Saturday, September 15, 2012

Wrestling Boys in Cars

A sweet walk down lovers' memory lane, "R" rated.

Wrestling Boys in Cars

The switch turned on when a boy's hand came in contact with my hair.

When he made the tender, almost sacred gesture of smoothing back my long hair to expose my neck to his hot kisses, electricity coursed through invisible circuitry along my spine and sparks flew in an area far removed from his attentions. 

How I loved feeling so alive, so fully involved and caught up, so helpless yet so in control – panting and heaving, my chest rising and falling against his as he tried to gain the best advantage, fumbling and pushing as I gasped and demurred, murmured and resisted.

Kissing was the best. It was clumsy business until the logistics got worked out – whose head tilted right, whose tilted left, where did the arms go, how would our weight be supported – would I even allow a kiss? But once the details fell in place and skin met skin, we became raw sensation, pure nerve and sensuality, tongue in quest of tongue, lip sucking lip, simulated pumping and seeking of hidden treasures – promises yet to keep.

Fumbling. Sometimes there was fumbling, and oftentimes clutching.

The boys who fumbled or clutched in desperation, reaching for a breast or trying to seize a nipple like a purloined chocolate bar from the corner store were doomed to failure. They made what we were doing seem bad; they made me feel dirty and allowed my mother's cautions to filter through my physical sensations. 

The boys who coveted my breast and eased their way around massaging and comforting and slipped needily but naturally into my shirt were the ones who earned the prize. The ones who paid homage to the harnessed breast, then gently and patiently worked their way beneath the harness – they were the ones who earned bare nipple prizes. They were the chosen ones who suckled, who marveled, who whispered in amazement, "I've never seen such large breasts before!"

On rare occasions, there was dry humping. Grinding. Leg against crotch, sometimes knee against crotch. Sweating, panting, eyes closed, murmuring, begging, twisting, moaning, pushing, pumping, moisture, wonderful strange salty scents. We'd shift positions, mash mouths together, see each other out of focus, wonder who this stranger was with glassed-over eyes and wild hair, this person with their hands on every part of our body at once and still not touching just the right place. 

Sometimes a boy would commit the ultimate offense and try to unzip my jeans, or his own. The sound of brass teeth hissing was enough to break the spell and snap me back to an upright position. "No, we can't." Somehow we'd sort it out, make our peace, stay within society's limits while we danced a dangerous tango of desire and devotion -- not to each other, but to ourselves.

Narcissistic, needy, selfish and salacious, our youthful yearnings made us frenzied and left us frustrated by the end of the evening when we said our farewell's and exchanged good-night kisses.

© 2005 Ginger Hamilton Caudill sadly has since matured and no longer wrestles boys in cars.

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