Holly Hope: Slut girl

As far back as I could remember, we'd always been poor. I can still recall the Christmas that I got an orange and a toothbrush for presents – that was all, just an orange and a toothbrush. I was six, in first grade, anti when school was back in session after New Year's again, I made up a fantastic list of imaginary presents to brag about to my schoolmates, rather than admit that I got nothing worth mentioning. Then I had to lie and tell them that the presents were so expensive that my mother wouldn't let me bring them out of the house to play with, which (I hoped) would explain why they were unable to see my new treasures.

This was the pattern of my first few early years. My father never came back from Korea. He wasn't killed there, I found out later – he just never came back home. Deserted by him, my mother had a steady stream of men coming, staying, and departing. Looking back, I can see that Mom was a born loser in life, and her succession of lovers were natural total losers, too.

By the time I was ten my brother Rodney, who was five years older than I, had been sent to reform school for joy-riding in a stolen car, and I had resigned myself to the fact that Mom looked on me only as a burden, a nuisance, and a useless expense. She constantly admonished me to knock before even entering our own front door, lest I catch her and her current lover fucking in the daytime in the living room. This had happened a few times, so I soon got in the habit of whistling or singing as I came home from school and walked slowly toward the house, to give them ample warning. Usually, rather than hurry home to get the verbal abuse that she heaped on me constantly and unfairly, I'd stay at a friend's house and play until almost dark.

I began to live in a fantasy world, trying to compensate for the empty, love-starved existence that I had at home. At home – that's a real laugh. I had no home, not one worthy of the name. I guess that's why, when Paul Sorenson came to see Mom the first time, and gently and politely sat down and talked to me for a few minutes while she got ready to go out with him, my heart flew out to him. He conversed with me as if he really liked me, was interested in my schoolwork, and treated me like a grownup. This was a completely strange and different behavior compared to most of Mom's drunken boyfriends, and when they left the house, I waltzed around, smiling and happy that someone cared, someone noticed me, someone, finally, took an interest in me.

A couple of days later, Mom told me that Paul was going to move in with us, and I was to address him as "Uncle Paul," and when he brought his luggage in, he handed me a little box, wrapped in pretty paper, and said, "Here, Sheri, for you. It matches your pretty blue eyes," I unwrapped the box, and it contained a beautiful nylon blouse and a blue hair ribbon. I was so tickled and happy that I threw my arms around him and almost cried as I thanked him.

"O.K., knock it off." My mother's voice brought me back to reality. "Get your hands off her, Paul."

I took my gift and hurried to my room, determined not to let my crabby mom spoil this delightful, treasured moment. I put the blouse and hair ribbon on and preened and admired myself in the mirror, posing sideways and throwing back my head and shoulders to accent the buds that were just starting to develop on my chest. I practiced my haughty smile, with my eyes half-closed, imitating the femme fatale look of the movie stars I admired so avidly. Movies had been one of my major refuges and fantasylands, giving me through the early years of my life the escape and dreams that my heart craved.

And now I had received my first gift from a man. My mind took flight and soared at the intimacy of handsome Paul giving me the present, and I even secretly reveled in the thought of my mom being angry at him for showing me the attention.

In the next few days, I tried to show Paul in a million little ways that I liked him. I shined his shoes, served him double desserts, washed his car – all the little favors that I could extend to him without Mom either noticing or caring about. His flashing smile, his murmured "Thanks a lot, my little angel" – these were reward enough for my hungry inner soul, and at night I lay for hours dreaming while still awake, of the passionate love affair that we would someday consummate.

All I knew of love was from the movies and a few novels that I'd read. The tenderness, the favors and gifts, the devotion and happiness that naturally followed – these, I was convinced, were love, and love was what I wanted, needed, had to have. My mental fictions, the impossible situations and unrealistic ideas I had, all contributed to make me a willing and eager partner in what happened next. Little did I know.

It started when Mom had to go to Des Moines to see her sister in the hospital there. It was almost two hundred miles each way, and I knew she'd be gone all day Saturday and get back home Sunday evening. Mom drove away in Paul's car early, about six-thirty Saturday morning, and the minute I heard the car leave, I threw on my robe and hurried to the kitchen. The pot was full of fresh coffee that Mom had made before leaving, and I made toast and buttered it while I scrambled a couple of eggs, then poured a glass of orange juice and set the whole breakfast on a tray and went into Mom and Paul's bedroom. I balanced the tray on my left arm and knocked, then opened the door.

"Hey, what's this?" Paul asked as he sat sleepily up in bed. "Why you little angel – breakfast in bed. I haven't had that done for me in twenty years." He was smiling at me as he rubbed his hands through his shock of blond hair and smoothed it down, then sat up against the pillow and pulled the covers taut across his lap so I could set the tray there. I looked overly long at his naked torso that loomed before me, I guess, because he laughed and said, "Gotta leave the covers pulled up, Sheri. I sleep naked, y'know." I didn't know, or hadn't dared to think about it, but I nodded mutely and stood there, watching him gulp the juice, wolf down the toast and eggs, and then give a big sigh, pat his flat tummy, and sip the coffee.

"That was beautiful, baby doll," he smiled, "and you are beautiful, too. Beautiful for doing it for me, and beautiful-looking, both. Whattaya think of that?"

"Oh, I was glad to do it, Uncle Paul," I said. "You're always so good and kind to me, I just want to do things to please you… because I love YOU," I added.

"And I love you, too, Sheri. Really I do. If you were older, a grown-up woman, you'd be perfect for some man. Honest. You're cute as hell, end know how to be nice to a guy." His hand reached out and took mine, and I felt him tug gently, so I edged closer to the side of the bed, and felt him pull my body around, and I just naturally sat on the bedside. His hand went up behind my head and drew my face closer and closer to his, and I shut my eyes and let it all happen. I felt as if I had had it happen often before, I'd thought and dreamed and hoped for so long.

My first kiss was a soft, tender, warm, gentle moment of happiness. After a few moments, his lips left mine, but I kept my eyes closed and just laid my head on his shoulder and sort of let my body slump against his hard chest as his arms were around me, pulling me gently up against him. In a minute I felt his big hand cup my chin and lift my face up for another kiss, and this time I felt the lips part, and his warm wet tongue came against my lips, so I opened mine, too, and his big hot tongue crept inside my mouth, and it felt as if our two bodies and souls were melting together, and I liked it – I loved it, to be more accurate and honest.

His strong arms swung my body onto the bed so that I lay full, length alongside him, and as his arm encircled my shoulders and drew me closer and firmer against him, his left hand slowly and softly crept inside my robe, and then I felt the warm gentle touch of his big hand cupping my little hard breast. The loving tenderness of his hot hand there, and the thrill that shot through me as his fingers stroked and rubbed my little pink nipple, melted any resistance that might have started forming in my mind, and the gentle waves of love that he set in motion soon drenched my mind and entire being, and I gave myself over to the sensual touches that he spread over my virginal body.