In the summer of 1975 he was fifteen; lost in the weeds of adolescent rebellion, unbridled anger, and raging testosterone levels with few outlets other than his own manual dexterity.
Which clearly wasn't getting the job done enough to calm his roiling waters.
She was nineteen, back from her first year of college in Boston.
Neighbors for several years, both families were close, parents and children alike. Being four years younger, he was odd man out when it came to the mysteries of teen-age life.
He was always trying to grow up too fast, and always seemed to be banging his head against an immovable concept. He was just four years younger. Get lost kid.
But she was different. She actually enjoyed his company because in trying to grow up too fast, he was intellectually beyond his years.
In the evenings over that summer, as the sun set over the western valley ridge of the lake and the water still and smoothly surfaced, she sometimes would go out in his family boat to do a little skiing, smoke a little joint, or both.
She would always do this not because she had something better to do. Usually she had a date with a man much older than her, and would always hustle up the lake road as he attached the boat to the buoy to shower and get ready for her evening's adventure.
Summer evenings hit that rhythm in June, and lasted through July like ritual.
After a ski they would float freely in the middle of the lake. She would light up a doobie and lounge on the bench seat of the lemon yellow boat and the two of them would talk about the mysteries of music, love, and life. Although he wanted to share, her weed was always better than the skunkweed available to a kid in ninth grade. They always got the shake, over-priced.
On one such night with the sky bursting in orange and purple, slunk back into the bench seat and threw her wet hair back and turned her face toward the setting sun.
She fingered the strap of her brown bikini thoughtfully, and as if querying the sun, casually asked:
"Have you ever eaten pussy?"
That may seem like a forward question to some, but it wasn't to him. She was free, unencumbered by convention, and never seemed to give a rats ass about what people thought about her. She spoke her mind. That's why he was secretly in love with her.
He in fact had, on a beat up canvas seat of a catamaran stored in a boathouse the next lake lot to the south. There was a girl a year older that would allow him to get this far, and no further over the past year. They would sneak to the barren winter beach at separate intervals as to not be seen entering the shanty at the same time. They were careful not only of being found out, but being found out by her social contemporaries, as if it were to leak it would have resulted in a form of social suicide for her.
So there was a baseline of knowledge that he felt confidence in sharing. He wasn't totally wet behind the ears, even if in fact, those barely post puberty boathouse fumblings were much less of an education than he gave them, and himself credit for.
She stood up, small droplets of water making there way down her her tall but wide hipped frame. They had a long way to travel before they reached the deck.
She looked him in the eye.
"You know, if you really know how to give head, you can conquer the world"
He stared right back at her.This was a new concept worth contemplating. The extended silence was lightly punctuated with the sound of the lake shutting down for the night. A motor in the far distance. Water lapping up against the boat.
"O.K....teach me, then."
What came next was unexpected by him. He was just expecting a verbal walk through.
She slipped her bikini bottoms off, bent at the waist gracefully with her knees locked, and removed them from their strangle hold around her ankles.
She playfully twirled them around an extended index finger as she reclined back on the bench, and then let them fly seemingly carelessly past his left ear, but they were well targeted.
With the same finger, she pointed to the area of deck between her set apart feet.
He complied, his knees dug into the all-weather carpeting as he draped his forearms over her sun seasoned thighs.
"We're going to go through this step by step. I'll explain a few things, and then you do exactly what I tell you, when I tell you. Deal?"
"Whatever I teach you, you have to promise me to remember one thing after we're done"
"This isn't a one-size-fits-all world. What works with me, isn't going to work for someone else necessarily. Every woman is different. There isn't any 'one way'.... if you really want to be good at this, that's the main thing you have to remember. You gotta be 'head's up' when you're going down. Understand?" She laughed at her own joke.
He nodded assent. She may be laughing but in his world this was quickly becoming... serious.
In very cold clinical fashion, she first pointed out the external working parts. An anatomy lesson. Labia majora, labia minora, clitoral hood, clitoris, perinium, anus and sphincter. She explained not only the clinical names, but functions of all these elements when attempting to bring her to climax.
But she also explained the art of it all. Erogenous zones around the working machinery. Patience. Respecting the clitoris by avoiding it at onset. The mechanics and timing of insertion, and how to use them to drive an orgasm. Rhythm, tempo, and meditative consistency. Building a narrative story.
She explained that there is an introduction, a beginning, a middle, an end, and a denouement. Patience, waiting and building urgency through anticipation. Letting somebody's body tell you what to do, instead of forcing the issue. Be invited instead of storming the battlements. Allowing the flowers to open and bloom organically, on their own timetable. How to compose, orchestrate and conduct the symphony.
And so they began.
"You have to be able to read the signs. Don't pay attention to noise at first. That's bullshit for show to benefit tiny male egos... you'll know when it's real."
"Listen for respiration rate instead. Breath. And try to detect pulse rate with your finger tips when you start touching me. Those are first set of clues.... directions, and road signs. Got it?"
"No Improvising... Got it?"
In slow, step-wise fashion, she taught him how to tell an epic story without words.
For the first time, he felt the slow build up, the bear down and then the release; the repetitive rifle shots of muscles contracting around both of his hands, fingers buried deeply inside her, the explosions of all creation erupting around his buried head. He never felt that type of power, and the control of that power before. It was like driving a rocket as it approached escape velocity on it's way to commune with God.
"Now, wait...be still. There may be more. Wait for the signals and then make sure you're in position to take advantage of them"
The lesson continued as the sun hovered over the horizon line. "More" was an understatement. He was in awe that this could repeated and sustained. He was boggled that you could actually make someone feel this joyous, this continuously.
"Its getting late. Let's go in. I have a date tonight".
He drove back to shore, and dropped her off at the dock. No words were spoken.
He held the boat into position as he watched her scamper up the road, on her way to what seemed to him to be her other life. Her adult life of men with money and fast cars, bars, booze, and bands; dancing through the night to daybreak.
Maybe her rich boyfriend with the sports car was not particularly talented in this area of expertise. Maybe she just needed a seemingly benign beta test of personal control after a year of college boy ineptitude... or maybe she truly loved him enough to not allow him to stumble through blindly as she had through the adolescent minefield of sexual knowledge.
He thought of these things as he drove the boat to the distant buoy, attached it, and snapped the cover on the boat; tucking it in for the night.
None of it really mattered. She was right. For a brief moment, he did feel like he could conquer the world. He would carry that feeling like a Rosetta stone into his adventure that was about to begin.
He dove in piercing the cold water cleanly, and then swam to shore.
"You may shoot for the stars and end up in a back alley behind Pluto, beaten and bloodied, but at least I dare to dream, and that’s better than being Earthbound, mired in the muck of mediocrity.
I judge my forward progress and success by the crushingly epic nature of my failures.
The more epic the crash, the more I’m convinced I must be doing something right"
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THANK YOU KINDLY,
COLONEL BEAUREGARD "IRON THIGHS" JEFFERSON, A.K.A. "THE MANAGEMENT"