A hot summer day sets the stage for a life-changing encounter for a passionate young couple.
Whether I’m a ladies’ man is debatable, but I’ve been lucky enough to enjoy a robust sex life for the last several years. I’m no alpha, but I haven’t gone wanting. A year ago, after happily playing the field for more than a decade, I began dating my current girlfriend, a pretty young music teacher named Julie. Later this year, we’ll move in together. But my record with women wasn’t always so hot. Back in my high school and early college days, I couldn’t get anywhere, romantically speaking. My teenage girlfriend, Clara, was a sweet girl, but we were both inexperienced at 18, and our sexual encounters were clumsy—consisting mostly of 1950s-style “heavy petting.” I would rub myself against her while fully clothed, eventually shooting a sticky wad in my pants. Then I’d sneak back home, evading anyone who might notice my come-soaked trousers. Eventually, Clara progressed to giving me hand jobs, though she never seemed thrilled with the idea of pumping my turgid dick. Plus, she wouldn’t let me pleasure her manually. One night she confessed why. She was, contrary to what I’d assumed, not a virgin. She’d had sex with some other guy numerous times. Soon after I learned this, she broke up with me. Pathetic, right? Then came college. I attended a school in a sleepy, rural part of the Pacific Northwest. To hear my classmates and roommates tell it, everyone on campus was having nonstop sexual adventures, but as I approached my third year I’d had only one very drunken liaison—with a flighty art student who was what you might call a part-time Goth. I lost my virginity to her but I remembered very few details of the experience the following day. In my third year, I managed to get the rare chance to travel abroad for a semester the following spring. I decided that in order to graduate according to the timetable I’d set for myself, I would stay on campus through the summer to load up on classes. I already had a part-time job in the school library, and I could work there in the summer also. My area of study was world literature, and that summer the theater department was mounting an outdoor production of a Molière play. My roommate Brad, a gay kid, convinced me I should audition. I did and was surprised to be cast in the small but important role of a messenger from the king. Brad was also in the cast in a more prominent role. He was determined that I have an affair with someone during those steamy summer months. As the student population during summer semester was about a third of what it was normally, I pointed out that the odds of romance happening were even slimmer than usual. “That’s crazy talk, Mikey,” he said. “You’re wasting your best years with this chastity thing. You’re gonna look back with nothing but regret.” When rehearsals began, I learned that a sexy grad student named Jenna Anne was also in the cast. She was to play the impertinent maid who always seemed to call the shots in the family that employed her. Sandy-haired, slim, and petite, Jenna Anne had small yet awesome breasts and the shapely legs of a dancer. She was a notorious flirt; her kittenish face often flashed a sly smile.
The previous semester, she had been a T.A. in a Shakespeare seminar I took, so I knew her a little and had fantasized about her from the start. What I found sexiest about her was that she dressed a bit like a hippie from the late 1960s or early 1970s. She wore retro clothes, accented with beads and peacock feathers, she would weave dandelion and morning glory blossoms into her hair sometimes, and wherever she went, the fragrance of patchouli both preceded and followed her. I would sprout an instant boner whenever I got a whiff of that piercing scent. Earlier in my youth, I’d had access to a cache of X-rated videotapes from the 1970s. There were a couple of these old grainy movies in which hippie gals and guys would get it on. What aroused me to the hilt was that these flower-child girls had such beautiful displays of pubic hair. Just hearing the words “bush” and “thicket” and “thatch” would stiffen my penis in a flash. I played those movies until the VHS tapes wore out. I often wondered while picturing Jenna Anne and jerking off whether she tended her own tangled garden down below. In the Shakespeare seminar, she’d told me one afternoon that she’d read my paper on King Lear and thought I was “a smart kid.” She was tight with Dr. M, the middle-aged professor who ran the seminar. Some students gossiped every night, whispering in my ear, “Break a leg, Mike.” Mike? People called me Michael, mostly—though Brad and my other roommates had long called me Mikey. I’d never liked the single-syllable variation. But when Jenna Anne said it—as I stooped down from my elevated height to give her my ear—the name suddenly sounded right. At the final performance of the show, she followed up the usual whispered message by quickly kissing me on the neck. As I headed into the stage light, I felt her hand run down the back of my thigh. Somehow, I managed to remember my first line. But she wasn’t at the cast party—which disappointed me greatly. Someone said she’d taken off after the show with Dr. M. Fuck that. A day or so later, she phoned me— something she’d never done before. She said how sorry she was that she hadn’t made it to the cast party. She was currently housesitting at Dr. M’s farmhouse outside of town while he was away at a conference. She was having some people over the following Saturday afternoon. Could I make it? My heart thumped fast. I hastily wrote down directions to Dr. M’s place. That afternoon the humidity was stifling as I bicycled out to the farm, bringing a bag of tortilla chips, a pocketful of condoms, and all sorts of fantasies. I was running late so I pedaled quickly along the highway and then down a long gravel road. Jenna Anne looked amazing when she greeted me on the front porch of the old ramshackle house. She wore a yellow cotton dress, dangling turquoise earrings, and—as nearly as I could tell— nothing else. Except for the patchouli, of course. An anxious young Border Collie named Milton sniffed my crotch. Jenna Anne took me through the dark house to the flower-filled yard in the back. I was surprised to discover that there were only two other guests at the party: a late-middle-aged lady named Florence who lived just down the highway, and her daughter, a quiet young woman whose name I don’t recall. Jenna Anne served a round of margaritas. The four of us made small talk for a half-hour or so. “Who wants to see the zoo?” Jenna Anne asked. Florence said that she did, so we all walked over to a faded red barn to have a look at a Hereford steer, several rambunctious goats, and a pen full of prehistoric-looking, ostrich-like birds: emus. They glared at me as if
I were some barbaric intruder. When we returned to the garden, Florence and her daughter said that it was going to rain any minute and they had to be going. And yes, the sky was dark with clouds. Jenna Anne saw the two women to their car. When she returned to the yard, I was sprawled in one of the reclining patio chairs. “Alone at last,” she said. “How many people did you invite?” I asked in a voice that I know sounded nervous. She sat on the bench beside the small picnic table. That sly smile of hers burned bright. “A few others said they might come. I doubt they will.” “I was expecting a crowd,” I told her. “Yes, well, I like intimate parties.” I heard Brad’s voice in my head telling me not to be a weenie, urging me to action. “You look…beautiful,” I said. “Thanks. Glad you think so.” She got up and walked over to me. “Want a closer look?” I sat back and made room for her on the chair. Immediately we were making out. The taste of tequila on her mouth was one I’ll never forget. I’ll always associate the flavor with that sweltering afternoon. Of course, I was immediately aroused as I embraced her body, which I knew now was indeed naked beneath the lemon-colored cotton. The cold drops began hitting us slowly. They felt refreshing at first—cooling us but not dampening our passion. Before long they were really coming down. I detected a flash, then heard the crack of thunder. Seconds later it was pouring hard, drenching us. “Inside we go,” Jenna Anne said. I scrambled to grab the chips and salsa. She picked up the tequila bottle and took a big swig. The yellow dress was now soaked, and the thin fabric clung to her body, accentuating every curve. We dashed into the dark house, leaving puddles on the hardwood floor. Milton shook himself and water flew everywhere. Then he scampered off to his own domain. We arrived in the kitchen. I put the salsa and soggy chips on the counter. “Let’s get out of these wet things here,” said Jenna Anne. I stripped off my T-shirt and
walking shorts, dropping them on the linoleum, but I didn’t shuck my partially wet boxer shorts. As Jenna Anne pulled her dress over her head, lightning flashed again, momentarily illuminating her nakedness. In that puff of light I saw that, yes, she had a sweet thicket growing at her crotch. Brava! The thunder boomed once more. Jenna Anne padded out of the kitchen saying, “Stay put, lover—I’ll be right back.” I trembled a bit in the relatively cool room. I grabbed the tequila and took several fast swallows that burned my throat. Looking down, I saw the tent my penis was making of my boxers. I found my jeans on the floor and grabbed the handful of condoms from the pocket. Jenna Anne returned bearing a towel, and we took turns drying each other’s bodies to the sound of the rain pummeling the earth. After toweling my belly and legs, she pulled down my boxers. She swiped at my erection with the somewhat rough towel, then dropped to her knees and took me deep in her wet, warm mouth. I moaned as she began pumping up and down on my circumcised dick. She paused occasionally to kiss the tender underside. After a head-spinning minute of this, she stood up, kissed me hard on the mouth and said, “Come with me.” Seconds later we were in a highceilinged, candlelit bedroom with a large