which caused her breasts to sway alluringly. When she noticed where my eyes drifted, she squared her shoulders, but not for emphasis, just the opposite, I suspected.

I raised my eyes to hers. "Sorry."

She blushed then. "No problem. Do you think Claire wants more from you than a kiss?"

I shrugged. "I don't know. Claire instigated our first kiss. Since then, we've done a lot of kissing." I grinned. "She likes my kisses."

"Humph, I bet. What about you? Do you want to do more than kiss her?" When I stuttered, she added, "Never mind. You're a healthy teenage boy; I know the answer." She dropped her face into her hands, and then scrubbed her fingers back through her hair. "My boy is growing up," she muttered. I understood she was talking to herself, not me.

"Tell me, Paul, can you read minds?" Mother asked.

"Of course I can't."

"Then ask Claire. Ask her what she wants and then listen, really listen. Two-way communication is vastly more important than the quality of kisses in a relationship."

When I broached the subject with my father, he told me he didn't understand the opposite sex and had quit trying years ago. Bringing up the subject forced him to put on his "Father" hat, and he advised me in no uncertain terms not to rely on the girl to protect herself. "Wear a condom, Son," he insisted ponderously.

I purchased a box of condoms later that day. Jeez! That was embarrassing!

Eleven

Claire and I were alone. She was babysitting for a neighbor and suggested that I drop by about eight o'clock. We weren't alone very often, especially indoors as opposed to being in a car, so I decided to follow some of the advice I'd recently solicited from a variety of sources. I arrived with a single yellow rose in hand, which caused Claire to demonstrate how much she appreciated my "romantic" gesture by kissing me until my toes curled.

She put the rose in water, fixed me an iced tea, and we settled on the sofa facing each other, with Claire curling her feet under her. I worried I'd stutter; my hands were sweaty, and the butterflies in my belly had turned into a hive of angry wasps.

"Please be quiet for a while," Claire said in a normal tone of voice. "Little Timmy might still be awake. We can talk, but not loudly."

Her request fit my plan. I wanted to talk. My mother had reminded me I couldn't read minds, that if I wanted to know what Claire wanted from our relationship beyond the kisses we shared, I should ask her. I didn't know where to start.

When I told Claire I wanted to kiss her, she'd responded by telling me to kiss her, but telling her I'd like to touch her breasts and pussy with both my hands and my mouth and get her so hot and bothered that she'd ask me to have sex with her felt downright inappropriate to me. Still, that's exactly what I wanted from her. In down-and-dirty terms, I wanted her to ask me to fuck her.

"Kissing is good," I said.

"Very good," she replied, smiling as she sniffed the fragrance of the rose I'd given her.

"More would be better," I added and gulped.

Looking serene, which surprised me, Claire said, "I agree."

More would be better. Four little words, that's all it took. Amazing!

She placed the rose back into the bud vase on the coffee table and slid over next to me. She took my arm and pulled it over her shoulder, finally laying my hand over her breast. "How much more are we talking about?" she asked.

I gulped again. She'd hit the ball back into my court. What should I say that would keep it in play? "I want..."

Fuck! I couldn't get the words out.

"Tell me, Paul," she said as her hand pressed my hand more firmly to her breast. "In detail," she added and nibbled my earlobe with her lips.

She was a like ball machine, spitting ball after ball in my direction, so many I couldn't hit them back, couldn't even dodge them. I felt pummeled. I reasoned I had only two choices: jump up and run or start talking.

"I want it all," I croaked, electing to use the only viable choice open to me. Would she jump up and run now? Apparently not. Her ripe lips grazed down my neck, her feminine tongue reaching out tentatively touching the little hollow close to my collarbone.

"In detail, Paul. Describe 'all' for me."

"I want... I want to touch your beauty." I'd started and knew I couldn't stop. I blundered ahead. "I want to see it and touch it... and taste it, too. I want to run my hands over your smooth skin. All of it. Every square inch of it. I want to map you with my fingertips as if I were a blind man, but I'm not blind, so I will drink in your beauty with my eyes while my fingertips touch and test, test for those soft places that please you when I touch them, like the sensuous spots behind your knees."

She pulled my mouth to hers and kissed me, a soft romantic kiss, not devoid of passion, but passion wasn't the dominant emotion.

"Hmm, nice. Tell me more."

"I want to experience you, Claire; I want to let all of my senses take you in. I want to hear your sounds of pleasure, the tiny moans, the passionate moans, words, too, any words you utter, naughty or nice, or incomprehensible. Soft laughter, too. Your sultry laugh thrills and excites me. More than anything, I want to hear you cry out unrestrained when an orgasm I've induced overwhelms you."

"Ohmigod!" she exclaimed, but quietly.

"Your jasmine-scented hair intoxicates me, but I've also smelled the fragrance of your excitement while we've been kissing, and that is the scent I want to spread my nostrils more than any other. I want to sniff in your pheromones just before I taste you. I want to taste your breasts, too, heft them gently with the palms of my hands and suck in your rubbery nipples, lick them with my tongue, exploring them with sight and touch and taste, but mostly I want to taste your sex, your natural lubricant, when I run my tongue up through your crease, roll it over your clitoris, and suck gently on that sensitive nubbin until it pops out of its hood and throbs."

"Yes!" she exclaimed, louder now. Would she wake the child?

I felt her dainty hand cover my erection over my Dockers.

"Is that it? Is that all?" she asked, her breathing erratic.

"No. I want to feel you around me. I want to be completely buried inside you, making us one. I want to thrust into you; I want you to move against me until you climax and feel me climax inside you. I want to make love with you, Claire." I kissed her. Only a touch of romance remained. Passion dominated.

She pushed me away from her. Did I go too far? Did I want too much? Did I disgust her? She bounded to her feet and held out her hand for me. Dazed, I took it and rose to stand beside her. Was she about to show me the door?

"I want it all, too, Paul," she breathed and moved up next to me, kissing me again. She turned and pulled on my hand. "The guest room has a big bed," she muttered.

Inside the room, Claire started to unbutton her blouse. "Take off your clothes." She added a heartfelt please a second later.

I couldn't take my eyes off her as I watched each item of clothing fall away from her to the floor. I stripped, awkwardly because I couldn't concentrate. All I could see was girl, more and more girl, soft curves, taut perfect skin, elegant grace, dark, dark eyes chuck full of passion.

She stood naked before I finished, and then with a nervous laugh, she turned and pulled down the bedspread, blanket and top sheet while I took in her naked backside, her pussy winking at me between her sleek thighs. Gorgeous!

Her breasts were a sight to behold, perfectly matched with high, pointy little nipples, dark nipples, not pink. They looked delectable. I couldn't wait to feel them, to taste them, so I didn't. I joined her on the bed. We kissed once more while my hands roamed over her everywhere I could touch during the embrace, spending more time with her breasts than anywhere else.

My senses, all of them were awash! My lips traveled down her long, graceful neck, and my hand cupped the bottom swell of a breast and held it lovingly while my lips kissed and nibbled the nipple. I suckled then, pulled the stiff, little, erotic hunk of flesh into my mouth to taste it fully.

"Exquisite!" I murmured. I paid homage to both breasts for about ten minutes, maybe longer. I wasn't keeping time. I did enjoy her sounds of pleasure, her small, dainty moans, her short, sharp gasps. She often raised her chest to my mouth to enhance the connection, and she keened when I rolled a turgid, little nipple between my thumb and forefinger.

"I want you now, Paul. I want you inside me now!" she gushed.

I don't know where I found the courage to defy her, but I did. "Later," said I. "First I need to touch and taste all of you." My palm cupped her vulva, and her hips rose up, pressing her pussy against my hand. "Especially here," I added.

She whimpered but didn't fight my decision as I moved my mouth down her wonderful, taut body, stopping briefly to cherish her bellybutton. I'd dreamed of kissing girl bellybuttons ever since I was old enough to appreciate an attractive one winking at me, usually while girl watching at the mall. Claire's was perfectly formed, perfectly round, perfectly delicious. She squirmed and giggled slightly when my tongue wriggled around its interior surfaces. I elected that moment to insert a finger into her pussy.

No hymen, I discovered. Did she tear it while exercising, or was Claire more experienced than I presumed? That she exhibited no maidenhead didn't bother me, just the opposite. I'd dreaded the pain I'd cause her if I needed to rip through the membrane. Her moans became louder as I fingered her, and her hips undulated, taking my finger inside her and then expelling it.

Claire had a heavy, dark patch of pubic hair. I suspected she hadn't shaved since summer; when she'd probably trimmed her pussy hair to wear a bikini. Did she wear a bikini? I couldn't envision her in any other swimming attire. A tiny bikini would display her magnificent body perfectly.