I was all of 16; he had to be about 23.
I saw him every day on my way home from school, after my dance lessons. His uncle owned the store near the train station.
I would stop in to get my daily ration of junk food. He would nearly break his neck, in a rush to help me.
One day, the Uncle was in the back of the store, arguing with the delivery man. Hostess, I think, not sure now.
He slipped me his number and asked if he could see me, take me out for a burger. I innocently popped a big sucker in my mouth, and asked him if his Uncle would like it.
He frowned and stuttered. Because he knew he was wrong to flirt. His uncle was old school—no hanky panky with the ‘good girls’.
I laughed and told him I would see him later.
For about two weeks, I went in, bought my stuff, waved and walked away. Of course, I liked to see his tortured face. He wanted to ask me why I did not call but he did not have the chance.
So, I waited. Another week went by, but no visits to the store.
I parked myself across the street one day, just to see him come out the store, looking for me. He pretended to sweep but his face was turned in my normal direction, towards the school.
The sun was shining on his curly thick black hair, adding a golden glow to his olive skin. He was a bit over average height, with a runner’s legs and veiny forearms.
If he had of looked over, he would have saw me, leaning on the doorway of the print shop.
I watched him go in, then I dashed to the corner and called. The store, of course.
He answered.
I simply said, ” If you want to see me, come around back in about 5 minutes.”
He cleared his throat and gave the price for a 2 liter of soda.
***
I slid around to the back, opposite side.
He came out, hollered over his shoulder and made a beeline to me.
“Where have you been??” His urgent whisper matched by his furrowed brow.
In response, I leaned in and kissed him.
He pulled back, pupils dilated.
And dove in, slamming me against the wall.
His lean frame was like a steel rod. I pushed but he only pushed harder in response.
His cock was trying to lunge out of his pants. Uncoiled, alert.
I smelled his cologne, as I laced my fingers in his hair and let him pull me up on my toes by the force of his mouth.
Then, like dripping syrup, we heard his name called.
“Go,” I said.
With a strangled growl, he asked me to please call. With a quick fierce kiss, he left.
I did call. The store, of course.
Every day after school, for a week. After every frenzied kiss, he would ask me to please call him later.
Then the bell rang in his head, as he slid his hand up my skirt to my ass.
He snorted and said ” please call me at home.”
Two days later, I did.
I knew he was eager but I knew he was a man. So, I was going to deliver or desist.
I chose the former.
***
We met at the train station, on a Saturday. I made up a reason to come home late from practice, he said he had an errand and to meet friends (to deter his nosy large family).
In his car, he kept his hand on my left thigh, tenderly rubbing the skin with his thumb, fingers lightly gripping.
Over our food, he told me about him. His family, how he wanted to leave them and take a new path from them.
I listened, ate, wondered.
For the next two months, we kissed, we met, we touched. He would slip money in the pocket of my jeans, for lunch, ‘if I wanted to go grab something off campus.”
Once, we went to a local park, in the downtown district. He told me that he had been thinking of me, jacking off at night, since he first saw me. (Not sure if he was lying. Doesn’t/didn’t matter.)
He was safe, adoring, sexy. I felt powerful.
So, I took him in hand.
Yes, his cock. It was thick and long, with full heavy balls. Nice silky thatch of hair, too.
He shuddered and asked me if we could go to is place. I refused. For I knew he would ruthlessly bust my virgin pussy wide open and I was not ready for that. Yet.
Sitting in the shelter of a big monument, we huddled together like lovers enjoying the sun and under the cover of his jacket draped over my knees, I made him come.
Smiling, I asked him to keep a straight face. But such nasty words were tumbling out my mouth.
He did, although he flushed and his mouth opened just a bit. His groan of release was lost in the sounds of traffic, people, kids running by, buses, pigeons flapping, people calling out…
My hands were coated with the thickest creamiest jizz known to man. (I have not seen any like his since.)
He looked at me, just a bit of sweat on his temple and apologized.
I dug in my bag and cleaned my hands with a t-shirt. Him, too, although he had on dark pants.
I let him hold me, his head resting on top of mine, as I stared at the yellow lines painted on he street. He was talking but I let his voice flow right over my ears.
I will pass over the other times, the rushing, the whispers and shared smiles.
***
Finally, it was do it or die. He was ready to move past touching, to real-live unadulterated fucking.
So, I kissed him goodbye one Saturday and never went back to the store again.
I know he looked for me. He even dared to ask one of my friends about me, to ask her to deliver a message.
***
Years later, I read in the local news that he had been shot during a robbery ( he lived by the store, had bought a house and was married for about 5 years at that point).
A few days later, he died of his injuries. I thought of his freckles across the bridge of his nose, his thick eyelashes, his hands. The way he said my name like he was calling on Venus herself.
I do not know if he ever got to do some of things he dreamily spoke to me about. I suspect yes, for if he had of gotten married right away, the kids would be older. I remember his uncle once told me that he had been trying to marry him off but he kept saying ‘not yet,’
I also said ‘not yet’.
***
Isn’t it something, the choices we make to go, stay, pause stop, turn away?
