Ron Taylor - High school hot pants

"You can do plenty of that flow," I pointed out.

"So let's get going. Okay? Or do I have to walk home by myself?"

"You sure you don't want to try it again? All this talk about your pussy is giving me another hard-on."

"Maybe you can stretch far enough to stick it up your ass," I suggested.

And as soon as I got home, in the privacy of my nom, I could see that my skirt and shirt were both stained pale brown with dried cum. Somehow I knew that those stains would never come out, no matter how hard I scrubbed them. Scratch up for the evening's total cost – one broken cherry, one ruined blouse, ditto one skirt – and a set of illusions shattered beyond repair.

Jill's letter didn't do a thing to help the state of my psyche. Her defloration had of course already been accomplished by the time mine occurred. She'd had a marvelous time, finding paradise in the arms of her Kerry. All I'd gotten from Rocky was a sore pussy. Why did life have to be so unfair? Why should Jill get the fun while I had to take the shit? Even those kids I'd spied on at the park had a better time fucking than I'd experienced. What rankled mast of all, I think, was the notion that here I'd gone and thrown away my cherry all for nothing. I should have let Freddie Miller screw me, way back in eighth grade like he was always panting to do. He was a wimp, sure, but Rocky had turned out to be just as wimpy.

On the other hand, I was semi-experienced now. At least my pussy was opened up, inevitably. I could fuck anyone I wanted and it wouldn't make much difference. But who would I fuck, for Christ's sake? Rocky had probably told everybody in town about busting me, so all the guys would figure I was definitely on the make. Who among them could I expect to give me any better than Rocky had given, though?

Greg Pettit? Jill's big brother was the least wimpy guy I knew, but when he came home from vacation held certainly hear about me on the grapevine. And he'd probably figure I was just your typical teen-age hot pants. Wow! What a transition! In his eyes I'd move directly from kid sister's friend to town slut, with no intervening period for him to take note of me as a flowered woman, desperate for love. Well, anyway, daydreaming about Greg was nothing but a waste of time. It would be terrible if he heard about me and felt contempt – but what if it didn't even matter to him, one way or the other? If he just said, "So what? Who cares about her cunt?" I didn't see a woman in my mirror – all I saw was a loser.

Oh, hell, Didi, I reasoned with myself. You're over dramatizing. Does anyone really care, besides yourself, that Rocky Graham took the first score on you? He probably got so much pussy that he'd already forgotten about mine. As for Greg, he'd never be interested in the first place, no matter how much I wished and fantasized. There are people born to luck out in the game of life and there are people born to score a big fat zip. My friend Jill, it appeared, was among the former. She'd found love on the beach and she'd entered her maturity with beauty and excitement. Guess where that left me?

I could have gotten dressed and gone to the park or to the Burger Castle, just to see if they were talking about me, or to try my luck at getting mated again, but it didn't seem worth the effort. Jill had lent me her paperback of Helter-Skelter, and I might as well pass the time till her return by reading it. The way I felt right then, I needed a cheery subject like the Manson murder cult to brighten me up.

At first I didn't care if I never heard from Jill again. She kept asking me not to be jealous or hurt – mustn't she I have known just how much I would be? And, of course, I was. So, for a while, I didn't leave the house except when it was absolutely necessary. I worked on my tan in the back yard, and I read Helter-Skelter, and I drank a lot of Tab, but that was it. It seemed an ideal, if vegetable existence, and for a couple of days I didn't even look at the day's mail to see if it contained a letter from Jill.

But when four days had gone by without even a postcard, I became unfit to live with. I quarreled with Mom and Daddy, especially when Daddy asked if I wasn't still dating that Graham boy. "He's one hell of a basketball player, and I wouldn't mind seeing him around the house, if I had to see any boy friends."

I'd lay awake at night wondering what was happening down at the seaside. Why wasn't she wilting? Could she be that busy fucking? God, she seemed so anxious to gloat, about it all at first, the rotten bitch. Why was she keeping me up in the air now? Oh, I could imagine what she must be up to. Night long orgies in surf and sand, fucking till her pussy ached with gluttonous joy, sucking gushers of cum from his cock and smearing her face and brown-teated breasts with the sticky cream of life. Oh, Jesus, what if she got knocked up? She wasn't on the pill or anything, and she hadn't mentioned him using rubbers or withdrawal on her. Wouldn't it be delicious if she got herself a belly full of cum and presented the world with an illegitimate blessed event early next spring? Wouldn't it, though! One night I diddled myself to sleep just thinking about how Jill would look as her belly swelled in pregnancy, how she'd waddle around Albany while everyone snickered behind her back. It was nasty and vicious. She was my friend, and she just happened to be lucky. I couldn't compete with her, as events had proven all too clearly. Why should I hold grudges and wish evil upon her? Because it made me feel better, Goddamn it! That's why!

I read her two letters over and over, and sometimes I'd finger myself while reading them, pretending that if was me instead of Jill that all the good things were happening to. Once I even bucked half out of the bed, two fingers jammed up my tight snatch and worked like a cock in me, and I panted and sighed Kerry's name into the darkness of my room. It felt so good I did it all over again, as soon as my first orgasm's tremors subsided.

Thank God my parents are very sound sleepers. That would have been a difficult position to lie my way out of if Mom had happened to come investigating.

By the fifth day I was waiting outside for the postman, heart thumping like a drum as I anticipated a letter from Jill. It didn't come that day, nor the next, and Sunday was a torture beyond belief. I was really bitchy at dinner, and Mom told me that if I didn't start behaving, she'd send me off to bed right then and there. "You're not too old for a bit of discipline, young lady!" she snapped at me, as if I were a kid. I wanted to tell her differently, to tell her that I was a big girl, too, thanks to that nice basketball player Daddy kept asking about and thanks to my jealous desire to keep up with Jill. But discretion was the better part of valor, so I kept my mouth shut and jabbed the mashed potatoes with my fork, fuming internally and trying to smile on the outside.

Next morning the mailman handed me our consignment and I flipped through the envelopes, not daring to believe what I saw. Jill's hand, sure and plain, and it was certainly time! Smiling for real now, I tossed the other mail into Mom's lap and rushed up to my room to see what news Jill had sent me. My hand shook so terribly I ripped hell out of the envelope and tore a gash in the folded letter itself:

Didi… What's wrong? Why haven't you written? I think you're terrible! Are you having so much fun that you can't spare a minute to tell me that you're still alive? Is this all our friendship means?

I'm sorry I started off so bitchy, dear. But things haven't been going too well for me the last few days. Kerry and I – well, he's gone home. Do I really have to say any more than that? I don't know if you can appreciate the way I feel right now, Didi. There's an empty place in my heart that may never be filled.