Sex in '65

Melez simultaneously slides down his pants and underwear. I do the same and lie down as twigs scratch my ass and legs. I spread my legs. Melez sets himself on target and pushes. He presses against me and tries again.
“Melez,” I say, “maybe you’re not exactly in the right place.”
He fingers me.
“Nope. I’m in the right place all right. You’re just too small.”
“What?”
“I said I think you’re too small.”
I lift my legs in the air. “Listen, push harder, “I say. “Don’t worry about me, just push hard.”
Melez pushes, grunts and shoves.
I’m losing confidence. He’s smart all right and I love his profile—but when a girl gives a guy permission, lays it out there all wide and willing—“We’re going have to stretch you,” he says.
“You can do that? You think we’re going to make it tonight?”
He looks down, his eyes deep and brown glowing. “It’s going to take a week,” he says. I put my head on his bare strong shoulder. He wipes my eyes with his lips and pats down my matted hair. I’m learning about tenderness and loving it.
“Don’t you worry, one more week and you’ll be ready.”
I straighten myself up, tucking in my jersey front, sides and back.
“And Janice . . .”
“Yes?” I say.
“I love you.”

**************************

I enjoyed stretching. For one week, Melez fingered me.
“You’re ready,” he said one night after he’d wiggled five dove-tailed fingers up me. Melez poked in and out, slow and easy and then faster. I held my breath the whole time—I was like a novice swimmer just learning how to do the crawl. I wanted my life to be a wild fuck, free soul floating wild and home at last. I guess I saw cock to cunt as a lifeline—I was struggling in the deep end and fucking was going to be a life line pulling me to shore.
“It’s something you’ve got to learn, like walking or driving a car.”
I wasn’t reassured.

One night as Melez’s cabin mate, Martin Segal (whose voice never changed and who later became a double-chinned Conservative finance minister) lay asleep in the cot just two feet away, I lay flat pressed on top of Melez, his prick shoved up me as I grinded against his pubic hair. “Harder, harder, hey, don’t stop,” I said. I had a feeling this was an important moment—sun shining southern hot, its rays spreading like water rippling or a sand dune, skimming up to the surface, outward to my thighs, along tensed legs to pointed toes, breasts filling and swelling, skin all soft and velvet. I was hot. It was, we were, and then it was over, the tide slipped away. I wanted to hang on and ride the wave, and then I started grinning. I was gold-digger screaming happy. Marty, moralist virgin, yeshiva voyeur, woke up five minutes after I left which the following morning Juan remarked, “was impeccable timing.” I spent the rest of the summer on Melez’s wheezing cot, dancing on his cock and waving at Marty.

At the end of the summer Melez, shifty-eyed with promises of writing and weekend furloughs, hopped on a bus back to Buffalo. I had locked onto my north star which I’ve been following it ever since. After that summer I would bring my boys downstairs to the den and fuck them while grinding on top or beneath— it’s all about friction. Nothing hardcore screaming—I was just bent on the climb, reaching the top and planting another coming flag.



Copyright Janice Colman 2008