Chapter 2
It wasn't eight then that I decided to seduce Mr. Enright, though. That idea came to me about a week later, after I saw Dr. Physche (pronounced fish). He really started me off, sex-wise.
What happened was that the morning after Larry Egars had proved himself such a yeck, I was naturally kind of sullen and annoyed. Then I caught my mother looking at me thoughtfully.
"Sharon," she said, "have you been doing something wicked and shameful again?"
"Of course not, mother," I said, chewing up a piece of toast.
"Then you're sick," said my mother, pouring a little more brandy into her black coffee-my mother always puts brandy in her coffee in the morning. On account of her health, she says. To get looped early, I always figured.
"Yes," she went on, "you do look sick. Very sick I'd better make an appointment with Dr. Physche. Have him give you a thorough examination."
Well, I knew I wasn't the least bit sick, and there had been a time I'd have given my mother an argument. But not any more. I'd long ago figured out it was easier to go along with most of what she wanted. It saved being yelled at so much, anyhow.
My mother was always thinking I was sick-or else being wicked. After I left home I had this affair with a doctor who'd studied psychiatry, and he told me the reason she always thought T was wicked or sick or both was because she was what the head-shrinkers call projecting. That meant, he said, that my mother had always wanted to be real wicked herself, but hadn't had the nerve, so she figured I was wicked on account of she subconsciously thought everybody felt like she did-if that makes sense. And the reason she always thought I was sick, the guy told me, was that deep down she didn't like me, and deep down hoped I was sick. Well, I can tell you, I would have punched that doctor right in the nose-notwithstanding he'd just made love to me and we were lying in bed naked only I all at once realized he was right. My mother never had liked me, any more than I'd liked her!
But like I was saying, she told me she was going to make an appointment with Dr. Physche, and she did.
So I got examined-all over. "Well, you're not," said Dr. Physche cheerfully while I was putting my clothes back on.
"Not what?" I asked.
"Not pregnant," said Dr. Physche cheerfully. "Your mother seemed to think you might be. But you're not only not pregnant, you obviously, her, heh, haven't even come close. Kind of refreshing, finding a sixteen-year-old girl who's still a virgin."
"I'm not quite sixteen yet," I said coldly. "Oh. Well! Maybe that explains it. Well, you can tell your mother you're not the least bit gravid, and have the constitution of a-well, of a healthy young girl. Only one little thing wrong with you: Nothing to worry about, understand. A simple operation will fix you up. I'll see about booking you into the hospital some time this year."
"For what?" I shrieked. "What's wrong with me?"
"Nothing, dear girl, nothing. Nothing unusual, that is. It's just that I expect that some day you'll find, uh, Mr. Right, and tie the nuptial knot." I looked at him.
"You'll get married," he explained. "And naturally you'll want to raise a family; contribute your bit to the population explosion. You see, Sharon, you have a very common, very minor condition that...." and he launched into this long discussion of what was wrong with me.
Only I didn't think of it that way. Boiled down, what he said was that until I had this minor operation, I couldn't get pregnant.
And he called that something wrong! All this time I'd been going around being real virtuous, and all on account of I didn't know what to do to keep from getting pregnant.
Oh, I knew the theories, all right. I knew the different things mature girls could do. But I didn't know where I could find out what I should do, Maine being the backward state it is, and Danaquid being the creepy little town it is.
And all along I couldn't have made a baby if I'd tried. Only I hadn't tried.
I had just discovered my built-in safety factor and Dr. Physche wanted to remove it! For my own good! Wow!
I walked home feeling kind of light-headed. But happy.
"Well," said my mother when I got home, "when may we expect this woods colt that will shame me and my entire family?"
"I'm not pregnant," I told her. "I'm still a virgin. Call Dr. Physche if you don't believe me."
She didn't, so she called him. He convinced her.
After that she was almost polite to me-that evening, anyway. Me, I didn't care; I was thinking of other things. Like all the good times I'd missed already.
One thing was sure: If I didn't have to worry at all about getting pregnant, there was no reason I shouldn't start having fun right away.
But with whom? Who first, that is? I thought about it all evening, and then all night until I fell asleep, and most of the time in school the next day.
Then Mr. Enright made up my mind for me. My last class was Algebra II, and just before school let out Mr. Enright called me up to his desk and asked me to stay a minute after class. Which I did.
"Miss Chablis," he said, frowning at his pencil, "I know how much your mother struggles to send you to school, and how much good grades mean to her. But, considering the execrable exam paper you turned in, I very much fear that I have no choice but to fail you this semester. You just don't seem to grasp algebra."
He went on talking, but I didn't listen. I was busy thinking. I thought all the way home, too, and all during supper. What I was thinking of was this paperback book I'd read: Dutchess Dunhill's Darling.
The heroine had been a girl with exactly my dimensions (38-24-38), and whenever she wanted something she offered some man the cloying, passionate drink that was her body. (That being a phrase from the book.)
And she always got it, too. Just by offering-and giving-some guy a cloying, passionate guzzle or two. I wondered if Mr. Enright was in need of a cloying, passionate drink. Most likely he was, I decided. Mr. Enright, who teaches ancient history and geometry as well as algebra at Denaquid High School, is elderly-about forty-five-real skinny, and a widower.
His wife had been dead almost ten years, which appeared to mean he'd been without drink for a long time. With any luck, I decided, he ought to be real thirsty.
I went to bed right after supper. My mother asked if I was sick and I said yes, to make her happy. For a while I could hear her wine bottle clinking against her glass. Then I heard her bedroom door close, and a while later I heard her start to snore.
I got out of bed, showered, sprayed My Undoing all over me, even under my arms, put a lot of lipstick on my mouth and a little on my nipples, slipped on a thin summer dress with no bra or panties underneath, climbed out my window and went to call on Mr. Enright.
His house was around the point, about a quarter-mile from the bay. It was near midnight, and most people in Denaquid go to bed real early, so I got there without meeting anybody.
There was a light burning in the front window of his house. I walked across his lawn quietly, which wasn't hard since I was barefoot. His shades were down, but one wasn't pulled all the way, so I crouched down and peeked under it.
His living room was real untidy-which figured, since men living alone are kind of sloppy. Then I saw Mr. Enright. He was sitting sprawled in an easy chair, wearing old pants and no shirt. He was sipping beer from a can and reading a copy of Zowie Magazine.
Which meant he wasn't too old to care about sex, seeing as how Zowie! is ninety-five per cent pictures of naked girls-the other five per cent being ads for sexy books and sexy home movies.
While I watched, Mr. Enright took a long sip of beer and unfolded the middle part of the magazine. He looked at the centerfold picture a long time, then sucked in his breath and let out a long sigh. I knew then just what he was looking at, too, since I'd sneaked a look at the current Zowie! in the town drugstore: the bonus baby this month was a big, stupid-looking blonde with her mouth open and her boobs hanging out like watermelons.
Well, so far so good. What next? What would Mr. Enright say when I knocked at his door? Come in, you cloying drink of passion...? Or, Miss Chablis, go straight home. I intend to telephone your mother at once...?
A problem. But then I had a bright idea. I walked along by the side of the house until I found his garden hose. I turned it on low, let the water dribble all over me, even over my hair. It was cold, but not all that cold, on account of the hose must have been lying in the sun all day.
When I was wet all over I went to the front door, knocked once, then opened the door and marched in. Lurched in, rather. Mr. Enright glanced up at me over the top of his magazine. His jaw fell open just like in the movies, and he shot to his feet, his beer can flying in one direction, Zowie! Magazine in another.
"Sharon!" he gasped. "Miss Chablis! What are you doing here? And all wet!"
"I was drowning myself," I told him. "In the Bay.
Only I swam back to tell you not to blame yourself. I-I have only myself to blame. For not doing better in Algebra.II."
"Oh no!" moaned Mr. Enright. "Sharon, you're out of your head-I mean, you're unduly distraught. I'll telephone your mother at once."
"She wouldn't hear the phone," I said. "She's in a drunken stupor." I bit my tongue real hard to make my eyes water, pretended to sob. "Goodbye, Mr. Enright. I'm going back to-to my watery grave."
"Wait!" screeched Mr. Enright. "Don't do anything rash! Sit down. We'll-we'll work something out. About your grade in Algebra II, that is. Suicidal ... I had no idea...."
I wiped my eyes, looked around his living room. "I-I hate to sit on your furniture all wet, Mr. Enright," I said. "Should I sit on the floor?"
"Of course ... I mean, no! That is, you'd better get into some dry clothes."
Peachy, I thought. That was just what the elderly Count had said to the heroine of Duchess Dunkill's Darlings-and ten minutes later he ripped the bath towel from her lush body and they started rolling around on his polar bear rug.
Mr. Enright didn't have a polar bear rug, of course. But I figured his couch would do as well.
"Do you have a large-or any size-towel?" I asked, pretending to stifle another sob.
"Yes, yes, of course. In the bathroom." He showed me the way, closed the door behind me.
I slipped out of my wet dress and looked around. He had plenty of towels all right, but they were a bit too small. I mean, walking out with just a towel around my waist might look too obvious. When you seduce a man you have to be real subtle-at least at the start.
I tried tying one towel around my waist and another around my breasts, but it looked funny. So finally I just dried myself off and put on the top of a pair of Mr. Enright's pajamas-they were lying by the tub. I didn't button it, but kind of wrapped it around me and held it in place. Then I went back to the front room.
Mr. Enright was at the phone, dialing. "I'm calling Dr. Physche," he explained. "You may have caught a bad cold and...."
"Not Dr. Physche!" I screamed it so loud that Mr. Enright dropped the phone like it was hot. "He I couldn't bear to see him! Not-not after what he did to me yesterday."
"What in heaven's name did he do?" gasped Mr. Enright.
"He-he made me take off my clothes. All my clothes! Then he ... Oh, I can't bear to think about it! He made me lie on my back, and he pushed my knees apart and-oh, it was awful!"
"That monster!" hissed Mr. Enright. "Dr. Physche, of all people. To think that he would harm a child, would...."
"Oh," I sobbed, "he said everything would be all right. That I-I wouldn't have a baby. I asked was he sure, and-and then he started telling me how easy it would be for him to perform a minor operation on me in a few months, and then he-oh! I just don't want to talk about it!"
I sat down on Mr. Enright's couch, making sure the pajama top slid up so that most of my thighs was visible, and pretended to sob some more.
Mr. Enright sat beside me and began patting me on the back. "There, there, child-uh, young lady. It's all right now. You've had a monstrous experience-I mean, a traumatic incident. But it's all over now. You don't want to die; you must live. Live to see that scoundrel Dr. Physche sent to prison I"
"I do so want to die," I sobbed, clinging to Mr. Enright, wriggling a bit so my breasts-one of them at least-kind of pressed against his chest. "I'm going to flunk Algebra II."
"Child ... Sharon," murmured Mr. Enright, patting me some more, "you don't know it, of course, but you are what is called transferring your emotions. Dr. Physche made you uh, that is, made you miserable, and the experience was so shocking, so traumatic that you have pushed it from your mind. Being, uh, violated was so horrible you cannot dwell on it, so horrible you wish to destroy yourself.
"But, because you cannot focus your mind on the truly horrible experience in your recent past, you have focused on a lesser, uh, mishap: flunking Algebra II. Do you understand, child ... Sharon? It's because of Dr. Physche, the swine, that you wish to, uh, end it all. Not because I'm going to flunk-fail you."
I sniffed. "I understand you in my mind," I told him "but my heart has agonizing doubts." That's a line from Dutchess Dunhill's Darlings. A good line, I thought. "If I flunk Algebra II," I added, "life isn't worth the effort of inhaling." That was another line from the book. In part at least.
"There, there, Sharon," said Mr. Enright soothingly. "If it means so much in your young life, well
... I guarantee you'll pass Algebra II."
Well, so far so good. At least I wasn't going to flunk. On the other hand, I wasn't guaranteed anything better than a D-minus, so far. So I set to work.
"You're wonderful!" I sobbed, flinging my arms around Mr. Enright. "How may I ever repay you, kind sir?" Another line borrowed from the Dutchess.
"Nonsense, nonsense child," said Mr. Enright, struggling to free himself. And not getting anywhere, on account of the only way a man can push a girl away from him easily is to cup his hands over her breasts and shove, and Mr. Enright seemed very shy about cupping his hands over my boobs.
"Do you know...." I gasped. "Do you know what I've dreamed about all semester-while my so called friends sneered and jeered at me? I dreamed about getting an A-plus in Algebra II."
"Well...." said Mr. Enright, still struggling to pull himself from my embrace.
"Oh, Mr. Enright.'" I screamed. "An A plus? Take me! I'm yours to trifle with as you will!" (Thanks again , Dutchess.)
"Sharon!" bleated Mr. Enright, wriggling frantically to free himself. "Sharon, control yourself!"
"Oh, Mr. Enright!" I cried. "Can't you see how starved I am for affection-genuine affection?"
"But-but you've just been through a traumatic experience," wailed Mr. Enright, still struggling in my embrace. "Dr. Psyche...."
"Can't you understand?" I murmured. "I need the clean, wholesome fervor of your embrace to wipe out the memory of my degradation and shame!" (The Dutchess said that to the diplomat after she'd been ravished by a traveling circus-the whole circus: lion tamers, acrobats, freaks, fat and tattooed ladies, lions, tigers and ostritches.)
"Sharon!" moaned Mr. Enright, his struggles weakening a little. "You don't know what you're saying!"
I could smell beer on his breath. Also I could count seven empty beer cans in the wastebasket behind him. Good. Men slightly drunk are extremely susceptible to temptation. Or so I'd read.
I pushed myself free from him, flung open the pajama top, pulled back my shoulders so my breasts jutted out, quivering.
"Can't you see I'm a grown woman?" I cried. "A woman hungry for your kisses-your love?"
"Awk!" said Mr. Enright, gaping at my chest like he'd never seen a pair of young, full, firm, scarlet-tipped boobs before.
"Mr. Enright!" I cried. "I will destroy myself unless you renew my body with the aching potency that lies within you!" (Same book.)
That did it-that or the sight of my bare body trembling so close to him. All at once Mr. Enright's eyes got kind of glazed-and he grabbed me.
At first he didn't show any more finesse than Larry Egars: he just took hold of my breasts and squeezed, then darted his head forward like a snapping turtle and began to kiss and slobber all over my nipples.
Then all at once he pulled back, looking dazed. "This is madness!" he moaned.
"Yeah," I whispered, in a real sexy voice. "Someone might peek under the blind. Let's go to your bedroom."
And I led him toward his bedroom. He followed like a man in a trance-not trying to pull free from my hands, but making me tug him along quite a bit.
Then we were in his bedroom, and all at once it was darker, more private, more intimate, and Mr. Enright sort of grunted and then grabbed me and kissed me on the mouth.
I opened my lips right away, and kind of fluttered my tongue, as an invitation to his tongue to push into my mouth-which it did-and at the same time I thrust my belly hard against him, wriggling and twisting like a movie of a Turkish dancer I saw once.
That did the trick. I could just about feel him get excited.
He slid one hand around to cup my bare buttocks and pull me tighter against him, slid his other hand inside the open pajama top to grab and squeeze and knead my breasts, meanwhile kissing up a storm, his tongue sliding all over the inside of my mouth.
Meanwhile, I wasn't idle, of course. I slid my hands over and around his bare back-he wasn't wearing a shirt, remember?-and then I let my left hand slide around by itself while my right unbuckled his belt and found his zipper.
He grunted and broke the kiss then, half pulled back-as if he'd changed his mind about making love to me. But not for long, because a moment later I had my right hand sliding on his belly, had my fingers curling warmly over his eager flesh.
I guess from what I've read-and experienced since-men just can't resist a girl once she gets a soft but firm grip on them. It seems to just about flip them-maybe because so many girls are priggish about squeezing a man as he most appreciates being squeezed.
With my left hand around his back and my right hand holding him tight I kind of tugged him toward the bed. I turned at the last moment and pushed him down, and he sprawled on the bed, moaning things like: "No-we shouldn't-this is wrong-go away-you aren't even sixteen, are you?"
"I will be in a few days," I whispered soothingly, meanwhile getting his shoes and socks off, and then his pants and shorts both at the same time.
I shrugged off the pajama top I was still half wearing. Now we were both naked. And I, at least, was raring for action. Mr. Enright looked kind of enthusiastic, too. He didn't sound enthusiastic, what with groaning that I should go away, that I was too young and the whole thing was all wrong.
"Shut your mouth, Mr. Enright," I told him in a real sexy voice. "Everything looks just fine to me. Relax. Maybe you're just tired. Want me to rub your muscles for you? How about this?"
I started rubbing and massaging.
"Oh! Oh, no!" wailed Mr. Enright, exhaling beer fumes my way. He was half stoned, all right. But only half, I figured. On account of I'd read that men who were dead drunk can't get up their enthusiasms. And Mr. Enright sure felt enthusiastic.
"Oh!" he gasped again.
"I hurt you?" I whispered. "Let me kiss you and make you well."
And I wriggled around until I was pinning his ankles, and bent forward and kissed him.
I can tell you, I was plenty excited.
Like, I'd never even kissed a grown man before.
Not this way. Not in any passionate, sexy way.
I mean, I felt so inadequate. Most likely Mr. Enright, being an old man of forty-five or so, had been kissed as I was kissing him by hundreds of girls, and plenty of them grown women who were real experts, no doubt.
Could I, a young maiden, make him happy with my inexperienced lips?
I guess I did all right, judging by the gurgles and gasps and little squeaks of delight he made. I guess I did just fine, considering how little time it took me to make his body throb and pulse and get real wild.
I stopped kissing him after a bit-stopped long enough for him to cool off a little. Then I started again, trying to remember the ritual technique advised by this Oriental love manual I'd leafed through in the town drug store.
That was a real interesting manual. I would have bought it, only Mr. Quince, who owns the drug store, wouldn't sell it to me. I don't know why-it was right there on sale. But he wouldn't, so I had to just glance at it whenever he wasn't looking, until all ten copies had been sold.
Anyhow, this paperback Oriental manual said that a girl should first kiss a man lightly with her lips kind of churning around real gentle. Then she should kiss him-all around the area she's kissing-first with just a bit, then with a lot of pull. After that she kind of nibbles at him, just teasing with her teeth. Then she kissed him-say the tip of his thumb-again, only more thoroughly, with her tongue stroking and circling. Then the manual-which I understand is a highly respected Classic-the manual says a girl should lick the man's thumb all over, slowly and passionately.
After which she kisses the end of the thumb again, only with more pull this time, and getting more of his thumb into her mouth.
All of which I did, and all of which Mr. Enright seemed to really appreciate. Funny how sensitive men's thumbs are.
After you slurp and kiss and tongue tease the thumb awhile, the manual said, the man in question will begin to enter a higher phase of physical awareness. Something like yogurt, I guess.
And then the girl-just before the guy reaches a new phase of awareness, is supposed to sorta swallow his whole thumb, right up to and including his whole fist, if she's expert enough-which I wasn't, lacking practical experience.
All the same, I was sufficiently skillful to make Mr. Enright real happy. Supremely happy, you might say.
After I got through practicing the tricks I'd read about in Mr. Quincy's drugstore, Mr. Enright couldn't do anything for a while but lie there and gasp.
I lay alongside of him, snuggling up close.
"Sharon," he gasped after a bit, "I had no idea that ... no conception that you ... Sharon! Why did you tell me those lies about Dr. Physche?"
"To seduce you," I told him. I crossed my fingers. "I've loved you passionately-from afar-all semester, Mr. Enright."
"Is it possible?" gasped Mr. Enright. "Yes-yes, now I see why you failed to grasp binomial equations! You were distracted. Distracted by ... "
He broke off. "By my passionate love for you," I finished.
He shook his head feebly. "How is it possible?" he mused. "How is it possible that such a young girl should be so-so expert in the, uh, language of love?"
"I read a book," I said modestly. "You got any more beer in the refrigerator?"
He said he had. I went and got two cans, opened them, brought them back to the bedroom. Mr. Enright was still lying as I'd left him, and still gasping, only not so fast now. We drank.
"My, uh, child," he said after he finished choking on his first gulp of beer, "what we just did-what you just did-was, uh, fine and uh, spritually uplifting except in the minds of the prudish. But-but for practical reasons if nothing else, after this we must see no more of each other."
"What," I said, "do you mean by after this? You mean after we finish these cans of beer, or after I leave here tonight-or early in the morning?"
Mr. Enright was silent for a while, except for the sound he made gulping beer.
"You should go," he said at last. "Go right now. Unless, that is, you really want to stay. For a while, I mean."
"You bet I want to stay," I said, grabbing his left hand and placing it on my right breast, then grabbing his right hand and sliding it down my belly. "I'm still plenty warm, remember?"
"Yes," murmured Mr. Enright. "No doubt. While I ... "
"You'll feel more excited soon," I told him, sliding both my hands to his belly and squeezing and shaking a little.
And I was right. In almost no time I felt his interest heighten, heard his gasps become pants.
I teased and tickled him awhile, then rolled onto my back and stretched my legs. "Make me," I said, "happy."
I said it real cool, like I was accustomed to havins.; men make me happy all the time, not a bit like it was my first time, just about. First time in a proper fashion, that is.
Mr. Enright gasped, wheezed, then rolled more or less on top of me.
Being half drunk and kind of pooped, I guess he wasn't what you'd call an expert lover, but he sure excited me.
But then, I'm the kind of girl that gets excited easy. Which is a great way to be, if you ask me, because there can't be too many expert lovers in the world, so a girl who's easily excited is a girl who's more likely to be satisfied.
Anyhow, he started kissing me, first on the lips, then all over my face: my eyes, my cheekbones, cheeks, ears, throat. At the same time he was kneading and squeezing my breasts-hard, maybe because he was a bit drunk; hard enough to make me yelp, if I hadn't been feeling too happy to complain about anything.
A while later he kissed his way down my shoulders to my breasts. Then he really started kissing me. Kissing me the way Larry Egars had been trying to learn a while before. But much more expertly.
I just about died, feeling his lips and tongue work over my breasts. I could feel my nipples quiver and then stiffen and fill out with passion as his lips moved on them. My nipples ached and pulsed and throbbed with excitement as they pushed fully erect in the hot circle of his lips.
It was like I was being sucked dry or something, the way he seemed to draw passion up to the tips of my breasts.
Then he began to chew and nibble on my breasts not all that gently, either. At times he hurt me, he bit so hard. But only at times. Mostly he just nibbled nicely.
Next he nibbled and kissed his way down my body, sometimes rubbing his cheek against my flesh, and letting his fingers probe and explore me-all of me. And everywhere his lips and tongue and fingers moved, my flesh kind of glowed and tingled-and they moved I mean everywhere!
I felt my thighs quiver with ecstasy, and I slid my legs on the bed-And then all at once he was crouched over me, breathing real heavy, and I felt his chest brush against my breasts, felt the scrape of his body against the sensitive surfaces of my thighs And then he kind of surged forward, and I felt a brief spark of pain and then a rushing sense of warmth, of wild sensation.
I knew I'd passed a kind of threshold then I would no longer be a delight to Dr. Physche. Mr. Enright didn't seem to know or care that he'd just deflowered me (a pretty stupid phrase, if you ask me, on account of from all I've read-and experienced since-nothing makes a young girl really blossom like a good loving).
For a moment I was too busy thinking how wonderful it was that I was no longer a virgin to think of anything else-then I became conscious of the driving movement of his body, and an instant later I felt a pulse of warmth, good warmth, like I'd never felt before.
Every time he surged forward I felt the same pulse-only it got stronger, more wonderful by the moment.
He had his mouth pressed against mine now, and every time he surged forward his tongue shot deep into my mouth, and each thrust was smooth and hard, hot and wild, lusty and passionate.
Great, golden waves of ecstasy seemed to ripple through me, and I heard myself whimper with delight. I slid my arms around him and raked his back with my nails--while he worked faster and faster, jarring me through and through, seeming to impale me, split me in two....
And then it was as if I was a bubbling cauldron a cauldron he was stirring faster and faster; he was moving like a jackrabbit now, and each time he lunged it was like a hand grenade went off.
I thought, this is it! This is what all the books and movies and plays and poems are all about!
Only it wasn't "it". It was just the prelude to "it", as I found out a moment later when Mr. Enright began to gasp and growl and-just at that instant I felt my whole body kind of shudder as if I'd been hit with a white-hot sledge hammer, and then it was like lightning flashed through me, a long, slow bolt of fire, and it flashed again and again and again until I felt like I was lit up like a neon sign.
I sort of went insane for a while, it was so great. When the passion pressure let up a bit, started to ebb real slow, I found that my fingernails were sunk into Mr. Enright's back, and my teeth were clamped on his shoulder.
He didn't seem to mind; he just lay sprawled on top of me, still gasping and grunting and writhing a little.
Well! I thought. If that's what sex is like, here's hoping I live a long time. And make love every day. And heaps of times every night.
After a while Mr. Enright kind of slid away from me, then staggered off to get more beer. "Madness," I heard him mutter as he reeled out of the room. "This is madness!"
He was muttering the same thing when he came back, and only stopped saying "madness-sheer madness" when he was gulping beer.
"Hush," I said. "Why is what we're doing madness? It's a lot of fun, isn't it?"
"Life," gasped Mr. Enright sadly, "is not merely a quest for fun. It-it's a quest for fulfillment."
"Well," I said, sipping beer too, "don't you feel fulfilled?"
"Yes," he said after a bit, "but I shouldn't. Your youth-the difference in our ages-"
"You're a teacher, aren't you?" I said. "You're supposed to teach young people things. What's more important: sex or algebra?"
"Algebra," he moaned. "At least I always thought so until now."
He was silent awhile, then he said, "Tahiti. Perhaps that's the answer. They have different mores there. It's accepted that a young girl and a middle-aged man should find, uh, happiness together. Only there's the problem of visas, and money for the tickets...."
Well, I certainly didn't want to elope to Tahiti with Mr. Enright. I wouldn't mind visiting Tahiti, on account of I figure if Tahitian girls are so hot in the hay, Tahitian boys ought to be pretty good too. But I sure didn't want to go there with Mr. Enright and settle down and have kids and all that. But I didn't say anything. The best thing was to kid him along until he'd given me an A-plus in Algebra II. Then I could give him the brush.
So to change the subject I said, "Do you think I'm pretty? Pretty enough to pose in a magazine like Zowie!?
"Of course, of course," he said. "Only a nice uh, that is, a young girl like you wouldn't want to pose for a magazine like that."
I thought: If it's such a nasty magazine, how come you buy it and drool over the pictures? But I didn't say that either. What I said was, "Why don't we go in the front room and look at your copy of Zowie!? You can tell me which girls you think are prettiest, and why."
So we went into his front room, both still naked as new-hatched birds, and after I'd pulled down his shades all the way we sat side by side and leafed through Zowie!
Me, I like to look at pictures of naked girls in the mens' magazines. It gives me sort of a standard of comparison. Also, it's a good way to learn the kinds of poses men like girls to get into. Of course, the girls in the mens' magazines are kind of limited, on account of they have to have their lower middles covered. But you can still get a good idea.
Pretty soon one of the poses gave me an idea. "Hey," I said, "there's something I'd like to try, if you're in the mood. How about you lying on your back on the floor, and then I sorta sit on you?"
Mr. Enright muttered, "Madness-madness," gulped more beer, then stretched out on the floor.
I got astride his legs, wriggled up a ways, then lifted my haunches in the air, took a tight grip on Mr. Enright and settled myself slowly down.
That felt just fine. Mr. Enright must have thought so too, judging by the way his face kind of oozed into a smile. I began to bounce up and down-slowly at first-and his smile got broader and broader.
And then-at three a.m., I kid you not-the door burst open and all of a sudden the room was full of teachers from Denaquid High School.
"Surprise, surprise!" they called out. "It's a surprise party, Mr. Enright-in honor of your twenty-five years of dedicated service to youth! Where are you, Mr. Enright?"
Then they looked down.
And saw me bouncing around on top of Mr. Enright.
And after that....
Well, you can just imagine!