Gina was always in the background of my summers, although back then she was so small that I thought of her as a little kid, if I thought about her at all.
Small in size, not spirit.
In some ways, Gina was always larger than life.
Take gymnastics. Lots of petite girls dream of being a gymnast. Well, Gina is a gymnast. The serious kind with her own coach and a grueling summer-training schedule that lasts until mid-afternoon six days a week.
Maybe it’s all those vaults, Yurchenkos, and handsprings, but Gina has the reflexes of a cat. Nothing intimidates her. She loves a dare, the more dangerous the better.
She was the first to ride a bike off the end of the Lake Association Dock, and leap from the Emerson's roof onto an inflatable camping mattresses. When Frisbees hung up in a tree top, or footballs rolled under a low-slung car, she was the one who went after them.
At 19, she is still barely 5-feet tall. But Gina has developed in other ways. Her hips are round and sensual, her butt a perfect heart shape when she bends over, and Gina has breasts. Not little-girl mounds either, but the kind of pert, ripe breasts that turn heads on a crowded sidewalk.
Not that I noticed. I’ve been too self-absorbed and despondent over the latest setbacks in my love-life to see that Gina is no longer the neighborhood tomboy. At least, not until she makes me notice.
The beautiful MILF who has been stroking my ego all summer, and every other part of my anatomy, has packed her Volvo, taken Tracey, her angst-ridden daughter, and gone back to Philadelphia.
It was inevitable, but that doesn't make it any less painful.
I am dulling the edge of my hurt with a six-pack of pale ale at the end of the Love Street Lake Association Dock when Gina sits down and dangles her toes in the water without a word.
One thing about Gina that hasn't changed, she’s as taciturn as ever. If she isn't going to say anything, given my foul mood, neither am I––although I do pass her my bottle. She takes a sip, hands it back, and follows my gaze to where the moonbeams are dancing on the lake.
We finished three bottles before she finally speaks.
"Gotta pee," she tells me. "Don't look."
Gina stands up and walks a few feet back toward shore. I hear her jeans unzip and slide down her legs, followed by the sound of pee trickling into the water. I want to look, just to see the mechanics of how a girl pisses off a dock on a windy night, but I just continue studying moonbeams.
"Feel better?" I ask when she returns.
“A lot," she replies. "How about you?"
"I don't have to go yet," I tell her.
"No, I mean about Tracey's Mom leaving. You still sad?"
"What about Tracey's Mom?" I am stunned that Gina knows about Laura Wiggins. I thought we’d been so discrete. Laura and I never went anywhere public together and I always waited until Tracey had gone out or was asleep before slipping through the back door into Laura's bed.
"Tracey told me you and her mom were 'fucking like rabbits all summer.'" Gina wasn't being cheeky, or even judgmental, it was just a statement of fact.
"I guess there are no secrets in Smallville," I say, feeling even more depressed. It’s just a question of time until my mom hears about it and demands to know if there is any truth to the "despicable rumors" about Laura Wiggins.
"You miss her a lot, don't you?"
"Yeah, I really do," I confess, and before I know what hits me, I am crying like a baby. A couple minutes pass before I wrestle my emotions under control. I am still sniffling when I notice Gina's arms wrapped around me in a way that feels wonderfully comforting.
We sit like that, Gina holding me with her head resting on my shoulder, for a long time without saying anything more. Finally, the pressure on my bladder becomes overwhelming.
"Don't move," I tell her, standing up and unzipping. "And don't look either." I aim downwind off the leeward side of the dock. It sounds more like a garden hose compared to Gina's dainty trickle.
I sit down and pull her arm back around my shoulder and think about all the Frisbees and footballs that Gina risked broken bones to retrieve. We stay like that in a comfortable silence until the six-pack is gone. Something about being with Gina on the dock as summer winds down feels so right.
"How long have we been hanging in the summers?" I ask.
"Since we were six, when I decided you were more handsome than Justin Timberlake."
"And you reminded me of Avril Levine."
"Liar. Lair." Gina says. "Pants on fire."
"OK, then," I confess. "Maybe not Aril Levine. More like the Emerson's lawn gnome."
"That's cruel," Gina glares.
"Well, I do remember you were the only kid in Love Street that didn't wear a bicycle hemet."
"You remember that?"
"Yeah, and also whenever I got to pick sides at the Ball field, I chose you for shortstop."
"You were my hero," she says without a hint of sarcasm.
After that, Gina and I fall into a long conversation, reminiscing about kids we'd known and things that had happened over the past dozen summers at Love Street. It's also the first time in all those years that we ever said more to each other than, "Hi. How are ya?"
When we reach last summer, the discussion takes an unexpected turn. Every year there is one new hot girl that the guys lust over. Last year it was a blonde from Baltimore named Debbie Miller.
"You know," Gina tells me. "You could have gotten into her pants any time you wanted."
"You're kidding, right?"
"I'm serious. And not just Debbie. Pretty much any of the girls," Gina says. "But Debbie is the who had the most vivid fantasies about you."
"What?" If only I'd known.
"She told me she dreamed that you fucked her in every room of their cottage. Even her parents bedroom."
"Fuck!"
"Exactly," Gina smirks. "Bet you fantasized about her too."
"Yeah," I say guiltily "There were a couple times."
"You ever think about me in that way?" Gina pauses, and looks at me very intently. "When you jerk off?"
"Could be," I equivocate.
"Yeah? Like when?"
"Like after you wore that pink florescent bikini to the Emerson's beach party."
"Honestly?"
"Cross my heart and hope to become impotent if I'm lying."
Gina laughs, then smiles as if I'd just handed her the keys to a new Lexus. "So tell me about it, Stud."
Gina is fascinated with my sexual fantasy about her, which isn't all that surprising. But she also quizzes me in embarrassing, and arousing detail, about when and where and even how I masturbate.
I'm starting to see Gina in a whole new light.
Then, somehow, the conversation drifts back to Laura Wiggins. At first Gina wants to hear salacious details, especially about what it's like to have an affair with a woman whose daughter is our own age. And as I talk about Laura, two strange things happen.
The more Gina presses me for details about Laura, the more I begin to realize that I'm probably not so much in love with Laura Wiggins as I am sexually infatuated. It also begins to dawn on me that Gina isn't asking me all these questions out of morbid curiosity, or so she has the latest juicy gossip to spread around Love Street. It hits me that the reason Gina's sitting out her on the dock is that she genuinely cares about me. That she knows I'm hurting and is trying to help me through it.
"Gina," I say, looking into her eyes and, for the first time, seeing a deep reservoir of sympathy and affection behind her tough-guy facade. "You came out here on purpose, didn't you?"
"Sure," she says with a shy smile. "I wanted to share a six-pack of your shitty beer."
I laugh. "Seriously, how'd you know?"
"That Laura Wiggins broke your heart?"
"It's that obvious?"
"To a girl who's been crushing on you for half her life. It's as obvious as the look on you face."
"Geeze, Gina," I tell her. "I think you know me better than I know myself."
"If that's true, then let me show you what need right now much more than another six-pack of shitty beer," Gina says with an expression I've never seen before.
"What's that?"
I feel her arm tighten around my shoulder and her lips brush against my ear lobe. "Come with me," she whispers. "And you'll find out."
We park our bikes on the wraparound porch of Gina's place, which is one of the few year-round homes on the Lake.
"Your parents?" I ask as Gina guides me to her room. I can't help but appreciate the beautiful contours of her jeans-clad ass as I follow her up the stairs.
"In Harrisburg."
Gina flips on the light. In all these years, I'd never been in her room before. There is a small sofa, and bed with an Amish quilt, and one whole wall with book shelves lined with trophies and plaques.
I have a few trophies myself, but nothing like this. I can’t resist taking a closer look. "Geezus, Gina! All State? Olympic Trials?"
"Yeah, well the Brazilian BBQ in Pittsburg is as close as I ever got to Rio," she quips. "You wanna see a stationary flip?"
"Sure."
She smiles at me, bends her knees, swings her arms back and forth three times and does a complete standing summersault.
"Pretty cool, huh?" she ask. "Now how about this?"
Before I even know what’s happened, Gina leaps onto me, wrapping her legs around my waist and sending us both toppling backward onto her bed. We land with me on my back and Gina sitting on top, her face hovering inches above mine.
"You have no idea how long I've dreamed of doing this," she says, pressing her mouth against mine. Gina kisses the way she does everything else, forcefully and without the slightest reservation. Her tongue goes straight inside my mouth as her hands reach behind my head and pull me to her, forcing our lips together.
Gina's lips aren’t the only part of her anatomy that grinds against me. Her legs are spread impossibly wide, almost in a full split, and her crotch is pressed directly against my abs. Each time our kiss deepens, she rocked her hips, pressing her warm sex ever more firmly into me.
When our lips finally separate, I am panting as if I'd just finished a wind sprint. Except wind sprints don't usually give me an erection that makes the front of my jeans look like the Great Pyramid at Giza. Judging by the moist heat radiating against my abs, Gina is also on the way to hormone madness.
She looks down at me with a dazed, dreamy expression. I can only imagine how unfocused I must look to her.
"Have you ever seen a naked gymnast?" she asks in a whisper.
"Never," I say with absolute certainty.
"Wanna see one now?"
I locked my eyes onto Gina's and nod.
She rises and backs across the room, never breaking my gaze until she reaches what looks like a door on the wall opposite her bed. But when Gina pulls on the handle, it unfolds into a three-part, floor-to-ceiling mirror. She stands in front of it, her body reflected from every side.
With the casual grace of someone who has dedicated her life to learning to control every muscle, Gina undoes her shirt one button at a time, then lets it fall off her shoulders and tumble to the floor. She has her back to me, but our eyes remain locked as I watch her image in the mirror. Even so, I can’t help but notice the way she gently rocks her butt and arches her back as she lifts her sports bra off her breasts.
This was a side of Gina I'd never seen before, and I'm sure my jaw is hanging open in amazement. She turns from the hips, giving me an amazing profile of her tan-lined tits. Too late, I discover she had also fired the bra in my direction with enough force to slap my cheek with an audible snap.
"Hey! Watch out!" I blurt.
"No, you watch," she says softly, lowering her hands to her waist and unsnapping her jeans.
It was the second time that night I heard the sound of Gina's zipper coming undone. But this time it sends a shiver that rebounds up and down my spine and leaves me panting.
Once again, from the mirror her eyes focus on mine. But I am too enthralled by the movement of her fingers to return her gaze.
Under any circumstances, watching a nubile teenager slowly stripping a few feet away would be an incredible turn on. But Gina's body is beyond nubile, each turn and curve seems to radiate a sexual beckoning from every possible angle as the mirrors offer up so many different views that it’s hard to decide where to look.
As she wiggles out of her jeans and panties, and I can see it happen from the front, back and sides all at the same time, and something happens to me that has never happened before.
I cum. Spontaneously.
No, not a profound, volcanic eruption. As orgasms go, this is a mild trembler. The overwhelming part is how it happens. As the pale triangle of Gina's moist, young pubic mound comes into view, at the same moment her magnificently curved ass, naked hip bones, and drum-tight stomach are all revealed from every angle, my senses go onto sexual overload.
I go rigid and probably made some kind of animalistic grunt that I can't remember. What I will never forget is the way my cock seemed to recoil on itself, like a snake preparing to strike, then gently pulses three or four times as I, quite literally, cream my jeans.
"Jason?" Gina seems to be talking from the end of long, dark tunnel. "You ok?"
"Oh, My, God!" I mutter. "OH, MY, GOD!"
Gina's eyes followed mine to the wet spot fanning across the front of my jeans and her look of alarm transforms into a wide mischievous smile. "Did you just do what I think you did?"
I nod.
"Can I see?"
Gina really doesn’t give me time to answer. In less than a heartbeat, she’s kneeling between my legs, her fingers undoing my belt, snap and zipper. "Lord have mercy," as Los Angeles DJ Jim Ladd is fond of saying from high in the Hollywood Hills. Does this girl ever have hand-eye coordination.
"Where… did you learn to do a strip tease like that?" I stammer, regaining enough of my senses to realize where I am and what had just happened.
"Pole Dancing Class," she says looking up at me with her big eyes and a completely straight face.
"Really?"
"No, you big Dope! But if you give this girl a triple wall mirror, she'll figure out the best way to use it."
By now, Gina is tugging my jeans and soggy briefs past my ankles. Usually, an orgasm will leave me feeling sated, at least for a few minutes. Not this time. Looking down at Gina looking down at my sticky but still very rampant cock, brings on another hormone-fueled rush.
"Mmmmm," Gina purrs as she places her fingers delicately underneath the tip of my cock and lifts it for a closer inspection. "No permanent damage," she says, petting me with long, agile strokes that bring my furnace back to a full boil within seconds.
Gina finishes undressing me with a few deft moves, then stands up, dragging me up with her. For a moment, neither one us move.
I can't speak for Gina, but I am busy trying to memorize every curve of her remarkable figure. The contrast between the deeply tanned skin on most of her body, and the creamy white private zones created by the shape of her bikini is almost overpoweringly erotic. Her tiny pink nipples are so stiff and tightly twisted that there’s almost no areola visible.
Before I can complete my inventory, Gina unexpectedly repeats her standing vault into my arms, although this time, she chooses a trajectory that leaves me standing, or at least wavering.
Gina's legs are again wrapped around my waist, her arms behind my neck, and her steaming pussy pressed into my lower abs. When I look down between us, her pussy lips peek out from under her pubic mound like a flower in blossom.
A moment later, the finger nails of Gina's right hand slowly claw my back on a direct line toward my butt. Instinctively, I thrust my hips forward to reduce the target, which lifts my cock to within inches of those pouting pussy lips. Before I can relax, in a single, seamless motion, Gina's hand grabs my cock at the base as she lowers her body. I slip effortlessly between her open lips and into the warm channel of her vagina.
My half closed eyes fly open in surprise, and although she at least knows what was coming, Gina's eyes also grow wide as I penetrate deep inside her. She smiles at me for a glorious instant before her eyelids flutter close and she utters a little giggle that slowly morphs into a contented moan.
At first Gina uses her remarkable musculature to lift and lower herself along the full length of my shaft, generating sensations that I'd never experienced before. Perhaps it is my overheated imagination, but it seems as if I can feel the muscles of her vagina contracting and releasing each time she rides up and down my cock. The contented look on Gina’s face is the perfect match for the unhurried, even languid pace of our coupling.
Merely holding on to Gina without toppling over requires nearly all my concentration. But as I grow more accustomed to holding her, I find I can roll my hips and meet her halfway as she pumps her body up and down on me.
We fuck like this in the center of her room until I sense an urgency building within each of us.
"The mirror," she pants in my ear. "Closer."
There’s a certain precarious adventure to walking while Gina and I are joined at the pelvis, but with careful, deliberate steps I manage to shuffle between the outstretched arms of the three-panel mirrors.
What I see, takes my breath away.
Gina looks tiny, almost doll-like in my arms. I'll go to my grave with the memory of her incomparable tits squeezed against my chest and her exquisitely feminine ass cheeks grinding up and down on my cock in an overwhelmingly erotic three-dimensional dance. Thankfully, my first eruption relieved some of the sexual pressure, or I think I would have cum the moment I see our reflection in the mirror. And it isn’t just the pure eros of her magnificent body in this vulnerable and alluring pose.
What strikes an even deeper chord inside me was the way her head nuzzles against my chest, and the expression of supreme contentment on her face, as if she has waited her entire life for this moment.
I guess I'll never know if Gina intended it this way, but with that one glance in the mirror, I felt Laura's grip on my heart weaken and slip away. The depression that had held me in a cold and melancholy stranglehold begins to recede like fog in the morning sun.
They say that when you die, your entire life flashes before your eyes. Well, it wasn't my entire life, but in that one instant, the memories of ten summers rolled across my imagination and in every one, Gina moved from background player to heroine and one soul-consuming insight revealed itself to me.
Across all the time and space of at least ten summers gone, the girl in my arms had loved, adored and worshiped me from afar. And the selfish, self-absorbed fool that I had been, never noticed until she offers herself to me, not so much to satisfy her own longings, but to ease the pain the she knew I was enduring.
The passion for Gina that erupts within me could never be satisfied in this insanely erotic, but nevertheless awkward position. In a single motion, even though it means withdrawing from the intoxicating pleasure of her slippery love canal, I sweep Gina into my arms. She looks up at me in shock and surprise. I suppose I am hyper-charged with adrenaline, but Gina feels almost weightless as I sweep across the room and gently unfold her tiny body on the bed.
The second most enduring image I carry in my heart, is the expression of joy on Gina's face as I fold her legs back over my shoulders and plunge back inside. From there, raw and unbridled emotion consumes us. I pound Gina with ever ounce of energy I have, my hips rocking and bucking, balls slapping, in an explosion of passion.
Gina responds with whimpers, cries, and a series of powerful counter-thrusts of her own. Sweat pours off our bodies, the bed vibrates violently against the wall, rattling windows and threatening to topple the book shelves.
It doesn't matter. Nothing matters, except the way my heart opens and lets Gina's love pour inside.
With one final thrust, climax overtakes us. Gina's screams fill my ears and my ejaculation feels as if it will never end, and even when it does, the rhythmic contractions of Gina's vagina will not.
We fall asleep naked and spent in each other’s arms.
Sometime before dawn, I emerge from a dream that relives that moment when I see us coupling within the mirror. Gina’s legs are wrapped around my hips as my aching cock pumps in and out of her wet, receptive sex. I’m close to erupting in orgasm when I open my eyes to yet another unforgettable sight.
Gina’s lips are wrapped around the glans of my cock and her tiny hand pumps feverishly up and down the swollen shaft. That vision is all it takes to send me over the edge once again, and I feel myself contract and release in Gina’s mouth, ejaculating time after time across her warm and waiting tongue.
An instant later, we are kissing and I taste the salty tang of my own cum on her lips. Then my lips ride the path down her beautiful naked torso, feasting on her nipples before my tongue swirls the length of her stomach, plunges over her muscular abs and buries itself deep between Gina’s legs. Her thighs clamp the sides of my head as I alternate between probing deep inside her warm and slippery vagina and fluttering against the swollen kernel of her clitoris.
“Oh, my God, Jason… Ohhhhhhhh…. Baby,” she cries. “You’re going… going… to make me… CUMMMMMMMMMMMMM!”
Gina hips thrust and grind her sex against my mouth as a sudden eruption of musky-scented girl juice erupts from within her, flooding my tongue and lips.
“Oh my God!” she wails as a second, and then a third wave of contractions grip my tongue as I thrust as deep as it will travel.
Later that afternoon, Gina’s parents return from their trip to Harrisburg. Each night for the last week of summer vacation, we meet secretly at the Dock, then ride our bikes to former childhood haunts––the baseball diamond, the Love Street Marina, the East Lake Beach, the abandoned boat house on Scranton Street––where in some kind of crazy sexual rite of passage, we make love in the same places where we once threw Frisbees, built sandcastles, went waterskiing or just hung out with whoever happened to be around that summer.
On the last night, we leave our bikes and clothes on the shore near the Lake Association Dock and swim naked to the float where we so often spent childhood afternoons. It’s a balmy night and Gina’s wet body glistens in the moonlight as I hoist her into my arms and lower her onto my hard cock. We stay like that for a long time, standing on the swim float in the moonlight looking back on the lights of the shoreline cottages, making sweet almost mournful love. Then we cry in each other’s arms, knowing that tomorrow Gina leaves for Olympic gymnastics training in Michigan and a few days later, I’d be on my way to Massachusetts.
Our week of wild sex has exorcised the pain of my affair with Laura Wiggins and fulfilled Gina’s secret romantic longings for me. It has healed me and made us both whole. We part unsure if we will remain lovers, but irrevocably certain of our friendship.
Authors Note: Long Ago in a Galaxy Far Away
I came of age during a magic window of history between the advent of “the pill” and the arrival of incurable STDs. It was the briefest of eras when recreational sex wasn’t just a possibility.
It was an obligation.
Love Street grew out some personal recollections. The first ten chapters, in particular, are fact-based, although highly, sometimes wildly, elaborated.
Chapters 01 to 06, which conclude with “Gina,” condense four years of high-school exploration into a single year for the sake of conforming to age rules.
Chapter 01, “Grinding with Gretchen” is a romanticized remembrance of that unforgettable first girlfriend. She was not nearly as stunning as Gretchen, nor was she much of an athlete. She was, however, an actress and therefore by definition an exhibitionist. She loved to show me her body almost as much as she loved exploring mine. We never progressed beyond super heavy petting and oral sex, but it didn’t matter.
Chapters 02, “Tommy’s Mommy,” and Chapter 05, “Stacey’s Mom,” are based on real events that have been significantly dramatized for the sake of a good-old erotic tale.
This is probably the right time to confess that while I was, indeed, a high-school school football player, five years of weight training is pure fantasy.
If anything, I was a string bean.
Still, girls did gravitate in my direction.
“You have the most handsome face I’ve ever seen,” was something I heard more than once. The unspoken implication, of course, was that the body didn’t quite live up to the face. Fortunately, in those pre-Internet days, the ideal male physique was still ill-defined and many happily believed the idea behind the lyrics of a classic song by the Swallows, “It Ain’t the Meat (It’s the Motion”).
Chapter 03 about a misdialed telephone call that eventually leads to sex lessons for overprotected girls is absolutely, positively based on a real event, although in a much milder “I’ll-show-you-mine-if-you-show-me-yours” kind of way. Oh, and there were just two, not three, inquisitive young things.
As for Chapter 04, it’s pretty much a stroke-by-strike description of an Asian massage, although the innocent Korean music student is somewhat fictionalized. If you’ve never had a good Asian massage, regardless of your gender, you’re missing one of nature’s most mind-blowing experiences.
The crazy sex in Chapter 06 with Gina, the neighborhood Tomboy who had been crushing on me for years, was another real-life event. Sadly, there was no three-way mirror or Olympic Trial trophies.
Looking ahead, Chapters 07 and 08, as improbable as it may seem, are a true story that began the first week my freshman year of college.
I really and truly did end up being shared by four roommates.
I don’t think they made a blanket vow to share everything, although that makes a nice tag line. But I was expressly “handed off” from Donna to Barbara. And before we graduated, I had brief liaisons with Mary and Patty as well. Some of the supporting details, especially about Barbara’s bisexuality, are pure male fantasy.
Chapter 09, about a bashful, but frustrated, young mom also has a kernel of factual inspiration. It was my only time with a married MILF, and in retrospect, I’m glad we stopped at oral sex. Sexual guilt may be an alien concept to me, but it certainly wasn’t for Heidi.
I changed the circumstances of Chapter 10 a bit to fit the overall story arc. But during the year I spent in Paris during college, I lived in a room that really overlook a women’s dorm across the courtyard, and although the musical interlude is imaginary, Marina and I spent many nights in our windows “performing” for each other. And we did eventually hookup for real.
Chapters 11, 12, and 13 are about a night-flight to Paris and subsequent adventures while biking across the Europe. The irrepressible Violet takes inspiration from an uninhibited real-life friend. The scene involving the sexy lady paparazzi and the celebrity French lovers is purely imaginary. As are the delicious Norwegian twins Runa and Raven along with Lillie’s sexy little sister Lysa.
But Love Street is a real place.
One of thousands of little clusters of lakeside summer cottages that are an essential ingredient of the American way of life across much of New England, the mid-Atlantic, and the Upper mid-West.
Could there be better place to spend the summers during our hormone-addled teen years? From skinny dipping to a mid-night rendezvous in some neighbor’s chez-lounge, the opportunities for sexual exploration are endless. Even after finishing the first six chapters of Love Street, long forgotten memories of a strip-poker party as well as a game called “touch me, feel me,” came drifting back with amazing clarity.
Is there some takeaway from all these horny recollections?
Well, yes.
For one thing, unlike what Elle King might say, you don’t have to let all your Ex’s be Zeros. I’ve remained friends with a lot of my Ex’s, including Gina, Gretchen, Donna, and Barbara.
For another, it’s been great fun commemorating old flames and fantasies before the ravages of time and a strict regime of 1-liter-of-wine-a-day dull the erotic edge of these remembrances.
As they say, thanks for reading!
