Christopher Prato - Little Boy or, Enola Gay

I collapsed on the sofa, emotionally drained. I shared her grief, perhaps even more than she realized. Maria was a special girl. That word, special , is thrown around a lot these days: special education , special elections , et cetera. But few people or things are truly special. Maria, however, was the quintessence of the characteristic: distinctive, extraordinary, unique, rare. Gold and diamonds are found everywhere—on people’s fingers, in quarries around the globe—but Maria was the only precious stone of her kind. If she’d had the presumption to reveal to the world how special she was, people would have killed just to catch a glimpse of her luster, a radiance unlike any jewel known to man.

But Maria wasn’t an arrogant girl. She was simple. All Maria expected, all she wanted, was to be protected by a sole admirer who valued her uniqueness.

I am your admirer , I thought. You are perfect .

In retrospect, I suppose I wanted her to be more flawless than she already was. Now I realize you can buff a diamond only to a point, and then it begins to lose its prized shape and form.

But back then I was determined to help her erase her past at all costs, just as I intended to erase mine . She’ll never have to worry about losers like Rosie screwing her over again , I thought. I’m going to save her .

After cuddling with Maria for a few minutes she calmed down. I asked her if she was okay and she said that she was. I was happy. She was happy. I think that my hugs helped her to relax and stop thinking about Rosie. I couldn’t help but think, however, that she had pretty bad judgment sometimes, and that maybe I was the wrong boyfriend to have, just as Rosie was the wrong friend. Perhaps , I thought, I’m just another bad decision .

As soon as the last trace of a tear had evaporated from her sweet, circular cheeks, I engulfed her face within the palms of my hands and pressed my lips against hers. As usual, the kiss was more than passionate—it was hair-raising. In fact, even as I recall it now, the hairs on my back and chest and arms are standing at attention.

I was so impassioned by that one kiss that an erection poked through my boxers. I proceeded to stroke her cheeks with mine. For the first time ever, I flickered my tongue in her ear, accidentally soaking it completely.

I was nervous. Within moments I’d view what no other boy had ever viewed. There is nothing in this world as wonderful as the naked flesh of an innocent girl. Maria was almost childlike. Despite her superficial confidence, when it came to sex she didn’t know her left from her right. Her body was robotic, but not unwilling. She wasn’t exactly sure what to do, so she simply allowed my hands to softly fumble with her clothing, first her top, and then her bra.

Of course, I didn’t want to move shoddily as I’d done with Lynn; I wanted to be as careful with my hands and mouth as Maria was with her words and actions, as prudent as a jeweler examining a diamond. I longed not so much to turn her on, but to generate respect. Although I did most of the work, I was far from domineering. I was a vassal, Maria she the queen of the manor. Humbly, I attempted to placate her with my sorry offering. After all, this was Maria Della Verita, the most beautiful girl I’d ever met, the brightest, the most mature. A special woman. Cautious, meticulous, level-headed Maria, finally shedding her shell for our mutual enjoyment.

I encouraged her to lay down on the sofa. She nestled her head into a pillow and closed her eyes, inviting me to begin. Maria had, to use an Air Force term, an impeccable WEFT. The word WEFT is an acronym used by the U. S. Air Force to describe the four main components of a jet: Wings, Engine, Fuselage, and Tail. Each aircraft has its own WEFT, and no two are exactly alike. Pilots in the Air Force and other military services study WEFTs like the Bible, since every plane, both enemy and ally, can be easily and positively identified by its WEFT. In the heat of combat, the knowledge of a jet’s WEFT might save your life.

I will never forget Maria’s WEFT. Her breasts (“Wings”), were enormous. C-cups on a girl barley five feet tall—my goodness! Atop each sat a large mahogany nipple, each with just a hint of peach fuzz surrounding it. As I stroked them with my tongue, they began to toughen, turning from flesh to leather, and then perk. Soon they were taut brown ovals surrounded by milky marshmallow. Massaging her breasts with my hands, it was as if I was finessing Jello-filled balloons rather than human flesh. Had they been balloons, they wouldn’t have burst that day, because I was gentle, tame, and patient.

I was in heaven. And from the sounds she was making—the ‘ohs,’ the ‘ahs’—I could tell that she was relishing the moment. Tempted to take off my pants right then and there, I drew back for a moment, shifting my glare away from her breasts, and at her panties. I slipped them off.

Her vagina (“Engine”) was a triangular mass of black curls. I was so accustomed to looking at porno magazines that I didn’t realize that, unless a girl’s legs were spread out, her labia remained buried by hair. With my head squarely between her thighs, I nudged my tongue between her two plum-colored lips. I have to admit I didn’t know what to do next. As I withdrew, a stream of saliva formed between my tongue and her pussy, and then snapped. She was already so wet. Aching to make her come, I started to lap at her lips and clit. I did it for so long that my tongue hurt.

Maria’s body (“Fuselage”), a five-foot, half inch ripple in a pond, welcomed my wanting lips. In between trips to her engine, I peppered her arms and legs and tummy with kisses. Her eyes remained closed; her body stayed still.

Her ass (“Tail”) was a perfect sphere, as if it had been designed with a compass. No bone could be felt, only soft flesh, just enough in each cheek for one hand a piece.

“Are you comfortable?” I asked. Looking as though she’d been sedated, Maria smiled and said, “I’m perfect.”

After she climaxed, she turned onto her side and looked like a woman posing in a French oil painting. I kicked off my sneakers and snuggled next to her.

We were lost in the moment. If this is what it’s like to be drunk , I thought, then I have to start drinking . But I knew that what we were doing was infinitely better. It had to be, for it was not a solitary stupor but a mutual delight.

It wasn’t “intercourse”; it wasn’t “sex”; it was, truly, “making love.” And on that day Maria taught me more about love than I thought possible. I loved her so much that I wanted to give her that kind of pleasure all of the time. I thought this kind of feeling was nonexistent in other relationships for me and for others. Still do.

I don’t think that anyone ever loved a girl as much as I loved Maria. In fact, nobody will ever love anyone as much as I still love her. And to this day, I love Maria because she trusted me so much. Her life was in disarray when we met. Between her lousy father and shitty friends I can’t understand how she survived. She was just another Italian girl from Queens, with just another working class dysfunctional family. But when she was with me she was the first female President, a CEO, a Nobel Prize winner. Sadly, society judges people based on paper and not honor.

As I sit here writing, I can honestly say that one of my greatest regrets is that I never helped Maria with her reading. She spoke well when she wanted to, as if she was a scholar. But she read very slowly, and stumbled over vocabulary that came second nature to me. I once told her that she may have dyslexia. I should’ve encouraged her to get tested. Because of me, I guess, she never did find out why she read so poorly, or improve much.