The lights went down. The previews came on. I was trying to watch the screen. Brittany was more interested in other things.
She started to move her hand in my lap slightly, back and forth. Not much, just an inch or two, but she was pressing down.
It doesn’t take much to excite a healthy guy who’s 13.
She kept moving her hand. She was holding mine, but mine was on top, hers on the bottom. Right on my, well, Chad says I should call it a cock, not a thing. So, right on my cock. It was my cock, two thin layers of cloth, and her hand.
How she knew exactly where my cock was surprised me. I mean, it doesn’t really take up that much room in my pants, and sometimes when I have to use the restroom even I myself have a little problem finding it in there. She didn’t seem to have any trouble at all.
She knew what was happening. That part was getting interested in what was going on, quite interested, and she could feel it coming alive. If anything, she started pressing a little harder.
“Uh, Brittany.” I fidgeted a little. It didn’t seem to make any difference to her. She might have grinned at me, but my eyes weren’t entirely adjusted to the dark yet.
I wanted her to stop, and I didn’t. More of that confused thinking I was so good at. I thought for a moment about just letting her continue rubbing me. She did look hot tonight, and that was kind of exciting, even if I was maybe gay. What was wrong with my letting her do this? I’d get hard, and if she kept rubbing, I’d probably lose it. In a public place, in the dark, with other people around. That would be amazing. So why fight it? I didn’t think too many boys my age would resist at all. They’d sit back, open their legs, and let the girl they were with have her way.
Maybe I should just do that.
But I’d meant what I’d told Chad. This was my first time with anyone else but me touching me down there. Brittany was my friend, but she was so eager, and in a hurry, and all my thoughts and dreams leading up to now had been so much different from this. They’d been of me and a boy, lately Chad, alone. The venue changed from time to time in my imagination, but wherever we were, it was private, we weren’t in danger of being interrupted, and we had all the time in the world to do all the exciting things we both wanted to do.
This was so much different. Brittany was so eager, and she was bigger and more aggressive than I was, and I didn’t seem to have any control at all. That wasn’t the way I wanted my first time to be. I didn’t want all the excitement of exploring, of new sensations and feelings, of sharing and intimacy and discovery, taken away in a theater by a hungry girl taking all the initiative.
I didn’t have a lot of friends. I was sort of a geek, other guys at school thought I was too brainy, and the result of all that was I lived in my own head more than most kids. I was a loner, not by choice but in fact, and so I did a lot of daydreaming. I’d become comfortable doing that. In my head, I was always in control of what was going on. I liked it that way. Maybe because of that, having what was real conform to what I had imagined for my first sexual experience was important to me. Important enough that I didn’t want Brittany forcing herself on me, even if it would be joyful for me at the end.
The rubbing did feel good, though.
I had to stop it.
“Hey, want some popcorn?”
She stopped moving her hand. Then she let go of my hand and reached in the bag.
We munched popcorn while watching the previews. My heart slowed down a little.
After a while, I picked up our drink and took a big sip through the straw, then offered the cup to her. She whispered, “Thanks,” and took the cup from me. I was looking at the screen, so didn’t see what she was doing. My mistake.
I was watching a car racing down a street, its right side tires going up a ramp, then the car flipping over and sliding on its roof, then exploding for no apparent reason, when I felt something. Something cold and wet. In my lap.
I looked down and saw Brittany had the straw from our drink out of the cup and pointing into my crotch. She had her finger over one end, and was slowly letting Coke drip on me. Wetting my lap. I jumped, pulling away from her.
She giggled, and then became concerned. Or pretended to. I quickly realized, to my surprise, that Chad and I weren’t the only ones who’d worked out a plan. Darn! Oops. Damn!
“Oh, Marc, I’m so sorry. I didn’t know what I was doing. Here, we need to dry that up right away. I’ll wipe it off so it doesn’t stain.”
And she grabbed some of the napkins she’d brought and, leaning over me, started dabbing at my crotch. Dabbing, and wiping, and I don’t know what else because I was sort of in shock that the assault had resumed with a vengeance.
She was using both hands, and then, somehow, my zipper was down, and one of her hands was inside. All along she was talking softly to me, saying things, like, “Here, I’m getting it. Just a little more. Ah, that’s it. We need to blot it up inside too. Let me feel in here. Let me check if your underpants are wet.”
She was checking my underwear all right. Feeling around. Groping. And I was right inside that underwear, and as much as she was feeling cloth, she was feeling me, too.
I was responding, and the more I grew, the more eager her hand was getting. And she started making noises, noises like, “Ooooh,” and “ahhhh,” and, well, she started making noises.
I had to do something to slow her down, to get her to shut up—I had no idea how many people were already looking at us—and to take charge.
I stood up.
Which yanked her hand up, too, still sticking into my pants. I was glad it was dark.
I sort of turned sideways, away from her, and her hand slipped out. I put everything back in place, inside, and zipped up.
I sat back down. She said, “What?” with confusion in her voice.
“Wedgie,” I said. “Very uncomfortable. Better now.”
“Oh,” she said, and started to slide over toward me again.
“No, wait. My turn.”
She grinned. My eyes were able to see better now during times when the screen was bright, and I could see her grinning. I hadn’t expected to get to this part already, the plan had been to wait till the movie was half over, but it was desperation time.
I reached over and slid one hand onto her knee, then to the inside of her leg, and started my advance into unknown territories.
I was remembering Chad’s instructions. He’d been giggling when he was giving them, which had made me laugh, too—nervous laughter but still laughter—so I was afraid I might not have heard everything, but I was going to do the best I could.
I moved my hand up, and up, slowly, sort of lightly brushing her thigh with my fingertips. Chad had said softness and gentleness were important with girls. He’d said they got off on tenderness, not firm rubbing or stroking like we did. I’d gotten stiff when he said that, thinking about him doing that, or him thinking about me doing it, I wasn’t sure which.
But I was following his instructions. He’d said there was a fine line between soft rubbing and tickling, and I didn’t want to do tickling, it would change the mood. I was supposed to be playing her like a fine fiddle, he’d said, giggling, encouraging her to fall under the spell of my fingertips. Once I got her there, I was supposed to keep her there as long as I could. Tickling or hard rubbing would defeat my purpose.
So I crept steadily higher, not going so fast that I’d get there too early, or so slowly she’d get impatient. I was another Pablo de Sarasate, the next Hilary Hahn. Getting it just right was quite a balancing act for someone who was brand spanking new to this.
What I had to remember, he’d said, was that however fast I liked to go with myself, take twice as long, maybe three times as long with her.
I’d had to adjust myself, hoping he wasn’t looking. I’d wished he would stop referring to me jacking off. And I’d wished he’d talk about it all day.
I was well inside the bottom hem of her skirt now. She was sitting back in her chair. Her breathing was deeper, and I could hear it. Neat.
My fingers worked higher. Slowly. I had to keep telling myself to go slowly. I thought about Chad doing this to me. Thinking that, I got hard. Couldn’t help it. But, if he was doing it to me, I’d want this trip from first base to home to be a race, an inside the park home run, not a leisurely stroll around the bases, maybe stopping a while at third to talk to the coach there.
I’d want his hand on the goods, not merely creeping to get there. Getting there was cool, but it wasn’t the goal. Being there, that was the goal. But he’d told me several times, the getting there would be very important to her. ‘Don’t think about her being like us,’ he’d said. ‘Us.’ Wow!
That had distracted me again. It was no wonder I might have forgotten some of what he’d said with all the pictures he was putting in my head, and not pictures involving Brittany. Hey, a boy can dream, can’t he?
I’d reached her underpants. Wait, he’d called them something else, hadn’t he? Underpants? No. Oh, wait. Panties! Okay, I’d reached her panties.
Luckily, I remembered Chad’s instructions. ‘When you get there,’ he’d said, ‘just softly rub all around, maybe cup your hand over the whole area and then gently press it. Treat it as you would a baby’s cheek, gently caressing it. Don’t grab, don’t poke, don’t try to work your way inside anything for a long time. That’s important. Stay outside and she’ll feel safe, and eventually want you to do more. Her getting that feeling, wanting more, that’s the key. She’ll let you know when she’s ready for more. Someway or other. She’ll make it clear,’ he’d said.
How did he know these things? He was my age, for cripes sake!
I’d asked him that, in some wonderment, but he’d just grinned at me and squeezed my shoulder with his arm around me and then I’d had other things to think about.
So I very gently massaged the whole of her crotch, through her underpa— her panties. I did that for a while, till it was getting boring and I found I was paying more attention to what the kids on the screen were getting up to. Then I remembered what I was doing, and thought it might be interesting to use just one finger instead of my whole hand, and I started running the fingernail of my middle finger lightly over the center of the area I was massaging.
That got an immediate reaction! I had to force myself not to react myself, not to speed up, not to increase the pressure. It seemed like whatever my instinct was at any one moment, it was wrong. Chad had cautioned me about that. ‘You’ll want to speed up,’ he’d said. ‘Don’t.’
I scraped, very lightly, over the middle of her crotchal area. OK, I won’t say that again, but it was somehow more comfortable for me to think that way. I’d had sex ed. I’d seen models of genitalia. Male and female. Aroused and not. The male set were really neat looking and not just a little exciting and while I’d been really embarrassed, thinking about the girls looking at it, I’d had to be careful to be blasé about it and not look too interested. The female set was just weird. You couldn’t really see anything and what you could see was a little off-putting. You know what I mean?
She started squirming in her chair. Then she picked her bottom up off the seat, reached down and stripped her panties off. I guessed that was her letting me know she was ready for more.
I reached up and touched her. Her croc—darn it—her area was damp. I had no idea what I was doing. I remembered the sex ed model, and the explanation that went with it, the pointer he’d used and all. And I remembered Chad’s description. ‘You saw Predator, didn’t you? With the Governator? Well, when you first saw the Predator’s face, with all the little arms and squiggly bits? That’s sort of what you have there. You won’t have to worry too much about that because you won’t really be looking at it, but just think of that when you’re touching it, because you won’t have any idea what you’re touching. Don’t worry about it. As long as you barely touch what your touching, and are aware of how she’s reacting to what you touch, you’ll be fine.’
Great. I was supposed to be touching the Predator’s face, and not worrying about it.
If I was touching his face, it seemed he’d just sneezed or something because it was kind of wet. I thought, what the heck, and just started feeling my way around, being mindful to barely touch what I was touching.
I was paying more attention to what I was brushing up against, trying to visualize it, than I was to Brittany, until she suddenly grabbed my hand with a grip that would have bent steel. “Right there,” she said, and her voice was someone else’s, deep and louder than it should have been. Gradually, she loosened up, but kept her hand on my wrist. Just in case, I guessed.
I very, very, very carefully touched again where I’d just touched before. It was a sort of bump, higher up on her body than where I’d started. That had been wet and soft and sort of beckoning. This was up in her pubic hair, or just below that, and didn’t seem to have as much loose soggy skin around it.
I brushed it, hardly touching it at all, and she jerked. “Again, just like that,” she sort of moaned. So I did it again, and then again.
“Ahhh,” she gasped.
“Shh,” I whispered. And sort of stroked her again.
“Ahhh,” she gasped again. Louder.
“Shh,” I whispered again, and tried to keep the chuckle out of it. This was fun! It felt like maybe I was a little in control here. Jascha Heifetz had noting on me. I wondered how he’d have performed with her talons on his wrist.
I stroked again, and again, and suddenly her body went rigid in her seat, and she began vibrating.
What now, I wondered. I knew what to do with me when I reached orgasm. I knew when to keep going, when to stop. I had no idea if she was the same. It made sense to stop, however, if she got as sensitive as I did, so I paused. Eventually the quivering stopped. So, a grin on my face she couldn’t see, I lightly brushed her again.
And she jumped and shook again. I waited, then did it again. And so did she.
I repeated this, broadly grinning now, until her talons closed and I couldn’t move at all. They held me tight until I sort of tried to pull my hand back. She felt my intended retreat, and opened her fingers. I guessed we were done.
I went back to watching the movie, but then remembered Chad’s last piece of advice. I had to remember, he’d cautioned, that girls were different than we were. When I was done, I wasn’t supposed to go back to eating popcorn and slurping Coke, if I had some, and he thought I probably would, girls wanting boys to buy them some like they always did. ‘No,’ he’d said, ‘you need to touch her arm, whisper to her how beautiful and wonderful she is, all that mushy stuff. It’ll make you feel all icky, but she’ll eat it up. Don’t do that and she’ll get all awkward and maybe even bitchy or, even worse, hurt. So do it, even though it’ll feel wrong.’
So I guess I remembered in time, because when I put my arm around her, she immediately snuggled up to me. She seemed looser, somehow, and softer, and sort of molded into the seat. Her head was lolling around before settling on my chest. I was afraid maybe she was going to resume her previous assault, but I got the idea, somehow, that she no longer had the energy for that, even if she did still have the desire. I had no idea if she still had that or not.
We watched the rest of the movie, and when it was over, I sort of had to encourage her to take her head off my chest and get up. It was time to go.
-- -- --
When I was walking her to her door, she was holding on to my hand. She had been ever since we were walking out of the theater. She’d taken it then and hadn’t let go.
At her front door, I didn’t have to think about whether I was supposed to kiss her or not. She kissed me, and really went at it. I was the one to back off. The look in her eyes was something I’d never seen before. Adoration? Something like that.
All the way home, in between periods of fending off Dad’s teasing about the kiss, I was thinking how well Chad’s plan had worked. And worrying it had worked too well.