Anatomy of a Boyfriend (12 page)

―You‘re so sneaky! And I‘m so glad, because—‖ I open the flap of my knapsack so he can see the contents. ―I bought a sheet from Target to cover the bed with so we won‘t have to worry about washing your grandparents‘ sheets.‖

He turns to me and grins. ―Good thinking.‖

A half hour later we‘re in the studio. Wes keeps the lights on only for a moment so the power bill won‘t reflect any more electricity usage than necessary. In those few seconds I can see there‘s a small balcony that looks right onto the beach. The room is furnished with white wicker dressers and nightstands, a cedar and brass grandfather clock, peach-colored carpet and drapes, a mini dining room table, and, best of all, a huge white canopy bed. This will be the first bed we‘ve ever been in together.

I unfold the new sheet and drape it over the comforter. Wes turns out the lights. Then I hear him lock the door.

Wes comes up behind me and cups my breasts in his hands. Almost as a reflex I reach behind me and rub the bulge in his shorts. Was our first kiss really just two weeks ago? Amy‘s told me how difficult it is to stop making out once things really get going. I never understood that before Wes, but it
is
really difficult to stop, or even just to take things slowly. Now that we‘ve gone this far, I can‘t imagine there being a time when just a good-night kiss will be enough for either of us.

And I hope it never is.

Wes and I kiss passionately, almost desperately, as we undress each other. He removes everything but my underwear. I take off his T-shirt and sneakers. Soon we‘re on the bed with me on top. Then I sit up, straddling his thighs. He lies perfectly still as I unbutton and unzip his shorts. I‘m assuming he has underwear on, so I don‘t hesitate as I quickly draw his shorts down below his hips.

―Whoa,‖ I gasp like some shocked virgin, which I guess I am. I wasn‘t anticipating seeing his erect penis right away; it‘s protruding up through the flap in his boxers and resting against his lower belly.

―What‘s wrong, Dom?‖ He looks down. ―Shit, I‘m sorry. I didn‘t know—‖ He reaches down to his boxers, but I gently stop his hand.

―No, it‘s okay.‖ I try to give him a reassuring smile, but my heart is beating so fast I think my face is twitching.

Even by the dim blue moonlight filtering in through the glass balcony doors, I can recognize the features of his penis from my anatomy books. The shaft, the head, the urethral opening—it‘s definitely all there. Only it looks so much more alive and urgent than any photograph could ever capture. I lean forward over Wes‘s torso so I can study it head-on. Then I notice it bobbing up and down slightly with his heartbeat, as if it‘s waving me on. I sit back on his thighs and take a deep breath.

I don‘t feel ready to touch it just yet, so I start by easing my hands underneath his boxers and lightly rub the area surrounding it. His pubic hair is so long and coarse! It never occurred to me before that guys probably rarely trim this stuff, if ever. In Florida it‘s always bikini season, so I‘m constantly shaving down there.

Wes murmurs something unintelligible and closes his eyes. He‘s obviously into this. Soon I close my hands in on his balls, but I‘m not sure what to do with them. I‘ve seen enough slapstick about guys getting kicked in the nuts to know they‘re ultrasensitive, so I pet them in a tickly, feathery way. This is by far the most delicate part of Wes I‘ve come across yet—the consistency makes me think of a baby bird, or squishy nectarine skin, scattered with hair. It‘s truly surreal to think I‘m holding Wes‘s scrotum, his personal sperm generator.

Now I‘m on the bed to the side of his left hip, and I ease his shorts and boxers down to his knees. As I sit there beholding the entire package, I picture myself in a Science Quiz match.

Now for the final question: Does a respectable and responsible seventeen-year-old girl
stimulate the penis of her significant other in his grandparents’ vacation home while their
trusting parents think they are out bowling?…Ms. Baylor?

Hell yes!

I lightly clutch Wes‘s penis with my right hand and start to stroke it lightly, up and down the length of it. Back in middle school, Amy and I would always sneak into her mom‘s office and pore over her sex encyclopedia. I wish I had a better recollection of what it said about manual stimulation.

―Listen,‖ I say softly, ―I‘m just sort of exploring. I have absolutely no idea what to do.‖

―That‘s fine, this feels great,‖ he says hurriedly, over his heavy breathing.

I continue to stroke him, and it‘s cool how the skin can move up and down a little, like it‘s not really attached to whatever‘s underneath. I try to vary the speed and position of my hand, but Wes just continues to groan in the same, quiet way. After a few minutes of this exercise, I‘m wondering why he hasn‘t ejaculated. Do you have to do something special to finish a hand job? I don‘t remember anything about grand finale techniques in the sex encyclopedia.

I guess Wes can tell I‘m getting discouraged because he wraps his hands around mine and guides me through a few strokes. He says it responds well to pressure. When he releases his hold I tighten my grip.

―Hey, don‘t pull it off.‖

―Oh, sorry, sorry.‖

―And can you take off your ring? It chafes.‖

―Oh yeah, I should have thought of that.‖ I reach for my purse and drop in the mood ring.

―You know what feels good? When you touch the tip.‖

―Oh, okay.‖ I take him back in my hands.

―And, um, don‘t forget about these,‖ he says while pointing to his balls.

I have to hold back laughter—I thought guys were supposed to be easy to get off.

Now my right hand is stroking his penis, and the other is caressing his testicles. I‘m feeling very ambidextrous. I wonder if I‘d ever be able to get my mouth around his penis if I tried. But that‘s definitely not going to happen tonight. Blow jobs are really serious business, and I‘m not even sure what I‘d need to do once I got down there. It‘s tricky enough with two hands.

After five more minutes, still nothing. My hands are now sticky from my own sweat, so my palms keep tripping up and getting stuck unevenly on his penis.

―Ugh, I‘m terrible at this.‖

―No, no. You‘re doing great. I‘m not lying.‖

―I feel like I‘m hurting you. There‘s so much friction.‖

―Hey, could you lick your hands? Like, really salivate on them?‖ Wes has a desperate look in his eyes.

Even though the idea
completely
grosses me out, I give my palm a lick. I can already tell it‘s not going to be enough, so I generate some more saliva in my mouth and do it again. I can‘t bring myself even to look at my slobbery hand as I move it back to his dick, but it seems to do the trick.

―Okay, yeah, better, much better. Yeah,‖ he moans. ―Can you go faster?‖

I can barely feel my arms now, and my shoulders are sore, but I take deep breaths and keep going. Every few seconds I alternate hands and lick them. ―Hand job‖ is such a misnomer for this full-body routine. It‘s like I‘m a one-man band.

Soon a few drops of something hot leak onto my fingers. Wes‘s breathing is getting heavier too, and suddenly he mutters breathlessly, ―Tighter. Ah, Aah, Dom. Dom—‖

I feel a stiffening of his penis in my hands as the tip expels a thick, creamy liquid. Wes‘s legs tremble and his back arches as he groans loudly. I discover the warm, white goo cascading down my knuckles serves as a great lubricant, so I stroke even faster.

―Dom…you can stop…. Stop now!‖ he almost shouts.

Taken aback by his tone of voice, I instantly let go of his penis, which begins to lose its stiffness and bend over to one side. After a few seconds Wes places his hand on my shoulder reassuringly.

―Sorry, Dom. It hurts if you keep doing it after I come.‖

―Oh, okay. I understand.‖

Wes takes one of the tissues from the nightstand and wipes the semen off his dick and stomach.

I look down at my palms, now a deathbed for hundreds of millions of tiny sperm that never had the chance to pursue their singular purpose. But I don‘t feel guilty. In fact, I can‘t remember the last time I‘ve felt such a sense of accomplishment.

After washing up in the bathroom, I crawl back into bed. Wes shudders when my cold hands touch his warm, sweaty abdomen.

―So, was that okay?‖ I ask, though I‘m pretty sure it was.

―Um, let‘s see.
Yeah!
‖

I look down and am startled how much smaller his penis is. It‘s a quarter of the size it was three minutes ago. He doesn‘t look embarrassed to be lying before me naked, though, which is cool.

I‘m glad I make him comfortable.

I say, ―In movies, this is always when the guy rolls over and goes to sleep.‖

―Nah, I want to take my revenge first.‖ Wes reaches his hand for my underwear, and I‘m instantly scared. What if he can‘t make me orgasm? Or what if he can? In movies women make strange noises and even stranger facial expressions while it‘s happening. I don‘t think I want Wes to see me like that. What if I squeal or scream or fart or say something stupid?

―Hey, listen, you don‘t have to do it to me if you don‘t want to. I mean, I don‘t…I didn‘t do that expecting anything in return.‖

He screws up his eyebrows. ―Are you kidding? I want to.‖

―Well, the thing is, I‘m sorta having that bad time of the month.‖ My period actually ended two days ago.

―Oh.‖ He looks disappointed.

―I want to, but I‘d rather wait till it‘s over.‖

―Yeah, that‘s okay. No worries, Dom.‖

Now I‘m afraid I ruined the good mood, so I try to turn the conversation back to him. ―I‘m curious about something, though. When you were actually, you know, what did it feel like for you, when it was happening?‖

―You mean when I came?‖

―Yeah. Then.‖

―I dunno, it‘s hard to describe.‖

―I know, but I‘m really curious what it‘s like for a guy to have one.‖

―Well, at first it feels sort of light and zingy, and then,
bam!
‖ He claps his hands together. ―It‘s Chernobyl.‖

―Chernobyl?‖

―Yeah, Chernobyl.‖

―Huh. So your orgasms are basically the physiological equivalent of a nuclear explosion at a Russian power plant?‖

He laughs. ―Yes, Ms. Science Quiz, it‘s a meltdown.‖

Wes climbs on top of me and rests his head on the flat space between my breasts. I keep one arm around his shoulders and massage his scalp with my other hand. I love this position. I feel protective and protected at the same time.

We lie like this until the grandfather clock strikes midnight. After we get dressed, we cover our tracks by smoothing out the bed and flushing the used tissues down the toilet.

19

I
don‘t know if I simply forgot Wes told me he was going away for spring break, or if I blocked it out, not wanting to believe that we‘re going to be separated for nine whole days. Either way, ever since Wes reminded me his family will be vacationing with the Skys in Paris, I haven‘t been able to stop thinking about Wes and former girl next door Jessica running together along the banks of the Seine.

Amy says I have paranoia and insecurity issues and that if Wes misbehaves in Paris, then he‘s obviously wrong for me and I should be glad to find that out now before things go too far. That doesn‘t make me feel any better, though.

The Friday before the Gershwins leave for France, the air-conditioning at their home breaks. His parents decide to escape the heat by going to dinner and a community theater production of
Guys
and Dolls
out in Naples. They ask us to come, but of course we decline so I can help Wes study biology. Yeah, right. We‘re jumping at the chance to mess around at his place and not have to trek out to Captiva.

As soon as the Gershwins drive away, Wes and I race upstairs, slide into his bedroom, and almost violently strip each other down to our underwear. I‘m taking a second to lay my watch and mood ring on his nightstand when I catch sight of the other Jessica lounging on Wes‘s desk chair. She seems to be watching us intently, and we make eye contact. When Wes turns his back to switch off the lights, I stick out my tongue at her.
He’s mine now, bitch!

We‘re on the bed and I reach for his boxers, but he pushes my hands away. ―No, you come first, Dom.‖ Then we both laugh and he says, ―I mean, you first tonight.‖

I nod and lie down on his bed. This time I feel ready.

Wes says, ―I‘ve only a vague concept of what I‘m supposed to do. So I‘ll need some instruction.‖

―Actually, I‘m just as clueless as you are.‖

He crinkles his brow. ―Haven‘t you ever tried?‖

―Huh?‖

―You know what I mean.‖

―Um, not really.‖ I blush. I‘m embarrassed to admit I‘ve been touching myself every day in the shower this past week, trying to psych myself up for this. It got to the point where it felt good, but never
Oh God-ly.
I can‘t figure out what I‘m doing wrong. Maybe I‘m just thinking about it too much, or I haven‘t been turned on enough when I‘m by myself.

―Really? Never?‖ Wes asks.

―Yeah…. Do you, um—?‖

―Yeah, of course. We dudes got to make sure everything‘s fully operational from time to time.‖

He lies down next to me and immediately reaches his right hand down under my panties. I‘m ecstatic Wes is finally touching me there, but I also feel put on the spot. I‘m not excited enough yet to enjoy this.

―Um, actually, this is a little fast. Could we, like, hug and kiss a little more first, before you—?‖

His mouth comes down hard on mine, and he runs his hands all over my body. Soon he starts kissing my breasts, and I envision my fantasy of Wes chasing me on the beach and struggling to rip down my bathing suit.

And then he farts. Really loud.

He lifts his head and looks down at me awkwardly. ―Are you okay?‖

―Me?‖

We exchange confused looks. I assume he‘s embarrassed, so I opt not to say anything about it.

He falls back into my arms and we‘re grinding together when he lets loose again!

―Wes!‖ I try to laugh, although I‘m a little grossed out.

―Dom, it‘s fine, don‘t be embarrassed.‖

―Um, why should
I
be embarrassed?‖