DISCLAIMER: If you are my child, my parent, or anyone else who doesn’t wish to have traumatizing, sexual images of me burned into their head, potentially requiring years of intense therapy to undo, STOP READING NOW. Otherwise, carry on.
“Turn your heartache right into joy
Cause she’s a girl and you’re a boy
Get it together, come on, make it nice
You ain’t gonna need any more advice
Well, there’s a rose in the fisted glove
And eagle flies with the dove
And if you can’t be with the one you love, honey
Love the one you’re with.” ~ Crosby, Stills & Nash – “Love the One You’re With”
January 28, 1986: A sunny, frigid morning in Yukon, Oklahoma. I was an almost-14 year-old eighth grader sitting in third hour math class when a flurry of activity and chatter began penetrating the previously uneventful silence. “The space shuttle exploded!” My teacher quickly wheeled in the TV and we watched the continuous live coverage, mouths agape in horror, as the disaster was replayed ad nauseam, as if we watched it just one more time, we would be able to make sense of the tragedy.
And that’s where I was when Space Shuttle Challenger exploded. I’ll never forget it. And if you are old enough to remember that day, I’ll bet you recall where you were when it happened as well.
Interestingly, the guy I hooked up with a few days ago probably has no idea where – or even if – he was on January 28, 1986. He wasn’t alive yet. Or at least, he wasn’t born. It would be early autumn before he made his appearance in the world. Okay, so he’s not a kid…technically. He’s 25, soon to be 26. But that morning in math class, with all of its vivid memories, my future hookup wasn’t even walking the earth yet. In 1986, I was babysitting toddlers that are now older than he is. My oldest son is just three years younger than him. When he was born, I was a freshman in high school, had recently taken up a cigarette habit (still at it; yes, I know I should quit, thank you very much) and my hobbies included sneaking out of the house at night to see guys (who were always older), smoke some weed, and get drunk. This past Wednesday night didn’t involve any of that, however. (Wait – that isn’t true; I did smoke a lot of cigarettes.)
I first met this young Virgo in 2003 when he hadn’t yet turned 17. He worked with my then-live-in boyfriend, the Cancer cusp I’m presently brooding over. I never gave the boy a second thought. Hell, I was 31 years old. I do remember he was very boyish-looking for a long time. Even when my Cancer cusp came home from work a few years ago and announced that his young friend/coworker had just turned 21, I vividly remember laughing and remarking, “Wow, if I worked in a convenience store and he tried to buy cigarettes, I would so ID him; he looks like he’s about 16!”
This Virgo (who has both a Scorpio Ascendant, inferring an intensely passionate, possessive, highly sexual individual) has been somewhat of a presence, to one degree or another, for the last nine years if only because he was my Cancer cusp’s buddy. He’d come to our house and shoot pool once in a while, or we would meet him at the bar to play and have a few beers. And in all those years, not once did I view this guy in anything remotely resembling a sexual light. For one thing, I was in a committed relationship. For another, I thought of him more as a kid. Even when he became a father four years ago, it was hard for me to digest the image of this “boy” as someone’s daddy. But after ny Cancer cusp and I parted ways last year, I never saw nor heard from his Virgo friend again.
At least, not until late last summer when out of nowhere, I received a friend request from him on Facebook. It actually surprised me. Although he is a “storm person” like me, we had never been friends independent of my Cancer cusp ex. I figured his loyalty lied with his friend, so I honestly thought nothing of it whatsoever. But I accepted the friend request and even then, we only communicated every once in a great while, usually in the form of a “like” or a comment on a mutual friend’s status. Not even one private message.
That is, until late one night this past spring, about a month before I left Arkansas, when I happened to be wide awake, bored, and Facebooking. My private message icon lit up, indicating I’d received a message, so I clicked on it. I was puzzled when I saw his name as the sender, and I literally choked on my Coke Zero when I read the message, which was him telling me he’d “hit that.” It shocked me so much that I thought surely the messabge had been intended for someone else and that he must have sent it to me by mistake, so I asked him. He told me it hadn’t been a mistake; I was in fact the intended recipient. Okay, then he must be drunk. I asked if he was and he answered no, but added that he was pretty high (not unusual.) My curiosity shifted to suspicion, and I asked him if my ex was hovering over his shoulder reading our conversation. He told me no, he hadn’t seen or talked to the Cancer cusp in a few months. He then apologized if he had offended me, and said that he was “just playing.” I replied that I wasn’t offended, just surprised, which was absolutely true. His next message read, “Okay…but what if I wasn’t kidding?”
Hmm. I was intrigued.
Over the next few months, we texted back and forth and Facebooked periodically. Not often, but every few weeks at least. As I said earlier, we’re both storm people and we love to storm chase, so oftentimes our texts would be weather-related, discussing any current watches or warnings and sending wicked cloud pics to each other via text. He knew I was planning to move back to Kansas, and I kept him apprised as the events surrounding my move unfolded. If he knew I was going to be in his area, he’d remind me to “hit him up” and we’d go to the bar and have “some drinks” and…well, you know. I was in his area about three or four times, and frankly, although free, white, single and definitely curious, I wasn’t 100% sold on the idea of us “going there.” The attention flattered me but I kept picturing that same young boy and, even knowing he was well above the age of consent, I couldn’t seem to wrap my mind around having sex with him. It had nothing to do with him being friends with my former Cancer cusp, though. For whatever reason, that aspect of a possible hookup never bothered me a bit.
“I’m always workin’, slavin’ every day
Gotta get away from that same old same old
I need a chance just to get away
If you could hear me think this is what I’d say
Don’t need nothin’ but a good time
How can I resist?
Ain’t looking for nothin’ but a good time
And it don’t get better than this.” ~ Poison, “Nothin’ But A Good Time”
This week that all changed. I’m not sure why or even how, but it did. My mind was now completely open to it, and I was in his area again. This time, we met at a bar and hung out for a few hours with some other people. I was pleasantly surprised when I saw the Virgo: not that I’d ever found him unattractive, just a bit boyish, but he had really come into his own in the last few years. He looked nothing like the kid I remembered, kind of like the difference between cute Titanic Leonardo DiCaprio and totally smokin hot all-grown-up Inception Leonardo DiCaprio. As everyone was chatting and laughing, he shot me an unexpected text message as he sat nonchalantly no more than three feet away, engaged in conversation. I won’t quote it, but paraphrased, the text – and the next several that followed – indicated that he would very much enjoy doing various X-rated things to and with me, as well as wanting me to do certain things to him at which he had “heard” (thanks to the Cancer cusp bragging at work, I’m given to understand) I had “award-winning” skills. He also mentioned having an admiration for specific parts of my upper body, and a desire to touch those same parts (desires which he indulged a bit later in the dark parking lot). I was totally open to seeing how much he’d grown up in other areas, as well. I unzipped his pants and discovered the answer using my mouth for one hot minute. I. Was. Impressed. I wanted to drop my panties right then and there, throw him onto his back in that dark parking lot, and just grind my soaking wet pussy up and down on his massive, fat cock til I came all over it, squeezing the cum out of his dick with each orgasmic pulse of my pussy.
“I just had sex with someone who wasn’t alive during the Bicentennial!” ~ Monica Geller, “Friends”
Leave it to this take-charge Aries chick to handle it! I sprang for a hotel room. A nice one. Totally could not afford it. Totally did not care: that’s how much I wanted him. After taking one of his buddies home, he came to my room, his smoldering Scorpio Ascendant came out to play, and for the next 90 minutes, we engaged in acts that are probably illegal in a few states and punishable by death in some Third World countries. We were naked, we were sweaty, we were loud, it was naughty, it was sneaky. If there was an orifice on my body, he hungrily explored it (well, with the possible exception of my ear canals.) It was pure, unadulterated, animalistic, uninhibited, raw, no-strings fucking. And I didn’t even bat an eye when, as I lay on the bed still trying to catch my breath, he got dressed, told me to “hit him up,” and was out the door within two minutes of the conclusion of our rendezvous. No. I slept, and I slept great. Not just because he fucked me so good and so hard, but it provided me the human contact I didn’t even realize I had been missing.
As I was heading back south toward Oklahoma the following morning, he shot me a text.
“Feelin’ good this morning?”
I smiled, mental images of our rendezvous in my head, as I sent my reply:
“Oh, yeah. I needed that.”