The following rather provocative short is an excerpt from my book Jigs & Tales of Bawdry, the ebook version of which will be FREE on Amazon from Wednesday, May 3, through Sunday, May 7. Download your copy today and please remember to rate and review the book on Amazon, Goodreads, and BookBub.
I first saw her when she moved to our school in third grade. I became so smitten that I had trouble sleeping at night. Tossing and turning, I would kiss and bite my pillow while imagining I was holding her in my arms. I had had other crushes—most notably Julie Stewart, whose shining eyes, infectious laugh, and raven curls infatuated me during the seventh year of my life—but this was something else entirely. I had never encountered a creature as purely and ideally beautiful as Stacy Sheridan.
She came by her beauty honestly, for her mother was a stunning specimen herself. Mrs. Sheridan used to attend my mother’s bridge parties, and I remember thinking that she possessed the attributes people called “sexy,” a word I had heard used to describe Farrah Fawcett. My brother and I were forbidden to interrupt the ladies’ card game, but I would invariably find an excuse to enter the living room so I could steal a glance at Stacy’s mom. Always made up and heavily scented with perfume, she held her cards with one hand and puffed on a cigarette with the other, a gesture which represented for me the pinnacle of glamour and elegance. Whenever she caught me ogling her, she would wink and say: “Isn’t it past your bedtime, honey?”
When I was ten, I learned that Stacy was exposing herself to the fifth-grade boys behind the oak tree at recess. Sitting in the tire swing, she would pull down her pants, open her legs, and invite all comers to have a peek. I was a bit taken aback by this news, but of course it did not prevent me from going to have a look for myself. Travis Lane was the only boy who abstained. “Do y’all love God?” he asked us indignantly. I suppose I did at the time, good little boy that I was, but I loved the idea of seeing Stacy’s naked body more. So I looked, and I was never the same thereafter.
In middle school, we became pretty good pals, but despite my best efforts I was never able to move our relationship beyond the friend zone. We would study together and talk on the phone, but whenever I asked her to the movies or to school dances she was always busy or already had a date, usually with one of the older boys who played football. During one of our study sessions at my parents’ house, I tried to kiss her. She laughed it off and said: “Come on, you know I don’t think of you that way.”
When we were freshmen in high school, she began dating my sophomore friend Eric West. She sat in front of me in science class, and for some reason she adopted the habit of sharing with me the contents of their written correspondence. In these adolescent love letters, Stacy and Eric pined for one another in surprisingly graphic and explicit language. She once asked me to deliver a note to Eric during PE class, but she told me I could open it and read it first. When I did, I saw these words in Stacy’s pretty handwriting: “I can’t wait for you to fuck me.” Embarrassed and excited, I had to cover my erection with a textbook. I was thankful that I was sitting behind Stacy and she could not see what was going on in my nether region.
For his part, Eric would casually relate to me the salacious details of their couplings, which usually took place at his parents’ house after school. While his mom and dad worked late shifts at the chemical plant, he and Stacy indulged in the pleasures of the flesh. They would be at it for hours, if he was to be believed. When the condom broke, they would stop and fit him with another one. When Stacy was having her period, she would fellate him instead and, according to Eric, she was always eager to swallow or to have him ejaculate on her breasts. This was more or less confirmed in another note which Stacy asked me to pass to Eric. The rather crass missive with idiosyncratic orthography said: “I want you to cum in all of my holes.”
Eric also confided to me that Stacy was a “gusher.” I had no idea what he meant by that. “She squirts,” Eric explained. I looked at him blankly. “You know,” he attempted to clarify, “out of her pussy.” I still didn’t understand: “You mean she . . . pees?” “No, you jackass. It’s like girl jizz. Haven’t you ever seen a porno?” I learned many things from Eric West.
But it was all too much for me to bear. I was of course a virgin and had had only two remotely sexual experiences. In eighth grade, I slipped my hand under Marisa Segovia’s bra while we were in the balcony of the Lakewood Miniplex. I cupped her small right breast for about five minutes, but when I dared to touch her nipple she suggested we watch the movie instead. The next year, Theresa Stuckey let me put my hand inside her panties and then encouraged me to finger her during a walk in the woods behind her house. While I enjoyed pleasuring her manually, she did not offer to reciprocate and I was too ashamed to ask. I felt so frustratingly pathetic. Meanwhile, I assumed Eric and Stacy were attaining heights of erotic ecstasy known only to practitioners of tantra.
But they eventually broke up during Stacy’s junior year, allegedly because she gave Eric’s friend Arturo a blowjob behind the bleachers during lunch. I asked her why she did this and she said: “Eric was starting to piss me off. Besides, Arturo has a nice cock.” She became the manager of the varsity basketball team and was rumored to have slept with all five starters and half of the bench. In the meantime, I continued to lust for her and engaged in many strange masturbatory rituals with her as my inspiration, even as I continued to pursue other girls with little success.
We had a falling-out during senior year, and I lost track of Stacy after graduation. Some say she went to A&M to study engineering, but this was never confirmed. I went off to college myself and ended up marrying the first girl that had sex with me in my dorm room. One thing led to another, and as I passed through the stages on life’s way I didn’t give Stacy Sheridan more than a fleeting thought for almost thirty years.
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