Happily wasted in some party host’s Mom’s bedroom making out with The Cutest Boy In The School (aka the Star Running Back). Clothed horizontal kissing, kissing, kissing on the bed. This is what Fonzie and Richie Cunningham used to do on Happy Days. If Fonzie and Richie Cunningham felt this way, how on earth could my parents have let me watch that delicious filth? Our grinding, panting, licking is interrupted by a flash of light: the bedroom door pops open just wide enough for laughter and a handful of condoms to burst in. Slams shut again.
“Uh-uh, no. I’m not going to fuck you.”
My first successful blow job commences. And climaxes. White squirts all over the party host’s Mom’s king-sized duvet.
This stuff is deadly, I think, washing my hands, feeling wildly powerful.
An act of passion: I fly across country (it’s a big country) for a date with a man I’m pretty sure I’m falling in love with. I naïvely pack only one condom (not thinking through the fact that our first night will be in my hotel). We use it and promptly head to the drug store for more.
Condoms have been strewn over the studio floor ever since we started fucking weeks ago. At some point during the autumn, he slides into me without one. We come and come and come and collapse. Face-to-face, joyful, sated.
“We just both just skipped the condom, huh?” He says.
“It was so great.”
“It was. Are you worried?”
“Then that makes fools of us both.” He sounds happy.
I am happy, too.
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