There is necking and driving, reckless passion born of young frontal lobes.
Our relationship needs a hidden roadside without an audience, where we won’t make love but will dream of doing so.
Wide pupils were focused on the stair railing to my right, and fretful ears were fixed on the copper hinges on my parent’s bedroom door.
The maple floorboards were bubbled, and my twelve-year-old stride activated a creak. I froze, then wrenched my neck to the head of the hall and listened for movement. My pastor father and stay-at-home mother remained asleep.
Using the thin, grey remote, I powered the television, expecting to find my fantasy girl gyrating on late-night, premium-cable porn.
The erotic light of channel 501 swallowed the space, and my thumb pressed mute.
My family had just moved to the Chicago suburbs from North Carolina. Preacher’s families are often blown about the country, tossing God’s Word to the common-people, and receiving a free month of HBO with each new city. In sympathy, I let him follow me to the beige-carpeted living room, a companion in the carnal exploration.
I crept down the stairs, back hunched, knees bent — attempting to lower my center of gravity. The television’s cathode tubes hid behind a forty-inch square of black, bowed glass and rested on a two-foot, red oak cabinet.
I had seen protruding abdominals like his before on the glistening, blue body of Captain Planet.
I stared, bewildered as the woman massaged her tight, left nipple and caressed her inner thigh with petite, red-tipped fingers.
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The dreadlocked renegade sported extra-large, cable knit sweaters, leaving everything but her high cheekbones to the imagination.