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Dear Paulette

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Dear Paulette,

The waves are rolling in today – it’s grey but warm. A bit of rain last night but hardly enough to break the drought. I walked back through the woods yesterday – barefoot – and the soil felt unsurprisingly desiccated. Unusual for springtime here. It is difficult to complain about drought to someone in Southern California. Particularly with this big lake spread before me.

I missed you at the reunion last weekend. Many people did, I’m sure. Steve for one asked after you. And you will be pleased to hear that Mr. Perry, our physics teacher showed up. He wondered about you as well, saying that you and I were his favorite students. He looked pretty good for being 66. Still must be running or swimming regularly or something. Your type even thirty some years later. And don’t worry – I haven’t given away any of your secrets.

Your secrets aren’t very heavy, generally, except when I am surrounded by people who would take prurient pleasure in learning how untamed Miss Buttoned-up-bookworm in fact was. I do miss, even after all of these years, sharing secrets with you. Why did we stop? Perhaps that kind of closeness is available only to a very few lucky ones only for a short time when young. Every one builds walls and defends their secrets, but adults build deeper, higher and thicker. Some sophisticates are adept at hiding in plain sight. Adults know the risk that comes with secrets uncovered, they fear the cost of living the fully disclosed life. But you and I, we were kids – well-loved at home – perhaps unscarred enough to trust each other with our fears, uncertainties, desires and dreams.

On reflection, one could describe our friendship – at least once puberty set in – as an on-going came of truth and dare. Actually truth and daring each other to tell even wilder truths. Lord knows we didn’t actually do too many crazy things. All talk, little action Lol. Parents did not have to worry about us popping out any pups! Study, study, study, chat, chat, chat. Actually, the ration was more chat, study, chat, chat, chat. Which was probably strategic on your part – Ms. Smarty Pants – to facilitate your higher G.P.A. Very slick. Though I contend that your narrow victory resulted from your physics grade enhanced by extra-academic influences. We’ve had this discussion before. At least allow me this possibility as a way to bolster my pride.

Here’s a question for you: Did your friends even wonder about us? Mine certainly did. John, in fact, last weekend asked whether the two of us keep in touch. When I said not really – that we had drifted apart after high school, he looked puzzled.

“I thought you two were destined to get married.”

We both laughed.

“It was like you were married anyway, though in a creepy way,” he continued. “Joined at the hip but no sex. Reminds me of my marriage for the last ten years.”

I grimaced a bit inside but laughed with him. TMI. Yeah…he had been drinking a bit too much. A bit sloppy. And I should leave it at that but WTF, you did ask after what happened in the car after the prom, and want’s the harm in a bit more truth between two old truth and dare partners?

So drunk John running solo that night starts recollecting on that day trip we took to the beach. The two of us, John and his GF. I don’t remember her name, but per his taste she had big tits and according to him gave good head. She wouldn’t fuck but she’d swallow which for John was a fair trade.

Here’s what I remember. We get to the beach and John and his gal are laughing having a good time. You pull off your cover-up and John’s jaw hits the sand. GF immediately gives your swimsuit the once over, grabs John’s hand and says “time for a walk.” Personally, I thought your swimwear was fine. But then we had seen each other in underwear before (dares in Truth and Dare never got far). So, your white bikini – pretty modest as far as that goes – its contrast with your skin, the curves of your body…pretty normal fare for the beach, I thought. Well, the rest of the afternoon kinda sucked for me and the GF. John was like:

“Paulette, let’s play volleyball.” “Hey Paulette, you wanna take a dip?”

GF was unhappy. You’d be long dead if her stares were physical weapons. You seemed to enjoy the attention and had your subtle flirt thing working. Not that you care, but I am sure the GF would have welcomed a taste of revenge, if it had been possible. Needless to say, you did not make a new friend.

The line that sticks in my head after John and I dropped you and the GF off:

“Dude, you must be either gay, crazy of asexual or all three. How you can spend any time around that chick and not pop a steel rod is insane. If I were you, I’d grab my text books, blast over to her house, say ‘hey’ to her parents, get her in her room, turn on the tunes, throw her on her bed, show her the monster dog, undrape that hot bod, split her legs, set my cock on her juicy lips, tell her she’s a tease and that I can’t take it any more as I jamb it up inside poker oyna all of the way.”

“John, dude, you are talking about Paulette.”

“Yeah,” he said, shaking his head. “I know. When are you going to figure it out?”

I tell people that we just aren’t that way, you and I. And I suppose it is odd, looking at us from the outside. Teenagers are horny. Whatever. I know we talked enough about sex. Shit – the stuff we told each other. I didn’t really need to know when you were having your period. But then you probably didn’t need to know that my mom caught me wanking off. Such was the tenor of our peculiar truth and dare game.

One dare I appreciate was our senior prom. A mutual dare, in fact, for both of us – virgins, unkissed even – to find a date for the prom, to find someone to attend this coming-out party, this initiation into the world of adult, romantic relationships. The hours we spent strategizing, making lists of possible dates, rating them on virtues of intellect, niceness, raw attractiveness. I can’t remember how we came up with Steve for you. Was our class so barren of suitable men? He was smart and nice enough, I guess. He must have scored well on raw sensuality. Am I right? Truth!

As for Cathy, we started with a list of about 20 gals. If I remember correctly, you edited that list quickly down to three or four. Cathy’s combined score (we broke the three categories into about 15 sub-categories: book smarts, EQ, intuition, economic potential, politeness, political sensibility, public speaking, legs, athleticism, hair, lips, smile and so on) was something like 7.89 out of 10, beating her nearest competitor by .37.

I was super nervous asking her. But since you had already secured Steve, you never would have let me live it down if I hadn’t tried. Vast relief with her “yes.”

A simple off-the-shoulder black dress. Tight. Cleavage. I gulped, looked at her father and thought: ‘You’re going to let me take this anywhere outside of your sight line?’ Her mother smiled and helped me attach the white rose when my fingers failed me. I don’t know if Cathy blushed. It could have just been her skin reflecting my shyness. Clumsiness describes not only my fingers but my entire mindset at that point. Two fingers slid behind the fabric by her left shoulder trying to hold the flower steady. Her mother’s hand steadied mine as I pierced the fabric and flower stem with the pin. I smelled her perfume, hyper aware of her bosom rising and falling as I pulled my hands away.

Thank God Cathy scored high on conversation. By the end of dinner, she had put me enough at ease that I didn’t have a seizure when she took my arm on the way to the prom hall. The dancing helped too. When the first slow songs came up, I deflected, telling her that I needed something to drink.

The punch table – that’s where we ran into each other. Steve looked happy, with his arm holding your waist tightly. Then the hug happened. I blink. Suddenly, I am watching Cathy and Paulette hugging. WTF?! It’s not that you hugged. It was the hug. I’ve never understood this. You have two girls both dressed to kill; they know each other casually, and then for no apparent reason at the prom they give each other this more than polite hug. Clearly not an inappropriate girl-on-girl thing. But it was long. And weirdly affectionate. And here’s the kicker. The whole time you were staring directly at me, daring me to break eye contact.

“I’m so glad you are here,” you said to her, your hand on her lower back.

“Craig and I are having a great time,” Cathy responds. “I’m so glad he asked me.”

“He is kinda cute, isn’t he,” you said with a smile yet wrinkling your nose at the same time. “If you are into that shy, geeky, athlete kind of thing.”

“Yeah.” Cathy wasn’t shy about giving my body the once over.

It was all too much. “Time to dance,” I chimed. The music had sped up, and the fun returned to simpler fare.

Now that I think of it, the prom marked the end of our truth and dare game. Asking Cathy and Steve to the prom was our last real dare. The secret sharing stopped that night.

Mr. Perry, as you no doubt remember, chaperoned the prom. Now there was a secret. I never quite got how you found him attractive. Married guy, smart, supportive, twice your age, kids. You need not remind me that I had my own teacher crush. But face the facts. Ms. Simmons was hot and liked tight clothes. I’m sure I wasn’t the only one jacking off with her butt and boobs in mind. Besides, she was younger and single. And I at least didn’t construct complicated schemes to get with her. My favorite of your many creations: Stalk his house on Saturday mornings, learn his running routine, then run your self along his path, once you see him approaching, you’d pretend to sprain your ankle, forcing him to rescue you. Odds were good that he would be up close and personal, that his hands would be on you, albeit your ankle and calf. ‘A beginning,’ you’d remark with a big smile. Don’t think I didn’t canlı poker oyna notice that your wardrobe would step it up on days we had physics. Did you really need to get all of that help at his desk? No doubt Ms. Simmons would have laughed me out of the room if I tried stunts like that.

You never told me if you had any success with Mr. Perry besides perhaps that bump in your physics grade. Then again I never asked. I do remember what I saw at the prom. Granted you two looked like you were having a lot of fun, and he obviously knew what he was doing on the dance floor. Mr. Perry ballroom dancing with Paulette – back straight, arm around your back, firmly holding you, patiently directing you on the steps of some Latin dance – a tango or samba or swing-something. There were steps, twirls, dips. There was your smile and laughter.

I’m sorry. I am making too much of this. It was just a dance. And you had some fun with a favorite teacher. Who’s to complain? It was in plain sight. I’m sure he was a responsible guy and knew enough to file that memory away as a pleasant event and not spend the rest of his life climbing on his wife and imagining it was you.

So, you asked how it went in the car after the dance. Little harm in fleshing out the details after all of these years.

So, one more secret for you, Darling. But I need not remind you about our rules. You will be in my debt.

Cathy and I weren’t good dancers like you and Mr. Perry, but we had fun faking a tango. After a few tunes and a good sweat, the music slowed again.

“I love this song,” Cathy said holding my hand, keeping me from bolting. “Dance it with me?”

“K.” Two hands on her hips, her hands on my shoulders, a safe spacing. Yes, I was hard and worried about it. The dress felt great. The curve underneath… I cheated and moved my hands a bit down, a bit in, figuring she wouldn’t notice.

She smiled and put her hands together behind my head. The gap narrowed. Her breasts grazed my chest. I prayed for my erection to go away. God evidently doesn’t love me. My hands moved again, stroking her side, ending a bit further back. Who told them to do that?!

“I like you holding me,” Cathy said.

My arms pulled her closer. She felt so good. She smelled so good. But my cock! Her belly brushed it. She had to know. I stepped back to gain more space. My hands returned to the more neutral position on her hips. Her eyes looked so calm compared to my inner confusions.

Yes, the first kiss. You and I researched this subject in depth. We watched Rom-Coms together, categorizing kinds of kisses. We discussed techniques; we practiced French kissing apples when we were supposed to be studying French conjugations; we ruminate on signs one gives or looks for showing the desire to be kissed. None of this analysis was any help.

I looked around for you. Steve was chatting with his buds, but you were AWOL.

A deep breath before pulling her close. I thought we were on a ‘just friends’ date. Our spacing disappeared. There couldn’t be any misapprehension on my cock status, but she clearly wasn’t running for the door.

I pressed my nose into her hair. She made some noise and squeezed. I took that for a positive sign. A quick brush of lips. A pause. Then the real kiss, the ‘no longer never been kissed’ kiss. The so closely connected kiss that one stops hearing the music, that one forgets that all your friends and teachers might be watching, that the world and all of its complexities and worries and stresses fall away, that reality simultaneously reduces and expands to one all encompassing point – the nexus of my lips and Cathy’s, perfect and complete acceptance of each other’s presence, the pressure of passion focused.

The rest of the prom was a bit of a daze for me. We danced, but we, or at least I, only wanted to find a quiet place.

You never told me how your evening ended. Do tell your secret. Did Steve find a quiet place for you? Do you have a car story?

Cathy and I actually made-out by the car. Breasts! Nipples! All wonderful. When I started on her zipper, she stopped me and laughed.

“Bad boy. Time to take me home.”

As I steered the car towards her house, my emotions were beyond navigation. Had I gone too far? Had I misread the signs? Does she still like me? Will she see me again? Did I anger her somehow? Should I try to kiss her goodnight? I was so keyed up, hard and nervous. Her quiet calm settled my nerves a bit but did not help my efforts to relax my hard-on. I had pretty much given up hope of that ever happening, or at least not until I got home.

“Park here,” she said. “I don’t want to say goodnight right in front of my house. My parents might be up and no need to have them worry.”

She leaned in.

I don’t know where we were but it wasn’t in that car, on that street or any where in the universe I knew. We were both breathing hard and kissing, my shirt now unbuttoned, her zipper clicked all of the way down. Skin to skin, internet casino breasts tight to chest, her naked back under my fingertips, her dress half way up her legs.

“We have to stop,” she whispered then kissed me deep, her hands moving down my chest.

“Yeah, I know.” My hands Marco Poloed her curves, finding new trade routes of pleasure, her dress now ¾ the way up her legs.

“You do?” she asked, her fingers curling around my belt buckle.

“You’re Catholic, and this kind of stuff is a sin, right?”

“Yeah,” she breathed in my ear. “I’d have to go to confession.”

Belt unbuckled. Seconds pass. Snap undone. Seconds pass. Zipper pulled down. Seconds pass. Fingers, skin not my own, wrap around my cock.

“I’d have to sit in this dusty old closet and tell some dusty old priest how much fun we had. How much like kissing you, how fascinating I find your hard cock, how you make me vibrate all over, how you make me want to do things that no one has ever said that I should want to do.”

She looked at my cock. “I wonder how many Hail Mary’s I’ve earned. Do you think that it is like one Hail Mary for every time I touch your cock or one Hail Mary for every time I want to? I could live with one for every touch. The other would be harder.”

This might surprise you, but at that point my mind wasn’t really open to contemplating the nuances of Catholic penance as it related to Cathy’s desire and my cock.

My pants slid down further. “We have to stop,” she repeated. “I’m not on the pill and my parents make a big deal about not having sex specifically and not getting pregnant generally.

“I get it,” a part of my brain said. The other part directed my hands across her breasts, across her bunched-up dress, across her hips, to the skin under her dress. My hands slid northward across smooth skin, taking the dress along. Fuck! Wait! No underwear!

Cathy pulled the dress back down, pulled me on top of her. My cock pressed against her pubic bone.

“Jesus, we really need to stop.”

We took a breath.

“Switch positions with me,” she said.

Once on top, she worked the pre-cum into the skin of my cock. She mumbled something. I didn’t quite catch it – something like ‘Paulette doesn’t have a clue.’ When I asked her to clarify, she kissed me. Our hips danced, our tongues tangoed.

“Fuck,” she whispered, “we have to stop,” then pulled her dress off. She looked me right in the eye as her labia pushed up against my erection. Hot. Wet. Slippery.

She shuddered. “Just a little bit.” And lowered herself, her labia spreading around my cock, and we began to move tougher slowly, my cock wet with her excitement, sliding in that channel, sliding across her clitoris.

“This is good,” she breathed. “We can’t get pregnant this way, right?”

If we were a piano and God a piano tuner – he had us strung so tight and so in tune that all he would have to do is pluck our stings once for life to be perfect. We were vibrating, hips harmonizing, our pleasure urgent waves of power chords.

“What do you think? 10 Hail Mary’s for this?” I asked, voice husky.

“I don’t care if it’s a hundred.” Her breasts swayed beautifully. “We should stop.”

The cycling deepened. It was never enough.

“Oh God,” she moaned, and we both froze. My hips had pulled back a bit too far, and her hips had moved forward a bit too far. Her pussy put my cock at just the right spot; my cock had her pussy at just the right spot.

“Ok,” I mumbled. Neither of us moved.

“Tell me that I don’t want to do this.” She flexed her hips, my cockhead slid infinitesimally inside of her.

“We don’t want to do this,” I whispered. “Don’t want to get you pregnant.” My hips moved slightly, my cock head slipping a bit more.

“No…no…That’s right,” she groaned. “Oh God, just a little bit.” I felt her relax slightly, settling her a bit further down on me. She sat up, looking me in the face. “We can’t do this,” she said, courageously fighting for a matter of fact tone. Her pussy clenched, released, and I slid in deeper. We were half way conjoined.

“No,” I responded.

“Nooooo,” she groaned as we pressed all of the way together.

“Oh God,” we both moaned. Our hips froze momentarily. Then we began to move.

“Just once,” she said. It was a long and slow up and down. The “Just a couple of times” phase was a bit faster. Then: “Just don’t come in me.”

She came first. It was wonderful and wild – the build-up, her muscles all clenched, her moans, her head thrown back, her legs and arms clutching me, the jolts. Her pleasures catalyzed mine. I jerked up inside of her once – it felt so good, her legs tight pulling me in. I yanked back and came forever over her, my cum splashed across her belly, her breasts, her dress…

So, that is what happened in the car. It was insane and amazing. Windows fogged, clothes everywhere. Anybody who had walked by would have had no confusion about what was happening.

“Oh crap” Cathy said, pulling up her dress. “It’s a total mess. Oops,” she giggled. The white rose definitely had seen better days, and my cum was doing a poor job of being discreet.

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