I could live on this feeling forever.
In the moon gilded, firefly sparked interval between the idyllic hideaway of Mr. Weston's home and the return to real life, I slid in a barefoot promenade across the newly mowed nap of his front yard. The dewy bouquet of suburban lawn infused the humid air and overwhelmed the vervaine trace of his good night kiss on my cheek, his fourth one.
Four weeks.
Four euphoric encounters.
Each one had ended with the same incongruent gesture. It might have seemed an odd finale to our base, unclothed duet only minutes before, but it was true to Mr. Weston's chivalrous streak, the same one that covered for my coltish clumsiness at his party and fueled a fervent crush on the reserved, attractive neighbor who let me call him Mike.
How awkward I had been at that gathering, tripping on my new high heels like that. Mr. Weston, who is about Dad's age, caught me before I could fall, and made sure I was all right before he resumed his host duties. Those few seconds in the strength of his arms, breathing his scent, hearing his comforting voice, all fanned what were mists of intrigue into the perfect storm of adolescent lust.
The Westons' hospitality included an open invitation to use their lovely pool whenever I wished to have a swim.
This summer, some months after Mrs. Weston had shocked the neighborhood by leaving her husband for another man, I had finally acted upon those pent-up feelings. Sure, there was some initial resistance. His personal code wouldn't allow him to trespass on my virginity, oral or otherwise, but when I ruthlessly bargained down to watching one another as we touched ourselves, he yielded.
Even within those limits, his creativity blew my mind and torqued my loins until I was filled with a constant, ravenous ache. As satisfied as I felt while sharing his presence, fresh desires rippled through me the moment I left it. Answering the compulsion to replicate those skyrockets while replaying our latest secretive games in my head had become a necessary ritual. I could hardly wait to reach the solitude of my bedroom for an encore.
With Dad away on a golfing trip, all that remained was to run the Mom gauntlet at home. A triumphant giddiness bubbled in my chest.
I trotted up the back steps, ducked beneath a disco ball of insects attracted by the porch light, and bolted through the squeaky screen door. The tune I was humming stilled in my nostrils when I heard the thud of cabinetry and spotted Mom rummaging the cupboard for 'company' dishes.
"Good timing; I was starting to wonder," she said briskly, shaking a rust colored landslide of tortilla chips into a serving bowl. "Do me a favor and bring an extra iced tea into the den for Daryl?"
Daryl!
Obediently on autopilot, I iced and filled two frosted tumblers.
Wasn't he supposed to be out on a date? How long had he been here?
Mom led the way, setting her offering of hospitality on the coffee table. Daryl stretched out a lanky, sunburned arm and snagged from the bowl first.
"Thanks, Mrs. M. These are my favorite. Hey, Yona," he crunched, blue eyes shifting to acknowledge my arrival.
Are you imagining things, or was that a dirty look?
Ridiculous. You're being paranoid. Calm down and say hello like a polite hostess.
I managed a dry murmur in return, and handed him his drink.
"Did you have a nice swim?" Mom's voice caroled over the tv, where the Mets were trailing the Cubs at Shea. Where Daryl should have been cheering the home team - and discreetly groping Brenda Wasserman - in her family's VIP box, instead of acting as the world's biggest speed bump on the route to my private time.
I sank into a side chair and parroted the standard response. "Yeah, it was all right."
A shimmering flashback of the Westons' night lit pool and its liquid caresses sent a taunting shiver between my legs.
Liar.
You took your bathing suit off and swam while Mr. Weston looked on and stiffened under his khakis.
Then he watched you take a shower while he fondled himself through his boxers, then...
Then, to our unexpected guest, "So what happened to what's-her-name?" I reached for a chip and bit without tasting. Mom retreated to the kitchen, leaving me and Daryl with the voice of Keith Hernandez as a suitable chaperone.
My best friend washed down his mouthful with a slug of iced tea, then rifled the bowl for another handful. "Brenda's dad promised the tickets to an out of town colleague and forgot to tell her about it, so we'll go next home stand." Daryl had a gift for taking hurdles in stride; he moved through life with an ease I sometimes envied.
That was another thing about Daryl's girlfriends, they were always well-connected and good for perks like boating weekends on the Vineyard or beach bonfires in the Hamptons. Why Brenda Mets Tickets didn't have a more enticing backup plan for him than chips and a televised ballgame with the best bud, was a mystery.
I sure wished she had, because the visual of Mike's weathered fingers tracing his thick bulge wouldn't go away, no matter how often I blinked.
The tote bag's draw cord was still wrapped around my wrist. A warm trickle lapped at the pinch of my denim cutoffs. "Excuse me, be right back." I set my glass on the coaster next to Daryl's and fled the room.
No one knew about the voyeuristic shower at Mike's house, so a bit of freshening up would buy some time to calm down. Quickly I closed the upstairs bathroom door, opened the tap, and shook out the bag's contents. Towel to the hamper, bikini to a Woolite soak.
That left the lacy tendrils of the black suspender belt and a pair of matching nylons, splayed on the throw rug like a dessicated octopus.
What was I thinking?
I scooped them up hastily, ran to my room and hid them in a drawer. Then I splashed and mopped my face, shut off the water, and reluctantly walked back downstairs.
***
Mike had handed me a towel as I stepped, dripping, from the glass stall. His dark hair curled even more in the dampness. I fought the urge to press upon him and dry myself on his solid, tanned warmth instead.
"I have a surprise for you," I half-whispered, "but I'd like to change in another room, if I may?"
He thought for a moment and nodded. "Turn right, second door. How long should I give you?" The slight smile made my knees wobble.
"Four minutes." I scampered into the hallway and found what must have been a guest bedroom, where I discarded the towel and extracted a few delicate items from the carry bag.
Three minutes later, after much anxious gathering, stretching, clipping and aligning, I examined the results in the narrow sheen of a full length mirror. Three days prior, while I was nervously hustling the beautifully tagged and hangered garments into the potpourri scented dressing cubicle at Languid Laces, I had been tempted to return them to their rightful place in the lavishly appointed display. Their gauzy femininity seemed to ooze disdain for tomboy outings of basketball and cycling with Daryl.
Daryl is a boy, chided my budding concupiscent side. Mike is a man. I marched the items to the sales counter and studied the beads of a wall sconce while waiting to be rung up.
Now, in the softly reflected lamp light of Mike's guest room, the suspender belt and thigh highs looked stunning. The body I thought of as utilitarian was transformed into a vision of seductive elegance.
The man I hoped to impress gave a polite knock at the door.
***
Daryl whooped in unison with the multitudes packing Shea Stadium. Startled, I looked up in time to see the ball sail within a whisker of the foul line.
"You weren't even watching," he accused.
"Yes I was," I bristled, focusing penitently on the instant replay. It was ruled a fair ball, good for two runs. A third runner was tagged for the final out, but not until after the home team tied the score.
During the commercial break, Daryl ran fidgety hands through his tousled hair. His knees jiggled restlessly. I couldn't trust myself to meet his direct gaze.
"There's something I've gotta tell you, Yona," he began.
The disturbing idea I'd dismissed was back, and dumping the guilt-flavored Gatorade. Its cold torrents sobered me in an instant.
Daryl got here only minutes before I did. Maybe while Mike was saying goodnight?
Could he have seen us?
I held my breath and waited helplessly for him to continue.
***
Mike's boxers had joined my towel on the door hook. I felt my mouth go dry just looking at his overall maleness - the slight crinkling of wisdom about his features, the day-long shadowing of his noble jaw, the coarse down texturing his chest and limbs.
Dark, like the depths of your need for everything about him.
Gently he took my hands, which had flown protectively across my breasts when he entered the room, and coaxed them to my sides with a long, admiring look at the 'surprise' chosen just for him. Inspiration flared in his eyes.
Then he lifted the narrow mirror from the wall, positioned it face up on the rug parallel to the bed, and guided us both to our knees so that we straddled the glass at opposite ends, facing one another.
He could see, both reflected and for real, that I wore nothing beneath the suspender belt. My peripheral vision caught his turgid response, which triggered a teasing wriggle of moisture over points south.
When I hesitated, he grasped himself first. I slid my palm downward, skimming the crosswalk of lace.
Our fingers probed and nudged in their own sensitive cadence, telegraphing their finesse through gasps and sighs.
The position was an unaccustomed one; I was used to lying or sitting down. As wonderfully perverse as it felt, keeping myself balanced was proving to be a distraction. I began to wonder if I could finish this way.
He sensed my discomfort, took my free hand with his, and anchored it below his right shoulder. "You can brace yourself if it helps."
It did. The leverage was exactly what I needed. Inch by inch, outwardly sliding knees lowered my inflamed petals ever closer to their inanimate voyeur. The living and breathing one, whose heat I could feel across the space between us, clearly appreciated the enhanced view. My grip on his frame became a squeeze.
I let myself look at his reflection.
On the other occasions, I was blindfolded, we were partially submerged, or his back was turned. The angle afforded by the mirror sent pins and needles of pleasure along forbidden trails. Beneath the motion of his hand, he was well sculpted, and the image he cast filled me with the heady sense of watching something I shouldn't, and delighting in this thrilling new dimension.
