Christopher Prato - Little Boy or, Enola Gay

It was then that I realized how sorry she was for drinking the previous summer. Tonight , I thought, I have truly forgiven her . But I would’ve forgiven her for anything that night, I was so happy.

Soon we were entangled in a passionate kiss. With the rumble of her parents’ argument thundering above our heads, we stripped naked and rolled around on the carpet. It was cold outside that night, but I felt nothing but a warm little pillow that was Maria.

After nearly getting rug-burn, we rose and walked toward her bed, stopping intermittently to kiss and kiss again. And as I swirled my tongue within her mouth, as I felt her breasts flatten against the middle of my bare chest, my hands found her bulbous ass. She was a woman with a nine year old girl’s behind, a schoolgirl with a woman’s touch. It was tight, yet yielding, and it thrust my hard-on though my boxers in one fell swoop. Of all the things I experienced that New Year’s Eve, I’ll never forget what happened before the sex: the feeling of Maria’s ass clenched tightly within my two hands like two ripe cantaloupes, and my dick piercing her belly like a knife. There’s no other feeling in the world that compares. I remember it well.

She welcomed my body as we fell on to the bed. Interlocked, we tore at one another like a lion and a lioness. I kissed and nibbled—everywhere. Her head, face, neck, breasts, shoulders, arms, and belly. I felt as if I weren’t making love but eating a fine meal. And she smelled like one, too. There is nothing in this universe like the scent of a naked woman you love—the fragrance of a dab of perfume between her breasts, the aroma of her perspiration, the subtle bouquet that arose as I smooched my way down her tummy and toward her vagina. It’s not flowers or perfume, but flesh and skin. A warm body aching for mine. Such a smell can’t be reproduced by Calvin Klein or accurately described in a romance novel. The closest comparison would be to that of a security blanket I embraced when I was just a kid while sucking my thumb—completely barren of anything that was unfamiliar me, familiar yet fresh, and oh-so-comforting.

We were both virgins. But Maria knew exactly where to place her hands and mouth and cheeks; and I answered with all that I knew could pleasure a woman at the time. I covered her entire body with gentle kisses; her body erupted in goosebumps. I sniffed her eyebrows and ears; I bit and tugged at her nipples and elbows. Each movement was a prelude to the next. We flowed like the water rolling onto the sands of Rockaway beach.

And just as the waves come together, that night there was a total surrender of my body to Maria’s. I savored the most private part of my body melding with the most private part of hers. I felt Unity . But even that word itself does nothing to begin to illustrate my feelings that night.

Our rhythm was perfect. It was almost as if each previous kiss together had been practiced solely for one act. The thumping above us was drowned out by lustful breathing. The room we were in, the bed we were on—they did not exist, either. That night Maria and I soared higher than any jet, well beyond each cloud we had gazed upon in Central Park. All that I desired at that point and time, all that I needed in the world, had been secured during those few hours in Maria’s bed.

Maria’s bed . Now there’s an image that pains me to ponder. It’s just past midnight now. I could be in her bed right now. I had my future. I had Maria. Had I died that night, I’d have died a peaceful man. I almost wish I had died, right then and there. Peace like that has eluded my life since Maria. I wish for that kind of peace in my next life.

The rest is too difficult to repeat. It’s always most difficult to reiterate the greatest times we shared. All I can say is this: To this day, I’ve never felt as close to a girl—to any person at all—as I did that early morning with Maria Della Verita. We were in complete and holy isolation. We basked in the sun of a solar system that consisted of only two heavenly bodies.

Four days into the new year, my body still tingling from New Year’s morning’s encounter, Maria’s father offered to write me a recommendation for the Air Force Academy. Finally, I had the surefire future, the beautiful girl, and the support of her family. I had it all.

But if that’s true then why was I such an angry and bitter young man? Why did a little devil sit atop my shoulder, incessantly coaxing me into doubting Maria? And why did I suddenly feel as though Maria wasn’t good enough for me?

Probably because the more obsessed I became with Maria’s drinking binge Upstate, the more I felt she lacked the control essential to be a good person. Oh, sure, when I got sloshed it was okay. Hell, I chose to drink. I wanted to experiment. But Maria had lost control of herself in a time of crisis. Was that the kind of girlfriend I wanted?

Each and every night Maria and I spoke for hours on the phone. In each conversation the following emotions manifested themselves: reluctant good-will, bliss, melancholy, depression, fear, and love—usually in that order. Although love ostensibly prevailed each time, the truth is that as I placed the receiver down on the phone every night at one or two a.m., there was one prevalent thought inside of my mind: Maria’s perfect. Too perfect. She must be lying to me.

About what I had no idea. Everything, I guess. If she said she went to K-Mart with her sister after school, I wondered who she really went with—a friend, a classmate, another boyfriend—and if she really went to K-Mart, or to catch a movie. When she said she stayed after school to get extra help from her biology teacher, I questioned her true whereabouts. Was she making out with another boy in her fluffy bed, or perhaps smoking pot on a street corner with her old hood friends? One night, when Maria said she liked vanilla ice cream, I thought: She probably likes chocolate .

If questioning her actions when I wasn’t present was a sin, suspicion of her thoughts in person was a crime. And goddamn, I was guilty of that crime on each and every date, no matter how smoothly the date was going.

On Martin Luther King weekend, for example, we had a playful snowball fight in front of her house. When she went inside to answer the phone, I built a snow fort. When she came back outside, I nailed her in the tits with a hunk of ice and snow. Without flinching, she dove to the ground and was camouflaged by her white puffy jacket. I peeped over my fort but couldn’t see her. Only her silent giggles indicated that she was a few yards somewhere in front of me. Just when I thought it was safe to stand up and begin searching for her body, she stood on her knees and smacked a well-packed snowball right in my kisser.

I hopped over my wall and tackled her. We wrestled in the snow for a good five minutes. Finally, both panting heavily from the scuffle, we ceased simultaneously and kissed passionately. Her tongue quickly melted into a wet, warm gummy bear.

Our mouths unlocked and we gazed at one another blissfully. Maybe , I thought, this is a new beginning for us . I love her and she loves me . What more could a guy want ?

“I love you, A.J.” she said. “The more time I spend with you, the more I realize how, deep down inside, you’re perfect .” I’ll never forget her calling me perfect . It was the greatest compliment of my life. And, had I been smart, I would’ve accepted Maria’s sincerity and beauty, and kept the promise I made that day, and started fresh.

“I love you, too. You’re not so bad yourself.” I winked. “Let’s go in the house and make love under the covers.”