hose. I whip the sides of her mouth, and get scraped by the sharpness of her teeth.
Regina makes a choking sound, and I suddenly find myself licking air.
“What are you doing?” she asks.
“What? You—you don’t care for my, um, technique?”
“Geez. Here, why don’t you just sit back and let me.”
Eyes closed, she ever-so-gently places her lips on mine. Feeling her soft tongue stroking mine—it is a-mazing. My skin tingles, and I fear I’m going to explode in my jeans. Me, Lester Scott Eckhardt, is French-kissing a girl! And right here in Harker Park! Not twenty feet from where Dad used to take me to ride the kiddy train! Right where I had my fifth-birthday party!
All through junior high, at school dances, Howard and I would sit by the wall and make fart noises with our armpits and jump folding chairs with the other rejects while the “studs” made out with girls on the dance floor. Now I am a stud! Legit. I will no longer gawk at couples and wonder what it feels like to make out.
I know
. Uncle Ray is a genius!
Mom will be furious if I marry the daughter of the “loose” woman who runs Burger In A Box. Well, Mom will just have to live with it. I’m not giving this up for her, or anyone.
Still kissing, I boldly drape my left arm around her shoulder and gently pull her to me. I place my right hand under her blouse and feel the soft, warm skin of her belly. Hmm . . . a bit flabby but, still, what the hell, it’s a girl’s stomach. I slowly run my hand up until I feel the swell of her right one. Oh yes. I start to shove my fingers under the stiff fabric of the bra.
Rrrr-rrrar
—some sort of car is approaching but who cares? My digits inch around and—oh my God! am I grazing a nipple?
Suddenly Regina jerks back and looks over my shoulder. I turn and see a banana-yellow muscle car come to an abrupt stop on the street.
“Who’s—?” I start to ask, but Regina pulls me to her and places her mouth determinedly on mine. She just can’t get enough.
“Reggie, you whore!”
A tall, angry guy in boots and shoulder-length hair storms out of the car.
“You know this guy?” I ask.
“Yep. He’s my boyfriend.”
My heart leaps into my throat. “Your boyfriend?” My first inclination is:
Must bolt!
He thunders toward us.
“Go away, Tadpole!” Regina shouts.
TAD is embroidered on his oil-stained coveralls. He’s one of the mechanics at Jim’s Standard Service Station. He looms over us, his Yosemite Sam mustache quivering with fury.
Meaty, greasy hands on hips, he asks, “What’re you doing with this faggot?”
Why does
everyone
think I’m gay?
She points at him. “Leave me alone, Tadpole! Go back to your slut!”
Wow. Who knew monosyllabic Regina could be such a foulmouthed pit bull? I clear my throat and say in my calmest, smoothest voice, “I believe there’s been a misunderstanding—”
Tadpole clinches my collar in his fist, pulls me to my feet, and shakes me. “If you touched my woman, I’ll kill you.”
Hard to breathe.
Dear Jesus . . . I’m sorry! Forgive me! Help me!
A panic-flash: will I end up like Uncle Ray?
“Put him down!” Regina screams, and yanks on me.
He continues to shake me violently. “You ain’t never gonna tell me what to do, y’cheatin’ bitch!”
“
I’m
not the cheater!” she screams. “I know what you and Rhonda did last night!”
He whirls to her and I feel his grip loosen a little. “What’d she tell you?”
“That she gave you a hand job!”
“That two-faced ho!”
So . . . so this is the real deal: I’m a mere pawn in Regina’s vengeance game. She doesn’t dig me any more than Charity does. Still, I was used to make another guy jealous. That’s progress, right?
“Why don’t I, uh, leave you two alone to discuss this . . . ,” I say as he hurls me to the ground, knocking the air from my chest. White dots float in front of my eyes and the earth pitches.
“I was drunk,” I hear him plead. “I don’t love Rhonda.
Regina makes a choking sound, and I suddenly find myself licking air.
“What are you doing?” she asks.
“What? You—you don’t care for my, um, technique?”
“Geez. Here, why don’t you just sit back and let me.”
Eyes closed, she ever-so-gently places her lips on mine. Feeling her soft tongue stroking mine—it is a-mazing. My skin tingles, and I fear I’m going to explode in my jeans. Me, Lester Scott Eckhardt, is French-kissing a girl! And right here in Harker Park! Not twenty feet from where Dad used to take me to ride the kiddy train! Right where I had my fifth-birthday party!
All through junior high, at school dances, Howard and I would sit by the wall and make fart noises with our armpits and jump folding chairs with the other rejects while the “studs” made out with girls on the dance floor. Now I am a stud! Legit. I will no longer gawk at couples and wonder what it feels like to make out.
I know
. Uncle Ray is a genius!
Mom will be furious if I marry the daughter of the “loose” woman who runs Burger In A Box. Well, Mom will just have to live with it. I’m not giving this up for her, or anyone.
Still kissing, I boldly drape my left arm around her shoulder and gently pull her to me. I place my right hand under her blouse and feel the soft, warm skin of her belly. Hmm . . . a bit flabby but, still, what the hell, it’s a girl’s stomach. I slowly run my hand up until I feel the swell of her right one. Oh yes. I start to shove my fingers under the stiff fabric of the bra.
Rrrr-rrrar
—some sort of car is approaching but who cares? My digits inch around and—oh my God! am I grazing a nipple?
Suddenly Regina jerks back and looks over my shoulder. I turn and see a banana-yellow muscle car come to an abrupt stop on the street.
“Who’s—?” I start to ask, but Regina pulls me to her and places her mouth determinedly on mine. She just can’t get enough.
“Reggie, you whore!”
A tall, angry guy in boots and shoulder-length hair storms out of the car.
“You know this guy?” I ask.
“Yep. He’s my boyfriend.”
My heart leaps into my throat. “Your boyfriend?” My first inclination is:
Must bolt!
He thunders toward us.
“Go away, Tadpole!” Regina shouts.
TAD is embroidered on his oil-stained coveralls. He’s one of the mechanics at Jim’s Standard Service Station. He looms over us, his Yosemite Sam mustache quivering with fury.
Meaty, greasy hands on hips, he asks, “What’re you doing with this faggot?”
Why does
everyone
think I’m gay?
She points at him. “Leave me alone, Tadpole! Go back to your slut!”
Wow. Who knew monosyllabic Regina could be such a foulmouthed pit bull? I clear my throat and say in my calmest, smoothest voice, “I believe there’s been a misunderstanding—”
Tadpole clinches my collar in his fist, pulls me to my feet, and shakes me. “If you touched my woman, I’ll kill you.”
Hard to breathe.
Dear Jesus . . . I’m sorry! Forgive me! Help me!
A panic-flash: will I end up like Uncle Ray?
“Put him down!” Regina screams, and yanks on me.
He continues to shake me violently. “You ain’t never gonna tell me what to do, y’cheatin’ bitch!”
“
I’m
not the cheater!” she screams. “I know what you and Rhonda did last night!”
He whirls to her and I feel his grip loosen a little. “What’d she tell you?”
“That she gave you a hand job!”
“That two-faced ho!”
So . . . so this is the real deal: I’m a mere pawn in Regina’s vengeance game. She doesn’t dig me any more than Charity does. Still, I was used to make another guy jealous. That’s progress, right?
“Why don’t I, uh, leave you two alone to discuss this . . . ,” I say as he hurls me to the ground, knocking the air from my chest. White dots float in front of my eyes and the earth pitches.
“I was drunk,” I hear him plead. “I don’t love Rhonda.
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