"God will let you know when the time is right" was the only satisfaction he'd received for questions asked about that little issue.
"Or is that pooned!"
So much laughter that they barely hear his declaration.
She was known as a bit of a saucy girl, and he knew she looked at him with more than a knowing glance. There was talk among the guys about her being 'up for it', having 'spread it around' but he didn't really understand what they meant. To make it worse, he was too embarrassed to ask lest his inexperience become a point of ridicule.
She and he had shared a soda once or twice after Church. He'd felt her bare leg, warm and smooth, rub against his beneath the table, and had wondered if it was deliberate. It made his groin stir and his face flush to the point where he'd sit long after she'd gone before he could rise without his arousal being noticed. She was older, at least five years older and at his age that's a generation of difference. She'd lean forward and he'd gulp at the sight of cleavage and the darker pink of nipple as the filigree neckline of her dress slouched low against the table.
"Hey, kiddo," she'd whisper to get his attention, then shout, "Dom! Eyes up and front if you don't mind." She'd stroke him approvingly down the bridge of his nose with a painted nail. It drove him crazy.
He didn't mind the reprimand. He'd never seen anything so beautiful as those breasts, milky smooth and pert. Not even the women in the magazines beneath his mattress had tits like hers. Theirs just looked like poached eggs, hard and round. Then he hadn't stolen the magazines to look at their boobs. It was the mystery between their legs that had him harder than a Kalgoorlie diamond.
There was no doubt that Kat was a flirt, a tease, and definitely a possible conquest. He loved being toyed with. He'd never been with a girl. Never kissed with a tongue, never touched as much as a bare shoulder but he wanted to.
He saw his chance over a shared chocolate milkshake and took the plunge.
She sees the adoration on his face. His beautiful young face. Unblemished like his mates' who's zits seem enduring and Emo pouts persistent. This one's a little different. Smooth complexioned with pleading eyes and cupid bow lips. Clean fingernails; she notices these things. Nice hands actually, aquiline and feminine. She's used to rough-house phalanges, all fumbling and faux. These were sweet and innocent, limber, gentle and delicate. Yes, he had lovely hands.
Nate Cunningham had seen it all - done it all. Nate had been a primary source when it came to the wiles of women. At the ripe old age of 15 he'd pashed, and fingered - he'd gone to third base, seen a real woman's breasts and had a blow job from a girl who swallowed. He knew what lay above their thighs and below their waists. He spoke in a language alien to our wannabe. He was well-rehearsed, indeed well-practiced, in the art of pleasing the ladies and himself - he knew stuff. Ashamed to admit he'd never been closer than sipping a soda with a woman, Dom Marsi relied on the tutelage and expertise of his far more experienced friend and listened to his exploits intently.
"Practice makes perfect my man!" Nate had told him with great confidence and surety, whilst explaining the finer nuances of foreplay and follow-through. Truth be told, the closest Nate had ever got to 'pleasuring' was a quick wank during his morning shower and the only 'real' breast he'd seen, he can't remember, since he was four months old and suckling at the time. Nevertheless, Dom took his friend's advice on board.
It's cold and she's sitting on the back pew, arms crossed and hands rubbing warmth into her slender triceps. She's wearing a sweater, tight and v-necked, revealing those wondrous fun bags all fleshy and pink. Her skirt so short it could be confused for a belt. She's looking hot despite the cold and he's come prepared. He shimmies along the slippery, over-polished pew in the far back corner of the Church and squeezes next to her. They smile at each other, then sit po-faced as the faithful file in to cleanse their souls.
The Minister, a youngish and attractive man, is proving himself mature enough to provide comfort and compassion to this small community. His sermon is a little too eager to be earnest but he has his audience captivated as he begins his discourse on promiscuity and 'saving' one's self for the sanctity of marriage. Children flagrantly pick their noses and eat it. Old men doze heavy-lidded until elbowed from the side and waking with a start. Middle-aged women hang longingly on every word, secretly imagining him wearing less than his white cassock. The unmarried pay attention, hiding their indiscretions with looks of piety. A pack of teenage boys right up the back sit anxiously and giggle, their hands resting in their laps, heads bowed and turning sideways trying to catch a glimpse of what's about to happen as they mute their conversation.
Their knees are covered with his tartan picnic rug. He moves in close, sliding his left hand onto her thigh. She looks forward, ignoring the gesture as he slides fingers nervously higher towards that which is mysterious. He pauses momentarily as she lets out a murmur before he realises she's not wearing any underwear. This is good. This is very good. It means she's 'receptive' and the plan is going much better than expected.
"The sanctity of sex should be preserved for Marriage . . . " The Minister nervously begins as the boy's fingers ascend that slippery slope and she moans once more. This time alerting an ancient woman on the pew in front, finger pursed against a snarling mouth.
He's reprimanded and his hand slides back onto the top of her thigh beneath the rug.
Out of context he hears, "The satisfaction of the woman in the man is God’s glory . . " and completely misses the part about ". . but within the precious gift of marriage and not before!"
Lust rekindled, his fingers commence their perilous journey, sweet and warm. She closes her eyes and clenches her hands so tightly on the cold wooden bench that her knuckles whiten. He's religious in following his friend's instructions and she slides her hips slightly forward allowing him full access. The sniggers from the sideline ignored, he's in like Flynn. He can hear her breathing, muffled but increasing in speed and intensity. He can feel the warmth, the moistness, the ever-so-slight propulsion of her musculature as his fingers pick up speed. His work is done . . .then the unthinkable happens.
She screams, "Oh . . . . . God!" and releases a mighty groan as she slips full forward from the polished wood onto the floor, crashing unceremoniously into the "Shhh" woman's pew. She's all knickerless and legs akimbo and facing the downward glare of an incredulous looking crone.
The Crone yells "HUSSY!" Stands, and also screams, (if that's what you could call the guttural gurgle of shock uttered upon seeing a post-orgasmic teenager crumpled on the floor.)
Dom is victoriously holding up the offending fingers, still damp from their journey into paradise. Five other boys in the adjacent pew rise to their feet yelling and clapping.
The Minister rages from his pulpit with the speed of a Melbourne Cup winner and grabs the boy's wrist.
He's lying on his belly, prone on his bed and his butt's red raw. He's never copped such a beating, such a berating. His mother's in tears and his father's fuming. More from the embarrassment, the shame, the public humiliation, than the act itself. How the pious have turned peevish. They'll never be able to show their faces in that particular house of worship again. God might forgive but the Parishioners won't.
But he's feeling no pain. It was a wonderful moment, an awesome feeling and he's proven himself more than a man for his guts and gall. He's now the one 'giving advice' since he's practised and knowledgeable about such things. Well-rehearsed in the art of love. The scent on his fingers long faded, the welts on his bum will heal. Even the Playstation will eventually be returned for a long overdue workout of Call of Duty after his six week grounding. More importantly, he will forever be remembered as the fresh-faced kid who finger-fucked Kat Schumann, right there in the back pew of St Matthews and lived to tell the tale.
Posted for The Tenth Daughter of Memory "Rehearsing with Gods"