The Third Plainsong: Rapture Indeed

My fulsome apology to my Dad wasn't a grudging one.

Those "vacation" photos changed a lot in my life, not the least my understanding of the life my parents led. Not only had I been wrong, I'd been foolish, viewing their adult relationship through my young eyes and thinking I knew all there was to know about how people should behave and live their lives.

Dad took my apology in stride, simply telling me he was glad I knew the truth. Neither of us mentioned the photos; to this day I don't know if Dad knew Mom had shown them to me or not. After my apology my father began to plan my first "big date," which is how I found myself with Debbie Davis in the cargo section of a 1958 Kelly Green Rambler Super Cross Country station wagon, complete with rust spots, worn upholstery, and sprung springs.

Dad had given a lot of thought to which of the girls I should date first.

"Both of 'em wanted to pop your cherry. Hell, I thought they were gunna to get into a fight over who got first crack at you. I had to step in to settle it. Since they're both good lays, I decided Debbie gets the honor because she has her own car."

Back then for a boy my age, having your own car was a rare and great luxury, not the necessity it is today. Only three of my classmates had their own cars, beaters held together more by rust, Bondo and duct tape than by metal. The rest of us went back and forth to school by bus or bike. For some late night activities such as sports, we had a parent, our own or a friend's, pick us up after school and take us home. But our basic mode of transportation involved foot power, either walking or pedaling.

Occasionally, one of us would be able to borrow the family car allowing us to tool along the back roads, feeling like little Apollos in a fiery chariot, swigging bottles of beer smuggled out of the heavy waxed cardboard cases of Goebels, Hamms and Schlitz that littered every back porch in the county; chewing cuds of Fruit Stripe or Blackjack gum to hide the telltale fumes, as though our folks had never partaken of this timeless ritual themselves when they were our age.

But it was one thing to ride along with your buddies, or hitch a ride with someone's parents. It was another for a girl to pick you up for a date. It was the man's job to provide the transportation, even when he didn't have any.

"I don't know Dad, it's pretty embarrassing to have Debbie pick me up. Can't I use our car, just this once?"

"Not a chance stud. The last thing I want is for the family car to reek of teenage sex for the rest of the month. Don't worry about being embarrassed; a good piece of pussy is worth a little humiliation."

So my fate was sealed; with the acquiescence of both my parents I was going to lose my virginity, not to the girl of my dreams, but to someone I'd never even seen, one of my father's past conquests. Sort of gave a whole new meaning to "wearing my father's hand-me-downs."

There's no question the whole thing was weird. I'd be lying if I said it didn't make me queasy. Besides the strangeness of going out with someone your own father is fucking and all of the head games that brings on, including the inevitable comparisons of sexual prowess, there was the fact my mother knew all about it and approved. Perverse, but no more perverse than what I'd already been told or seen if my own eyes.

Besides the Oedipal overtones, I worried about how this would affect my budding relationship with Elle. It hadn't gotten that far yet, we were still limited to talking before and after bethel but I had hopes the barbe would sanction chaperoned dating after I finished my instruction.

What would Elle think if she knew what I was doing? Would she be as approving of my actions as my mother was of my father's or would she think I was cheating on her the way I had thought my Dad was cheating on Mom?

For the next week I didn't get much sleep as anticipation partnered with apprehension churned though my thoughts.

Finally my "date" night arrived. Mercifully, my parents went out to dinner, leaving me alone in the house to wait for Debbie. We were going to the movies; "Dracula Has Risen From The Dead" was playing at the Lycenium in North Jordan. Dad had told me Debbie was quite the fan of horror movies.

At seventeen boys are not adult, rational beings no matter how "grown up" we might think we are. We're governed by the three "I"s of our existence: impulse, ignorance and irresponsibility, microencephalonic masses of protoplasm, quivering every time a hormonal surge triggers another random synaptic flash. When I finally saw Debbie standing in the door of our home it unleashed a thunderstorm of synaptic flashes.

Dad was right, my date for the night wasn't bad looking; in fact she was downright cute; toothsome and quite eye-catching in all the ways that mattered.

Long bottle-blond hair was parted in the middle of Debbie's head then gathered into two braids, almost like a spaniel's ears. Her mouth was a pronounced Cupid's bow made even more noticeable by the garish red of her lipstick, deep dimples appearing at each corner as she smiled at me, revealing large flat white teeth as though a row of Peppermint Chiclets had been implanted in her upper gums.

Fleshy but not fat, certainly no sweat hog, Debbie was wearing a flowered knit pullover, raspberry, pink and plum on white with a pair of those "Mod" jeans that were so popular back then, straight legs with a two-button hip-riding waist and stitched-on bellows pockets.

Everything was a snug fit. I found myself wondering how she got into those pants which led me to think about what was going to happen when I got into those pants, a line of thought that in turn led to my pants becoming significantly more snug in the front.

Just as I had been checking her out, Debbie had been scoping me. The sight of the area around my fly distending not only made her giggle, it reminded me of my manners.

With what I hoped was a cool and suave air, I stuck out my hand and said, "You must be Debbie, I'm Jake. Enter freely and of your own will."

She moved forward but, instead of taking my hand with hers, she took my head between her hands, pulled my face to hers and, as my mouth opened in sheer amazement at her approach, gave me a deep French kiss.

Breaking of the kiss, she said in a fake Hungarian accent "Oh, ze children of ze night, vhat sveet music ve vill make."

Stepping back she gave me her frank first appraisal. "I guess Lennie was right, I won't have to make you wear a bag over your head." Then, stepping forward, she ran the back of her nails over the outline of my chubby. "That's not a gun in your pocket so I know you're glad to see me." Then she kissed me again.

By now I was completely off balance. Dad hadn't told me much about Debbie other than that she was, in his words "a fun fuck." I don't know what I'd been expecting but it wasn't someone this forward. In two minutes with Debbie, I'd gotten more action than I had in four months with Elle and we hadn't even left the house yet.

As though she was reading my mind, Debbie gave her tongue one last wiggle in my mouth then withdrew saying "Time to get into the circus wagon Jake; we've got to leave now if we're going to make the 7 o'clock show."

Her "circus wagon" was the aforementioned Rambler. As it bounced its way along our rutted dirt road, Debbie told me about herself. Her family was just a bit larger than mine; she had a sister Tami and a brother Greg, both younger than she was.

Her parents wanted her to be a nurse but "the hell with that, I can't stand being around sick people," so she went to junior college to get her associate's degree in office management. "A little bookkeeping, some typing, some shorthand. Lennie says I'm really good at taking 'dick'tation."

Working at the shop was just a temporary job, a way of getting enough scratch together to head out on the open road. "I won't let any one or anything tie me down. Won't be working for a paycheck all my life either. The nine to five thing's OK for now, kind of a drag but I can stand it for a while. At least I'm not stuck in a kitchen being a good little homemaker like my Mom."

Loftier things were ahead for Debbie; she was going to be a painter or maybe a sculptor. She hadn't made up her mind yet. "I was always good at making things out of Playdough or clay. My high school art teacher said I had real talent. So did the Famous Artists School. They said my drawings showed 'a unique style worthy of further development," she told me proudly, "but I didn't have the money for the course."

"I've got that problem licked now. I ran into my old art teacher last week. Ray said he'd give me private art lessons if I'd agree to pose nude for him. He's not fooling me; he just wants a little nookie, which is OK by me. He was always nice to me in school, nicer than most of my teachers. I took his class in the first place because I had a little crush on him. There was always that rumor about him and the librarian Mrs. Teper doing it in the stacks on homecoming night. After we fuck maybe he'll tell me if he nailed her or not."

"That's one of the great things about women's lib," Debbie chattered on without waiting for a reply. "We're empowered now, not under a man's thumb. I can do what I want to do, be who I want to be, sleep with who I want to sleep with, go where I want to go. It's my decision, not some man calling the shots for me.

"Don't get me wrong, I'm not a man hater. Shit, I love men. I love men's bodies. Each man I'm with is different; I'm a traveler in a new land every time I fuck some fresh. I adore the feel of them slipping inside me, coaxing me to my orgasm. But I won't let a man own me. I'm independent."

As Debbie was talking, we were pulling into the parking lot at Beal's IGA just across from the theatre. Before I could get out of the car to open her door, Debbie grabbed my arm, holding me inside the car.

"I don't want to get too heavy and I don't want you to either. This isn't a serious thing we've got going here. Just a little light fun and entertainment. There's no commitment here; I'm not looking for a boyfriend. I don't want you falling in love with me just because I popped your cherry. Lennie's told me all about you and Elle. I think that's sweet, not for me but still sweet. Just enjoy tonight and go with the flow. It's only sex Jake, nothing more. OK?"

I smiled in what I hoped was a sophisticated way but was more than likely a sickly leer. "I'm cool with where you're coming from. We're just a couple of people getting their kicks where they can."

She smiled back, a far more sensuous smile than mine. "I like that Jake, I like that a lot. I like you too. But we better get inside now. The movie should just about be starting."

The tickets for the show were $1.25 each, five hours worth of work since I only got to keep half of my dollar an hour minimum wage. By the time I added in candy, popcorn and soda, plus hamburgers and malts after the movie at Sugar Joe's more than a week's pay would be gone. On the other hand so would my virginity, a more than an even trade.

The movie was pretty good, scary in some places, sexy in others. The best part of the movie was all the attractive women in low-cut bodices and nightgowns waiting breathlessly for Dracula's bite then writhing in ecstasy as he sucked their blood. The best part of being at the movie was Debbie, even though she did nothing but tease me.

The theatre was almost full. By the time we got there, all the good seats had been taken including every one in "make-out row." So we found ourselves sitting about five rows back from the screen in the last two seats off the right hand aisle, right up against the wall.

Just as the picture started I plopped my arm over Debbie's shoulders to be in position to cop a feel or two during the movie only to have her lean away from me. "Behave yourself, Jake. There'll be plenty of time for this later. We're here to watch the movie not put on a PDA."

But what was good for the gander wasn't good for the goose. Debbie was merciless all though the movie, leaning over to blow in my ear and whisper things like "Are you going to bite me tonight Jake, make me squirm like she is? I've got better things for you to suck on than my neck."

At times Debbie would use her left hand, hidden from view by the seat back, to rub my crotch. "Are you going to stake me with that big thing of yours, hammer it into me until I scream," she'd ask me in a voice too soft to be heard by anyone else. Once, just once, she guided my hand to between her legs, "I'm so wet Jake, just thinking about tonight; what we're going to do to each other."

It seemed like an eternity until the house lights came up. Even after they did we were almost the last couple to exit the theatre, waiting for the throbbing hard-on I'd had throughout the movie to subside.

Finally we were outside. Taking Debbie's hand in mine, a maneuver she didn't object to, I began to walk with her down to Sugar Joe's, talking about the movie along the way. Because we were so late leaving the show, we were at the back of the line for a booth.

"Jake, do we really want to waste time tonight waiting for a shoe leather burger from here when there are much better things we could be munching on," she asked ostentatiously licking her lips as she looked at my belt buckle. Five minutes later we were on the road, speeding toward McClure's Orchards.

In a rural community there's no shortage of places to go to make out or even go all the way. Admiral Groom's Park had a small watchtower, accessible through a trapdoor in the floor. If you knew how to get there, the back gate to Sullivan's Sod Farm was usually left unchained. There were always the assorted farm fields of corn, wheat and alfalfa that dotted the county. But the best locations for sexual mischief were always the orchards. Easy to get to, you could drive a car well back off the road. The frequent spraying of the fruit trees meant you could roll down the car windows or even get out of the car without worrying about being besieged by biting insects.

McClure's was the best of the orchard passion pits, isolated with no houses around; it was furthest away from town of any of them. The 20-minute ride out there discouraged joy riders looking for a chance to "shine" couples making out.

As Debbie's circus wagon made its way down a two-track trail, I began feel my gut churn and not just from the greasy popcorn. It was four years before the Joy of Sex made its way to bookstores but there were some sex manuals available by mail, delivered in plain brown paper wrappers.

These always had a pseudo-intellectual/psychological introduction by someone with a Ph.D. after his name, explaining how the book was "of paramount importance in reaching an understanding of the problems which confront the neurotic as well as the normal individual in today's society."

They usually quoted one of the raunchier passages from the Canterbury Tales or a small section from Fanny Hill. These contrivances allowed them to argue in court the book wasn't obscene; it had literary merit or at least some redeeming social value.

The week before my date, Dad had given me one of these books, "The Secrets of A Successful Marriage." After the usual introduction plus a single chapter on the value of listening to your mate and being helpful around the home, the remainder of the book was a "how-to" sex manual, crude anatomical drawings on the left hand page, clinical instructions interspersed with lurid prose describing the results of following those instructions on the right.

I tried to memorize every page of that book, the same way a boy scout would memorize his survival manual before his first wilderness hike. Women were more than two breasts and a vagina. I should pay attention to her entire body. Some women's breasts were super-sensitive. I should stroke and caress them, not squeeze them like oranges. Whenever I touched a woman's vagina I had to make sure my finger was wet. I should work up to touching her clit. My mind was awhirl reviewing all the hints and instructions.

The book told me when I went down on a woman I should make my lips into an "O" and suck her gently, watching her face all the while for her reaction; although how I was supposed watch her face at night in a car with no lights on, my face mashed between her legs the book didn't say.

Most of all don't jump her bones right away. It was important to take our time, work up to it; better for both of us that way.

My fear was all I had to guide me was my fantasies, which would be absolutely useless, and book learning from a pretty shitty book. In a few minutes I was going to have to do the deed with an experienced woman, not just an experienced woman but also one who had been repeatedly fucked by my own father. Inside I was shaking like a bowl of Jell-O in an earthquake with the minor temblors running their course across my skin.

I'll always bless Debbie for she did that night. She knew I was uncomfortable, uncertain about how to start, nervous about not measuring up or being thought a spazz and so she took control.

"Boy that was some movie wasn't it? I thought I was going to jump out of my skin when they found that woman's body hanging in the church bell in place of the clapper. From then it just got more suspenseful. I'm still all tense from being so scared. Jake, do you think you could give me a little massage, maybe rub some of the knots out of me?"

As Debbie opened the tailgate of the station wagon to let us into the back, "No sense in crawling all over the seats," she said. I couldn't help noticing the cargo area was covered with a thick, puffy comforter and that there were several different sized pillows in one corner as well. Debbie had come prepared. As she got in she kicked off her shoes, letting her bare feet swing back and forth in the gentle night breeze, I followed suit taking off both my shoes and socks.

Leaving the tailgate open, Debbie lay down on her stomach, her head pointed the front of the car and cushioned on a pillow. She had spread her legs just enough to allow me to kneel between them. I could feel her thighs rubbing against mine as I began to rub her shoulders. Here at least my shaking hands would be an advantage, sort of human magic fingers without the need to keep putting in quarters.

After a few minutes Debbie lifted her head, asking me to massage her a little harder. "I'm not made of fine china, Jake. I won't break. If you hurt me I'll let you know." I began pressing more forcibly.

"That feels a little better Jake," she told me, "but it's still too soft. Maybe if we took my top off?"

She didn't have to ask twice. As I reached under her torso to tug her flowered pullover off, my hands brushed against her hanging tits. "Shame on you Jake, copping a feel like that," she said coquettishly. "If I didn't know better I'd think you wanted to do more than rub my back."

Settling back down on the comforter, she gave a contented sigh as I returned to my task, the feel of her warm slick flesh against my fingers sending a tingle down my spine, one that quickly rushed to the far tip of my cock.

Emboldened by her response, I began to work my fingers underneath the back clasp of her bra. It was tough going, the clasp slapping back against her every time my fingers returned to her bare skin.

"That does hurt, Jake. I think we need to unhook my bra, otherwise I'm going to have a big welt there in the morning. While we're at it let's just take the whole thing off, the straps were digging into my shoulders anyway."

Mouth dry, I returned to my task, basking in the little murmurs of enjoyment that reached my ears.

"My legs are really, really sore. You wouldn't mind rubbing them for me too would you? I'll have to get out of the car to take my jeans off though, they're too tight just to wriggle out of in here."

As I sat transfixed on the edge of the tailgate, Debbie stood facing me, slowly removing her jeans. God, she looked beautiful as she revealed herself to me, Astarte under the stars, her enticing body dappled by moon glow and shadows.

"Jake, I feel awfully silly. Here I am in nothing but my panties while you've got everything on but your shoes and socks. It isn't fair. Maybe you should take some of your clothes off. Better yet, stand up and let me take them off for you."

Now our roles were reversed. I stood, arms over my head, as Debbie peeled off my shirt and undershirt then had me sit as she pulled my pants down over my legs, revealing a pair of white undershorts just slightly less soggy than Snyder's swamp.

All pretenses were abandoned as she placed my hands on her heavy full breasts. Hungry as a newborn babe, I leaned over taking first one then the other into my mouth, softly running my tongue over each magnificent globe. As I suckled, she reached up to untie the bows holding her hair. A quick shake of her head caused to her spaniel ears to transform into long flowing tresses, easily reaching the middle of her back.

I moved my mouth from her left nipple to the little hollow at the base of Debbie's throat, applying just the slightest pressure against her skin, exhaling soft wafts of air, all the while running my hands along her ribs and back. Then upward again until our lips met, our mouths covering each other, both breathing the same moist air, both moaning deep in our throats, feeling each other's desire yet wanting more.

Debbie took the initiative. Pushing against me, she leveraged us apart. "I'm going to suck you now Jake," she told me. "I want you to come in my mouth. Don't worry about lasting; don't worry about pleasing me; don't worry about anything but enjoying the blow job I'm about to give you."

Her hands encircled my hips and, as she sank to the ground, pulled my underwear down with her, revealing not a blue steeler erection but a soft, shrunken schlong. If it wouldn't have added to my already overwhelming mortification, I'd have broken out in tears.

Again Debbie rose to the occasion, even if, for the time being, I couldn't. After sheparding me to the tailgate, she sat down beside me rubbing my shoulders almost exactly as my Mom did.

"Don't be upset Jake; this happens to everyone. You're just nervous about tonight but everything will be all right lover, just trust Momma Debbie," she said giving me a comforting smile.