Teenage Romance
She put on a compact disc of classical music, slow and moody, and then, strangely enough, turned on the television, too. She handed the remote control to me as she headed for the kitchen, returning with a plate of sliced cheese and fruit, crackers, and a half-full glass jug of wine, which she served in little jelly jars with cartoon dinosaurs on them. We sat on the floor and scanned the cable channels for anything worthwhile. News did not interest her in the least, no more than a leather-clad behemoth clobbering a set of drums in a music video. She paused as the weather station displayed a time-lapse satellite photograph of Earth, lacy cloud patterns swirling in an endless dance. We got a laugh from a few minutes of Militia Mark on public access, going on about how abolishing ATF would free enough money to build an electric fence along the Mexican border. West Coast baseball was out, and after a few minutes of tepid stand-up comedy she refilled our cups and settled on an ancient movie. The story seemed to revolve around an elegant young woman caught up in an international web of intrigue, keeping her head above water only with the help of a handsome older gentleman. At least that was Karen’s synopsis as the pair maneuvered through a narrow escape from pursuing gunmen on the streets of Paris, and it was all I had to go on because she had yet to turn the audio back up. The classical music served as a bizarre score as Karen filled each actor’s moving lips with her own dialogue.
“Why are you putting your life at risk for me, a total stranger?” the female lead asked, by Karen’s interpretation.
“Because,” she responded as the gentleman, her voice two octaves lower and inflected with a French accent, “I’m a pushover for a woman with thin ankles. And I am also curious to know what color your nipples are.”
I laughed hysterically. “Have you seen this before?”
She shook her head. “Movies are kinda hard. I have better luck with situation comedies and soap operas; they’re rather more predictable.” In another moment she removed her sandals and left the room. Returning in just a knee-length black satin robe, she sat and began painting her toenails, then her fingernails, with brilliant red polish. It did not strike me as unusual because my mother would often do her nails on Saturday night in anticipation of church the next day. Only when she undertook applying thick black mascara and liner to her eyes did my concentration on the TV falter, and by the time her cheeks blushed magenta and she had made her lips over the color of winter roses I was hers. She was not above flaunting herself.
“See? I can be beautiful—when it suits me.” Spraying on cologne, she added, “I even shaved my legs today.” She held one up for inspection, flexing it, arching her foot like a ballerina. She rolled and lay on her stomach before me, chin in hand, eyes challenging mine. “Would you like to take your shirt off?” she asked quite matter-of-factly.
“What?!”
“I am curious to know what color your nipples are.” Barely another minute passed as I found her astraddle me, my pants and shoes still on. She played her hands over my chest, feeling my nipples through the incipient growth of hair while sitting firmly atop my aching erection. It was all I could do to believe it might actually be happening. Her robe fell open and I reached for her breasts, relishing the taut flesh between my fingers. The carousel in the CD-changer whirred, and a stately violin concerto began to play. I was nervous, an anxiety composed of mingled dread and expectation, as though I were about to set foot on another planet. She took it upon herself to undo my pants and shoes, pulling them off in one fluid motion. She let her robe slide from her back and arms, knelt before me displaying her sleek torso. She flexed muscle without modesty, and I did not even have time to think she might be stronger than me before she slipped out of her G-string panties and lay across me, pinning my shoulders with her elbows.
“You know what happens now?” she whispered into my face. I was too terrified to suggest anything. “I could call the police and tell them there is a naked man in my house who would like nothing better than to ravish me, and then watch you try and get dressed and leave before they arrive. Or,” she continued, a blood-red fingertip raised for emphasis, “you can simply submit and let me have my way with you.”
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