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Dancing Lessons
by Holly Rennick (jlrennick@yahoo.com)

***

Your sixth-grade teacher can teach you about geology. 
She can teach you about your body. A few years later, 
she can teach you about hers. It may take more time yet 
to learn about the little ripples that shimmer through 
your bodies when the two of you come without motion. 
Education is a two-way process. (Fm, ped, 1st, rom)

***

AUTHOR'S NOTES: Years ago in my church, they wouldn't 
let us have premarital sex. They said it might lead to 
dancing.

1935

To sixth graders at Flat Lake Elementary, all teachers 
are old. Knowing this was Miss Hanson's first year 
didn't distinguish her that much from Miss McGraw who'd 
taught our parents. Miss McGraw had us for fifth and we 
were glad to be done with "fluxations -- a full minute 
of vigorous exercise between recitations to revitalize 
academic concentration."

I liked Miss Hanson from the first day, how she waltzed 
in, how she told us to be seated and how she informed 
us that glaciers scooped out our local water body. 
"It's not geography; it's geology. It's in the rocks."

I liked her because she knew so much about everything. 
She showed on our globe, for example, where Amelia 
Earhart crossed the Atlantic. (The girls were more 
interested, but so were some of us boys.) "It's a big 
old world, but not too big for getting there and back," 
she'd observed. Roosevelt beating Hoover, she 
explained, was because in America everybody gets his 
turn.

Probably another reason I liked her was that she was 
really pretty for a teacher, her yellow hair longer 
than Miss McGraw's jet black, her cheeks pinker and her 
lips more scarlet.

I knew that Miss Hanson was new in town, renting Mr. 
Story's mother's little house because Old Mrs. Story 
had died. Miss Hanson didn't have family here, and 
other than Mama now, neither did I.

I guess that Miss Hanson liked me OK, too. I studied 
for examinations and hardly ever got caught cutting up. 
When Miss Hanson wanted to move us onto the next 
subject, but nobody could answer the question about the 
last, she'd call on me. "Thanks, Andrew," she once 
confided when everybody else was grabbing their 
mackintoshes and galoshes. None of the other boys ever 
caught on that I was helping her teach.

I'd never hang around and miss being shortstop or 
anything important, but sometimes if nobody was 
noticing, I'd stay after and help Miss Hanson pick up. 
It didn't take long and we'd talk about things not 
school. That's how I found out that she made $225 a 
month and that's how she found out that I could yodel. 
(I'd never been shown; I just could.) As I was 
stretching to hit five feet, her extra six or seven 
inches made me look up when we exchanged information.

Once I asked if she liked the pictures. I'd just seen 
"Shanghai Express", really good.

"Can you keep a secret, Andrew?" she'd answered, to my 
surprise. Why would a teacher tell a kid a secret?

"Sure, Miss Hanson."

"Did you see 'The Sin of Madelon Claudet'?"

I shook my head; it sounded too complicated.

"Well", she explained, "Helen Hayes plays this lady who 
went to jail for a crime she didn't do and has to earn 
money," she picked her words, "to pay her son's 
tuition. She won a cinema award, Helen Hays." She 
grinned. "But don't tell anybody I told you, promise?"

I dutifully pledged.

"It's probably a little old for you, and anyway, it's 
not the type they bring to the Pavilion."

No, I agreed, because the Pavilion would stick with 
things like Shanghai Express.

Helping wipe her pen nibs clean was the first time I 
ever thought much about her body. When she leaned over 
my shoulder for the blotter, one of her breasts touched 
my arm. At twelve, you don't notice that sort of thing 
too much, but then you start to pay attention. Some 
girls in my class had breasts, but just little ones.

Maybe she didn't notice or maybe she didn't mind. But 
twice that week I touched her breasts on purpose. Once 
was when she was reaching up to shelve a book, I was 
behind and reached around and barely touched one on its 
side.

The other time was when we moved her podium, me 
grabbing around the edge from my side and her from 
hers. The back of my hands could feel the binding 
beneath the ruffles of her blouse. Even still, she 
seemed so soft.

It was one of those afternoons, me sitting at her desk 
to look at the National Geographic pictures of 
Abyssinia. Knowing I was interested in foreign places, 
she'd pulled our chair together so we both could read. 
People there are black but Christian, she pointed out. 
Some of the women were naked, but I don't think she 
noticed that part.

Miss Hanson's breast was so near.

It must have been because we were close that she rested 
my hand on her lap. I looked at the photo of Emperor 
Selassie as she explained about the Ethiopians beating 
the Italians in 1896. I knew by her voice that she 
wasn't looking at the picture, though, but at the side 
of my face. Somehow I knew from where she'd left my 
palm that she knew I'd wanted to touch her breasts.

When we finished the article, she laughed about how big 
the world was, how little of it we'd ever see.

*****

When she needed somebody to mow her lawn, I was glad 
for the dime. Hanging around for the lemonade postponed 
my own Saturday chores, more since Papa had hitched to 
look for work in California.

We were eating cornbread at Miss Hanson's kitchen 
table. "Andrew?" I looked up from my plate. "Do you 
know how to dance?"

I shook my head. Mama wanted me to take lessons, but I 
wouldn't cooperate.

"I've got two new phonograph records: 'Smoke Gets in 
Your Eyes' by Paul Whiteman and 'I Only Have Eyes for 
You' by Dick Powell. Heard them? They're both about 
eyes."

I shook my head, same as before. Maybe I'd heard them, 
but not particularly.

"I've never danced to them. Want me to teach you?"

"Naah," my mouth full.

"That's no answer. In a few years you'll be going to 
the prom," pulling me from my nourishment.

I didn't want to, but then I didn't not want to, 
either. It was with Miss Hanson, after all.

"Wrap with right; lead with left," articulating my 
stick-man configuration. "The boy leads, but not during 
lessons," pushing me backwards.

It wasn't that difficult and sometimes I'd even be 
steering her a little by the time she'd have to restart 
the record. Because of the height difference, though, 
my view over her shoulder was blocked and I couldn't 
turn right as easily as left. It didn't seem to matter.

We'd be more-or-less spaced the way she wanted until 
we'd simultaneously initiate a mutually-exclusive 
rotation and trip. But her eyes didn't tell me that I 
was clumsy. The first misstep or two, her breasts 
against my collarbone made me blush, but after a few 
collisions, Miss Hanson matter-of-factly parked me 
closer, explaining that we'd not bump so hard. I could 
see down her collar into the valley between her 
breasts. 

I didn't mind her chest cushioning my mistakes. My 
right hand around her back rested where her brassiere 
connected. "That's the right place to put it. Always 
press the girl toward you so she knows you're holding 
her."

When the record ended, she reflected, "It's good to get 
to dance a little, isn't it?"

Her breasts still touched me because I was still 
pressing the back of her strap.

"You know how to tell your partner that it was fun?" 
not shaking me loose and knowing I lacked the answer. 
"With a little kiss, just on the cheek."

I wasn't sure if this was something I was supposed to 
do, as this was just a lesson, but it didn't matter. 
She kissed me on my forehead.

"No tell, OK?"

I shook my head. I wouldn't want my friends to know.

After the next time through, me working more on holding 
my left arm out straighter, she asked, "So how'd I do?"

"Fine," I judged.

"Like a dancer puts it."

I blushed, I'm sure, but tilted my head and bussed her 
cheek. It was, after all, how you tell your partner. 
Except for Mama and a few aunties and both grandmas, 
I'd never really kissed anybody else before. I liked 
the way she smelled.

"Good," she agreed.

By two or more three times through, it was automatic. 
She'd offer her cheek and I'd peck. Actually, I rather 
came to look forward to when the record ended.

But I didn't expect to catch the side of her mouth by 
accident. She'd made the mistake by turning too much.

"You're learning, Andrew," not letting go for an extra 
moment, her chest high on mine.

I knew that dancing sometimes made me get big, the same 
as what sometimes happened when we had goosing contests 
at Scout camp. Or would get sometimes when we'd look at 
a naked woman, like in Mike's flipbook from France. I 
was big sometimes just from waiting for the kiss. It 
wasn't exactly the same as flipping Mike's book, 
though; it was the flower fragrance of her hair.

Maybe that's when I first noticed how close Miss 
Hanson's legs got, her thigh sometimes against me when 
we'd take long steps. She said it's Argentinean and 
showed me the Pampas in National Geographic.

*****

Dancing takes a lot of work.

"Now Andrew, what happens at a real dance is that 
people take little breaks, go outside for some fresh 
air, maybe."

I nodded. It's good to know.

"But probably we shouldn't go outside, this house being 
where it is, so we can just sit down... No, you lead me 
with your arm, say over there to the divan."

So seated, she didn't free my elbow, adding, "You may 
still give me the kiss you forgot."

I had forgotten.

I didn't get her cheek, though, because again she 
turned too much. And I didn't pull away because her 
mouth was just too red. And it just kept happening 
because I didn't now how to stop. Or maybe because of 
her pooched lips.

At the end, we were both giggling at my lipstick 
smudge. In the process, the front of my arm was even 
more against her bosom.

"Secret?" she queried.

"Secret," I happily concurred. As much as I didn't 
appreciate the larger picture, the specifics weren't 
things that other kids should know about.

"Let's try that again, then." So we did, Miss Hanson 
toward me and my arm again nuzzling.

"I'd be more comfortable in my slip, don't you think? 
Your mother wears hers when you're around sometimes, 
I'll bet."

It hadn't occurred to me she was uncomfortable, but it 
was indeed warm. Mama wore her slip to the bathroom all 
the time.

It only took Miss Hanson a minute to divest herself of 
skirt and blouse, slip and brassiere straps the only 
things left to protect her shoulders. I could see the 
swells and seams underneath. Mama in her slip, I'd 
never noticed anything, but then I hadn't looked.

"That's better," she agreed with her decision, 
reclaiming her place beside. "Just call me Jean 
Harlow."

I didn't think that we probably ought to start kissing 
again, but hadn't the argument to dissuade.

"Ummm," when she drew my reach to the side of her ribs, 
so close that my fingers lay against the silkiness, my 
wrist against softness.

But then she guided my hand away. "That's so nice, 
Andrew, but you're not that old." The way she said it 
had more of a question mark.

Twelve is almost a teenager. I'd heard of 14-year-olds 
lying to join the Great War and I wasn't too far from 
that. I wasn't too young for pride.

"Oh, no, Miss Hanson, I'm plenty old enough," sensing 
that I'd improve my stature with my hand again on the 
side her slip.

"They can't know," she objected, but not to my touch. I 
could see her brassiere cup where the slip fell away 
from her front.

"Not if it's a secret," the nature of "it" unspecific 
in my own mind.

"Well, just some more kisses," she conceded. 
"Everybody's old enough for that."

I gave her my best, probably more energetic than 
anything. I must have been a little effective, though, 
because of her nipple's hardness within her underwear. 
Her inhalation told me she realized I was touching on 
purpose.

"It's not such a good idea, me being your teacher," 
after she again moved my hand.

"It's our secret," I reiterated, sensing that a hard 
nipple felt nice to her.

"You've got to promise not to try to reach inside," 
cognizant that the vee in her slip wasn't that far 
away. "That would be really bad."

"I won't," picturing her valley. Was that inside?

"But what if somebody knocks?" appealing to my youthful 
deceptiveness.

"Back there someplace." I vaguely waved, realizing that 
I could actually see the diameter of her nipple pushing 
against her slip.

We gathered up the Victrola, Miss Hanson leading me to 
the bedroom.

We danced again, me reverting to my innate woodenness. 
At the end, we kissed mouth to mouth and sat on the 
bed. I did know that being on a woman's bed was 
different from being on her divan, but as I wasn't 
touching, it didn't seem that much different.

"That picture with Helen Hays?" She rested my hand on 
the silk of her knee. "You know what it's about?"

"I didn't see it, remember?"

"No, of course not. She makes love."

I looked at her, probably strangely.

"You know about it, right?" she continued. "How a man 
and a woman...?"

I nodded. At least in a sense -- everyone's seen dogs.

"That's why you're big," she ventured.

Me big? At first I was lost, but then the realization 
hit that she knew from the front of my pants! I'd never 
agreed to that!

"I didn't think you were old enough," she reflected.

I stated to get up.

"Andrew," Miss Hanson looked concerned. "You just go on 
home now. Nothing happened." She thought a bit more. 
"You'll be a good dancer, though, Andrew. I liked it."

All week I weighed my dilemma. Sure, I wanted to kiss 
her, to feel old. At the same time, she'd guessed about 
my penis, something I didn't want a teacher knowing. At 
the end, though, the kissing part won out.

*****

Miss Hanson looked surprised when I peddled up the 
following Saturday. She was in a high-necked gingham 
dress, something she might have chosen for a picnic.

"Hi. I just was biking around and I wondered if you 
needed any help with anything."

She touched her collar and considered the offer. "Park 
it behind the shed. There're Mrs. Story's things still 
up in the attic to rearrange."

The attic was hot and cluttered. She and I stacked a 
few trunks under the eves, but after an incremental 
effort with Old Mrs. Story's third chest of drawers, 
Miss Hanson decided, "OK, now a dance lesson, since 
you're already here."

In the living room, I wrapped with right and led with 
left and marched her around until she took charge and 
steered us to the back, a credit to my gained ability 
that we danced all the way.

She looked out her bedroom window, not at me. "I'll 
make it swell for you. It won't hurt, I promise," her 
cheeks flushed. She stripped to her slip, her lack of 
inhibition speaking an agenda perhaps further than 
mine.

"You can't," I protested, my eyes riveted as she 
slipped off her hair band. She'd never undone her hair 
before. I wasn't sure what she couldn't, but I knew she 
shouldn't.

She paused, looked at me blankly, paled and said, "Oh."

But then she smiled with her eyes. "You still OK about 
kissing? You were great last lesson!"

I nodded and we sat down together.

"Sweet and long," and she showed me what she meant.

After a pause to re-latch mouths, she drew my hand to 
where it had wandered before.

"We get big, you and me both, don't we?" her suggestion 
not as threatening as before. I wasn't sure how she 
knew, though, as I'd twisted in the opposite direction.

"When we get big, the other wants to know it, Andrew," 
almost like a dancing rule. It wasn't that I wanted her 
to know it, but it seemed to be clear.

"There's something that the girl can do that's like 
what you're doing to me," rolling her shoulder to make 
her breast drag against my fingertips.

"And I'm going to show you," tugging my arm until we 
both fell backwards. "It's not how you make love, buddy 
boy, but it's part of our secret. Why you came over."

Spoken with authority.

Yes I struggled, but not because I was afraid. I just 
didn't want her knowing that I was big, how wrestling 
on her covers was making me bigger. The problem was 
that we were still kissing, even after she unbuckled 
me. I didn't really think she'd pull down my trousers.

Even seeing the shape of my undershorts wasn't enough. 
She pushed them down, too,

In the gaze of her room, I'd shriveled to my little 
size and I had only a fuzz of hair, so it wasn't as 
there was much to see. It hadn't been that many years 
since I'd not have cared, anyway. I at least knew she'd 
not tell.

Once her fingers found me, the contest was over. I 
quieted and I felt myself get big again, but this time 
to her command.

At home, I'd rubbed myself against my pillow for the 
friction. My buddy Clarence, anxious to share his 
newfound discovery, had already told me another way: 
"Just stroke it." I'd tried, but in the absence of 
mental focus, the pillow worked better.

Miss Hanson made me realize what Clarence meant.

"Don't!" I ordered as she acquainted herself.

"Don't move," she responded and I obeyed, motionless 
while she closed the blinds to make the ceiling dim.

Returning, she lay beside and taught me masturbation.

It seemed odd, her being a real teacher and a woman, 
but I'd no choice. We both knew that it felt good and 
that I'd cooperate.

It took three or four attempts before I mastered my 
role. At first I just jousted her hand. Then there was 
the time when I couldn't even stay big. Then we 
coalesced.

Alone on my pillow, I'd never gotten further than just 
tickling to pleasant excitement without culmination. 
Miss Hanson showed me the purpose, her fingers inviting 
my impending wonder. Droplets that seeped free, she 
used to wet me. Miss Hanson's hand and the tingling 
below my belly were all I felt. I must have turned red 
when my orgasm proclaimed itself.

I knew that she was happy, too, pleased that I'd found 
her nipple, pleased that she'd succeeded.

"It's good when it happens," she encouraged, still 
rubbing my flaccid underside.

I lay there, spent.

"It means that you can make a baby someday."

I knew that there was more Miss Hanson could do, things 
about which boys whisper, things involving no clothes 
for her too. But as long as she was in her underwear, I 
let her do what felt good.

I'd bike to her house and we'd always kiss when I 
climaxed. I knew Miss Hanson liked to peek and wipe her 
palm on her slip.

*****

It was hard concentrating in Miss Hanson's classroom, 
my hand slipping to my penis instead to my notebook. It 
was hard watching her write on the blackboard, me the 
piece of chalk. It was hard when we'd look at National 
Geographics after school some days, her fingers teasing 
my fly, promises of the Saturday to come.

*****

But somehow, even I knew we couldn't keep it going. It 
was Miss Hanson's decision; I was just the kid.

"Andrew, we're going to stop," one Saturday, without 
introduction. "Nothing bad's happened and nothing bad's 
going to happen. We're just not going to do it any 
more." And that was that. I guess I didn't even want 
more elaboration. I was positive we wouldn't be caught, 
but I knew that if we were, I'd get a whipping and 
she'd lose her job.

She never said anything else, though I knew she'd 
sometimes watch me during examinations. She didn't 
really need an after-school helper, I decided.

With Saturday hockey, not going to Miss Hanson's was a 
fillable void. I was growing up, could masturbate 
myself. Kids keep going.

I showed Helen Klassen how and she'd do me behind her 
folks' garage more than just on Saturdays. Plus she'd 
pull up her camisole. She'd not pull down her panties, 
though. I'd never even seen Miss Hanson's panties. 
Helen didn't wear a slip.

1942

The Class of '42 was a somber lot, though of course 
we'd deny it. Eighteen-year-old males had assured 
employment, we joked. Eighteen-year-old females 
realized that their steady might soon be a statistic, 
not a joke. Most of us guys hoped to be sent to the 
Pacific where there were hula girls. We'd never seen 
the ocean.

We themed our Christmas Dance around "White Christmas" 
by Bing Crosby. Everybody had learned the words.

For the prom, though, it was "Paper Doll" by the Mills 
Brothers. More snappy. The girls even had life-size 
paper dolls cellophane-taped to the gym walls. As Flat 
Lake High School always did, we invited our old 
teachers to stop by, have some punch and see us all 
dressed up. Some teachers always came and some probably 
still remembered us too well. I'd taken Helen, but the 
way your buddies cut in, you really wouldn't see much 
of your date until afterwards, by the lake.

Anyway, I was in my Sears suit, jiving about numbskull 
Nazis, when in walked Miss Hanson.

Over my high school years, I'd seen her around town, 
said, "Hi, Miss Hanson," but never much else. What had 
happened so long ago was too far back to make any 
difference. I was just a kid then, sixth grade was all. 
Most everybody probably learns from somebody older, 
though probably not a teacher. She'd taught me two 
things not in the classroom, actually, but I still 
wasn't much of a dancer,

Miss Hanson was in a sky blue dress that made half the 
girls in my own class look dowdy, at least to me.

"Glad to see you, Miss Hanson," my grownup voice.

"Oh, Andrew," pleased to be greeted. "I was hoping. 
You're going into the Navy, I hear?"

"Maybe be a gunner. That's the plan, anyway," picturing 
myself in a sleeveless flak vest.

"Well, you'll be a great one and we'll see you in the 
newsreels."

"Too smoky, firing all those shells." Then the tune hit 
me, the one about paper dolls. "Know this one, our 
theme this year?" affecting a finger snap that might be 
used by sailors.

"Of course. Mills Brothers," before realizing my 
invitation. "I can't. This is a dance for you 
youngsters. I'm thirty."

"No you're not!" Actually, it had never registered how 
many years she was. But shoot, I was almost in the 
Armed Forces myself.

On the floor, nobody seemed to think it odd, me dancing 
with an old teacher. Politeness is taken seriously in 
places like Flat Lake.

"You know all the modern steps now?" she wondered 
before I demonstrated to the contrary.

Was it my doing, or hers? As I now stood above her by 
at least as many inches as she'd towered me, it wasn't 
just gravitation to old ways. But two-stepping, she 
leaned the way I remembered. The back of her dress even 
had the silky feeling of the slip I remembered. Nobody 
would have even noticed the gap narrow between us, 
rediscovery was so slow. (Maybe it was more like 
rediscovering discovery, if the indirectness makes 
sense.)

Without looking down, I knew that her nipples were 
hard, just as she must have known about my erection. I 
guess we both tried not to press together to confirm, 
but we knew. I realized I'd moved my legs just enough 
apart for her hip to masturbate me. It was as if six 
years were nothing.

"Thank you, Andrew," as we finished. "That was lovely. 
I just stopped by to see all you kids."

I hoped my brush to her cheek looked like what you'd 
give the bride at the reception, just a momentary 
touch. Her hair still smelled like violets. Her hand 
lingered in mine just an extra second as she parted.

I'd told the guys that this was the night I'd pop 
Helen's cherry. I knew that Helen didn't want to, but 
I'd probably get away with it because it was prom. 
That's when most kids in Flat Lake start, anyway. 
Parked at the lake.

But petting in the family Nash, the windows too steamed 
to see the moon on the water, I took on Helens 
nervousness. She let me undo her brassiere, but 
wouldn't turn for me to suck, how I'd bragged I'd get 
her ready.

And I didn't really know what I was doing. The guys say 
just to follow your hormones, push it where it fits, 
but that implies her wanting it to fit. Anyway, Helen's 
expert hand got my fly open I came on her chiffon, her 
virginity saved for some four-eyes who'd fail the 
physical.

*****

It was still early and I knew that Papa (who'd never 
found lasting work in California, but Flat Lake now had 
a tool-kit production plant) assumed I'd be fucking 
away into the night. I could just hear him calming 
Mama, "It's their prom, remember? Andrew's grown up. 
We're going to love having grandchildren, so why make 
them wait till we're in rocking chairs?"

I was still wet where Helen had done me, so it wasn't 
that I was still horny. I was alone, always alone. At 
eighteen, you know.

The light was on in the back of Miss Hanson's and I 
slowed. I wanted to tell her that she'd been my 
favorite teacher. I should have told her at the prom, 
but she'd already left. I guess I wanted her to know 
that for one brief year I'd been not so lonely.

"Andrew!" genuinely surprised at my tap. "Do come in. 
Sorry I'm not dressed," waving at her bathrobe, more 
cover than the slip I remembered.

I followed her to the kitchen where, as if she knew, 
she pulled a pitcher from the icebox. "Sorry I don't 
have something stronger." As an afterthought, "Navy 
boy."

"Just lemonade, if you please, to dilute whatever they 
added to the punch."

She laughed and sat down to see me. I could tell from 
her flatter form that she'd shed her brassiere.

"I was pretty stupid, right?" she volunteered, her 
topic not needing preamble. She'd been thinking about 
years back, same as me. Why small-talk about gym 
decorations? "You were what?" she tried to calculate. 
"Way too young, anyway."

"You never made me," I justified. I hadn't come to 
blame. I'd wanted her to do it every time.

"That's not the point. You were too little."

We sat in silence, sipping the bittersweet.

"I was pretty young, too," she reflected. "I thought it 
wouldn't go anywhere."

"It didn't."

She looked at me, brow furrowed, then breathed out. "If 
you'd have reached inside, what I said not to do, it 
maybe would have. I prayed you wouldn't and prayed you 
would."

To me it had been simpler, but I nodded. I knew that 
her being older was why we stopped so suddenly.

When she refilled my glass, she made no effort to mask 
the nipple contoured in her robe.

I returned to my intention. "I just wanted you to know 
that you were my favorite teacher."

But telling her something so innocuous spoke of 
something else, about what part of being lonely led me 
to knock. It wasn't to give her an apple. "I'm 
eighteen, now."

"I knew that when we danced. Thanks for asking me. I 
already said that, right?" She looked at me. "And 
you've never made love."

The bluntness didn't seem harsh. When someone's watched 
you climax, even years ago, boundaries vaporize. 
Sometimes she'd used talcum powder on me so I'd slide 
smoother. Sometimes she'd sponged me clean afterwards. 
Sometimes when we were shelving books, other kids still 
leaving the room, she'd turned so they'd not see my 
finger on her breast.

Here at the prom, so many years later, she'd felt me 
press her with the urge. Why lie?

"Not really."

She cuffed me across the table. "Relax, sailor man."

"I was going to with Helen, but she..."

"Said no," Miss Hanson finished. "She's got a head on 
her shoulders. Going to college, I'll bet. I'm glad you 
took a nice girl."

"I'm going to college, too, afterwards," I decided.

"So you didn't," returning me to the present. "Kids 
drop out when they have to get married."

It was OK, I agreed.

"You started when we danced tonight, Andrew." She 
wasn't cuffing me now; she'd put her hand on my arm.

"Started?"

"Making love to me."

Making love to her? "Oh no, Miss Hanson. You're a 
teacher!"

"It's not about me. It's about you."

It was about me.

"I'll do it with some South Seas girl," I predicted. 
"They'll give us rubbers, the recruiting sergeant 
says."

She knew I was bluffing before I'd finished. I wasn't 
thinking about a native in a grass skirt. My draw to 
Miss Hanson was the same as ever.

"No, not for your first time." Her objection spoke to 
not just the physical.

She let me think a moment. "It's prom night, Andrew. 
And I was your date."

"Maybe," I reflected.

She moved her hand up my arm. "We don't need to go the 
lake." Teachers know about their students. "To make 
love," she added.

"But guys always want to. It doesn't mean we should'" I 
argued against myself.

"I wanted to every time you came over. To take off my 
slip."

"I was too little. You said so."

"To make love, maybe, but you'd have been inside."

"So let's just dance some more," I stalled.

I guess we still had "Paper Doll" in our heads, because 
we didn't need the record. I'd always be a little 
mechanical, I realized, but she let me lead. When I 
pulled her against me, a down pillow.

She broke the beat just once. "Andrew, it's good we're 
going to finish. For both of us." Then in a more-
assertive tone, "You're not going to pull it out, are 
you?"

She could feel my head shake against her ear. I'd do it 
the way she wanted.

"Just wanted to make sure," using her knee to steer me, 
Argentinean-style, to the room I remembered.

Nobody writes much about the loss of male virginity. 
We're supposed to deny that we ever were. Boys at Flat 
Lake tend to be frustrated until they have a steady, 
hoping for marriage. But even if the two are both 
"pure" (as they call it in church), all the focus goes 
to feminine surrender, even if in fact she's the one 
hoping to start the baby.

Miss Hanson helped me with my shirt and I helped her 
with her bathrobe, her nightie revealing the curves I'd 
remembered from her slip. She helped me with my 
undershirt and I lifted up her hem, uncovering her 
white panties. Her nipples were stationary under the 
sliding cotton.

"You can look," to my furtive glances. "I'm quite 
normal."

Her breasts, rounder than the projection of her 
brassiere, were cream with darker areole. She let me 
test the leniency of her bosoms.

After she removed my trousers, I wasn't quick enough, 
so she herself slipped off her panties. "Touch me," she 
suggested, unveiling her tuft of reddish gold.

She didn't take my underpants, but rather pulled me 
onto her, letting my erection, straining against my 
shorts, work up the inside of her legs.

I'm unsure how she stripped me, but my flesh first 
rubbed against her curls, then into her draw, along the 
wetness of her vagina, past the tightness and into the 
mystery. My stiffness knew without guidance.

I knew what to do, if not how to do it well. My hips 
told when to push in and when to pull back and her 
response validated my motions. I'd never realized how 
slick a woman would feel, how well we'd fit together.

I climaxed and knew that she didn't, but she seemed to 
accept me for what I'd given.

When I withdrew (was extruded might be more truthful), 
she caressed my forehead not unlike how she'd kissed me 
after we'd first danced. "You stayed in great!"

I mumbled something about the hour, hastily redressed 
and never went back.

I'd both proven myself as a man and failed as a lover. 
With Helen, I'd have cared, too, but not felt 
responsible. Miss Hanson, though, I'd wanted to give 
more than manly squirts and a messy sheet. I wanted to 
make her love me.

According to boot camp inductees, your first broads are 
just for practice, anyway. Wham, bam, thank you ma'am. 
Maybe if I'd fucked Helen first, I'd have done better 
with Miss Hanson.

There in the Nash, I could have taken Helen. Probably 
I'd disappointed her, too, making her masturbate me, 
not making her a woman. Did she go home, look at the 
chiffon dress and cry?

But I'd always wanted it to be with Miss Hanson.

1946

Things work out the oddest ways. Gunnery School already 
had their quota, but I'd good grammar grades, so I'd be 
in Communications. I thought I'd hit fat city, but then 
found out that we're the suckers who hit the beach with 
the Marines, them carrying rifles and us, radios. But I 
never took a direct hit or stepped on a mine before the 
Japs surrendered and was redeployed as a Navy 
journalist. (It all fits under "Communications".)

The promised hula girls turned out to be thieving 
Filipina hookers, so although the rubbers from 
Quartermaster wasn't a lie, I'd rarely opted for the 
freebee.

I could have taken my discharge pay, but the journalism 
part seemed interesting and at least in uniform I could 
get the experience. Norway, of all places, was where 
the Admirals wanted press. "Sailor, you can choose any 
assignment from the list provided" and I got a list 
with Norway.

Oslo was still grim, but the citizens were free. The 
byline that won me the award was about the elderly 
Norwegians with a GI grandson whom they'd never met. 
This blond US Army skiing soldier slalomed to their 
doorstep the day Germany went kaput. He'd been in the 
country for reconnaissance and had figured out who they 
were from what his father had told him. My commander 
wished it had been a Navy man, however.

Reporting was my ticket out of Flat Lake, the 
vernacular, though more accurately in my case, how to 
avoid a ticket back to Flat Lake. Reporting keeps you 
paying attention, looking for connections, letting your 
job consume each day's extra 16 hours. There's little 
time for distraction.

The USO was where reporters hung out for the cheap 
stories, second or third hand, but maybe useful for 
background. Drinks were cheap.

The Norwegian employee in the USO dress emerged from 
the phone booth and stared. "Andrew?"

I must have looked confused.

"It is you!" clapping her hands and I knew! Not the 
voice (which of course I knew immediately), but the 
eyes.

"Miss Hanson? I mean, how...?"

"Flat Lake gave me a year to serve in the USO and I 
speak Norwegian. It's Greta."

"You do?"

"From my folks. Not in Flat Lake. 'Hvordan har du det?' 
means how are you?"

"Surprised." And that I was. Miss Hanson, exactly the 
same. The sexual tie was hardly yet recalled.

"So why are you here? You kicked the Krauts out."

"Me? I'm a Navy journalist."

"Well this is so great, in this big old world!" again 
clapping her hands. Her braid was the Norwegian style, 
woven around the back of her head.

"Are you...?" What was I asking?

"Same as ever. You?"

I wasn't sure what she'd thought I'd asked, but it 
seemed clear to her. "Same as ever, too," I ventured. 
The only difference was that I was in uniform. Plus I 
felt happy.

"Then we can dance while we catch up," she decided. The 
USO jukebox was playing "Let It Snow! Let It Snow! Let 
It Snow!" by Vaughn Monroe.

"Good grief, Andrew!" she declared as we started. 
Before I could apologize for my extra left foot, she 
laughed, "I hope you don't write a column about 
ballroom dancing. Here," as she got me in step.

"Just the one about the importance of having a good 
teacher," regaining my delight.

"Heading back to Flat Lake?" I asked during a lull. Two 
or three enlisted men had tried to cut in, but I'd said 
we were together.

"My job. I fit in. Lots to keep me busy. You?"

"To get my stuff."

"Got a girl?"

"Not enough time," almost believing myself. Maybe after 
I settled down.

"Parents well?"

"Guess so. Let's dance some more."

Afterwards, I walked her back to her flat, more of a 
dorm for USO staff. As much of my sexual history as 
she'd defined, that wasn't how I saw her tonight. I'd 
not seen an old friend for such a long time, one who 
even knew my folks! And as odd as a teacher being an 
old friend might seem in Flat Lake, Miss Hanson (Greta, 
I mean) seemed that in Oslo.

At the doorstep, though, an echo crept back. We'd not 
danced closely, but I'd felt her breasts. She, as had 
I, must have remembered prom night. How I'd climaxed so 
quickly and left.

"Miss Hanson?"

"It's Greta."

"OK." I paused. "I guess I just want to say I'm sorry 
for showing up like that, you know..."

"And making love?" the Norwegian again.

"Yeah, that."

She took both my elbows in her hands, placing herself 
where I could see her. "It was about love. You knew 
that."

"Yeah, but still...."

"We're never sorry about love, at least I'm not."

"You're not?" I wished I'd told Miss Hanson that I was 
sorry for being clumsy, but that I had loved her, even 
if I stayed clumsy.

"Andrew," still locking my elbows, "remember how to 
tell her it was a nice dance?"

I remembered.

"And how a girl agrees that that was a nice dance?" 
head tilted.

I gave her a kiss that hung there.

"And how we made love, just once?" against my lips. 
With the Filipina, it was connection without union. 
"Come on," taking my hand, not unlike years ago. "Mary 
Ellen and Doris can sleep somewhere else."

She'd take me in again? The grad who'd run off? Had she 
been lonely that night, too?

I followed, our fingers locked. Maybe we both were 
shaking a little, but it could have been the cold.

Indeed, we did have three beds to ourselves, thanks to 
her roommates. "This is my old friend Andrew. Really!"

Naked, she looked boldly Norwegian. Back in Flat Lake, 
her reddish-blond seemed secretive. Here, it was as if 
she were leading me to the sauna.

"You're beautiful," I stammered and she laughed at the 
thought.

I undressed more slowly, folding my uniform in the way 
of GIs who do their own ironing. Her eyes told me what 
to next remove.

"I don't have a rubber or anything," I admitted, 
wondering if she remembered what I'd said about the 
natives.

She surprised me. "We'll take our chances. It was just 
chance that we met tonight, right?"

I wasn't that sure, but it was nothing that either of 
us could have made happen.

I made love somewhat better than my performance after 
the prom. I should have gone slower, but I know I 
induced a spark when she arched and gasped. The girls 
I'd been with before had murmured things like, "Come 
on, big boy!" or "Oh man, make me come!" Greta wasn't 
verbal, speaking with alternation of her hips, trying 
to kiss until we both lost track of the other's face.

She just grinned afterwards. "They say that how many 
more times won't make a difference in baby-chances." In 
Norway, she was free of Flat Lake.

The second time I mounted, her heels held me and we let 
her wetness smooth the passages. When she moaned, it 
was for stroke after stroke. She stilled at the end so 
I could seed her deepest reaches.

"Andrew?" whispered afterwards. "I wish we'd done this 
by the lake."

"Me, too."

"You were scared?"

I told her yes.

"So was I. But I even when you were too little," she 
reflected, "I wish we'd learned together."

"I was in sixth grade."

"I was a virgin when I started teaching, when you came 
over. Maybe that's why I wanted to teach you to dance. 
It seemed safe."

"It wasn't?" I wondered.

"Tell me how we'd have done it by the lake. On a field 
trip."

We rested, her cheek on my chest, while I chronicled a 
boy's fantasy. She'd have stood by the water to show 
the class where the glacier pushed away the land. We 
each must find a worn rock as evidence. I'd follow her 
into the pines, surprise her and strip her of her 
clothes. I listed each piece, how I'd undo it. I'd lay 
her back on a bed of pine boughs. As the other 
classmates passed this way and that around our hidden 
nest, I'd kneel between her knees and shove myself 
deeper and deeper inside.

"The needles would be scratchy," she scolded, relishing 
the scratches.

"OK, it was this grassy place. You called it 
'Practicals'."

She laughed. "C-, since I got pregnant."

Again in Oslo, rested and re-entering, she yelped and 
pretended to buck me off. "I've got to walk tomorrow, 
sailor boy!" her protest belied by the elevation of her 
hips and the span of her knees.

"Shush, they'll hear," determined to save myself until 
she was in full orgasm.

"I want them to know, silly."

At breakfast, Mary Ellen and Doris and a couple whose 
names I didn't get set the table with Kellogg's Corn 
Flakes, almost impossible to acquire in a land of oat 
porridge. "Doris is engaged to a captain at Allied HQ," 
the explanation. The others smiled at the "engaged".

Mary Ellen and Doris were hunky-dory when I'd call, 
good-naturedly hauling their bedding elsewhere. 
Sometimes they'd hardly button their bathrobes to do 
it, Yankee breasts barely draped by their nightclothes.

Some nights, Greta and I would rotate bed-to-bed. "Mary 
Ellen's is the quietist, but too near the door." 
Sometimes we'd move all three together and wrestle 
without plan regarding connection.

On giggling occasions, Greta would slip me into the 
room while her roommates slept and we'd make no more 
noise than the swish of the sheet and the squeak of the 
springs. The two were supposed to be sleeping, anyway, 
but once I caught Mary Ellen's open eye. All she could 
do was grin red-handed and flutter her fingers. I never 
told Greta.

Once when Greta and I came out, a British airman was on 
the parlor sofa. Mary Ellen was on his lap, facing him, 
the comforter draping her back not quite covering the 
bottom of her behind and the bare knees beneath. The 
two froze and pretended to chat as Greta walked me to 
the door. When Greta and the airman weren't looking, I 
fluttered my fingers at Greta's roommate. We're even, 
she grinned, already starting to rise and fall.

Oslo was a time of freedom, a time of evenings. If I'd 
been born there, I'd have stayed, but my Navy papers 
said I was from Flat Lake and I guess I was. They say 
that the War changed a whole generation. In my case, 
though, perhaps it was more that it opened a door 
outward, but the same boy stepped through it.

I was posted to Naples to document Sea Bees repairing 
chapels. I got another Sector Award and it was warmer, 
but I just had to do it until discharge. I fucked an 
Italian girl on the beach. Her family had lost most of 
their farmhouse when we'd bombed. I think she was about 
sixteen.

1950

Five years later, my GI Bill degree was still worth 
less to hard-line editors than what I'd learned in 
blue. It's not that I'd won the citations, but I knew 
how to sit on a story until it broke. The Portland 
Oregonian paid me to keep Oregonians informed about 
everything from timber sales to the legislature.

News beats can be solitary; good reporters rarely stay 
married. Inside scoops come from wives looking for 
companionship. Maybe they want to find out something 
from you, even. Dinner, drinks and a Holiday Inn -- 
work expenses. I've got colleagues who'll only bed 
married women, ones whose spouses make marriage worth 
their while. Single chicks are the problems. So they 
say, anyway. Others who'll only bed married women so 
they needn't worry about impregnation. Lots of 
reporters are shits.

Was I a good reporter? I was Goddamn good. Did I like 
it? I loved it. Did I need much else? Not really. 
Growing up in a place like Flat Lake, you're probably 
not going to go off and be a shit.

It was on the radio -- Nat King Cole's "Mona Lisa".

At my first dance lesson, Miss Hanson had told me about 
eyes, hers as present as if I'd returned. But with my 
parents' move to Sarasota, Flat Lake wasn't a place on 
the way to anywhere. I hadn't danced much since the 
War, but then I'd been pretty busy, my work and all

I hadn't danced much because a dancer needs a partner. 
Even in ballet, the great performances are with 
partners. In journalism, anyway, a partnership isn't 
two writers each reporting half a story. Both write the 
whole piece.

I wrote features, not real stories. Probably I'd never 
get a Pulitzer nomination, but even if I won, my work 
wouldn't be as real as a piece clumsily crafted for the 
classifieds. A want ad is in itself a real story 
because as humans, we want. "Wanted. The rest of 
myself."

Good reporters follow the leads, but I'd lost mine in 
Oslo.

I sent Greta a Christmas card in care of Flat Lake 
Elementary, just a brief note telling her that I was 
still writing, nothing that she'd see, but still at it. 
That running into her in Norway was such a coincidence. 
"Running into" seemed the safest way to put it, the 
phone booth part. "Being with" was harder to work into 
a Christmas greeting.

There was no reply, however, and a reporter senses when 
a lead's gone cold.

1952

I'd missed the others, but would catch my tenth 
reunion. Not that I had Flat Lake High School ties more 
than that of yearbook photos, but I wanted to remember 
the sameness, if just for a weekend.

Some of the '42 girls (the ones I'd not known well, but 
now seemed less stuck-up) booked the VFW Hall for our 
get-together. And in towns like Flat Lake, a ten-year 
reunion means everyone who'd been there a decade back. 
Sisters stop by to see if their brother's old 
girlfriend still peroxides. Neighbors look in to see if 
that Arnold boy's really an engineer. Is Barney's 
nephew still an alcoholic? Nobody had heard of the 
Oregonian, but some had been to Colorado.

I'd heard that Clarence married Helen, but didn't know 
they'd divorced and neither showed up.

Since she'd not answered my card, maybe Miss Hanson had 
moved. Maybe even stayed in Norway. Or maybe she was in 
Flat Lake, a mom and member of the Garden Club. Not 
everything can stay the same.

So when I saw Miss Hanson walking to the Carnegie 
Library (judging by the books in her string bag), I was 
unprepared. She'd a blond single braid, a hairstyle not 
seen on the West Coast except maybe for little girls.

I didn't know if she'd even want me here. Me, the fade-
away sixth grader, the off-to-war senior and then the 
disappearing sailor. She had my number.

But Flat Lake's small. Marked by your rental car, you 
can't pretend you're elsewhere. I slowed beside the 
sidewalk. "Want a lift, Miss Hanson?" I wasn't sure why 
my heart was pounding.

She looked at the strange car, the driver who knew her 
name. "Andrew!" too spontaneous for the sake of 
politeness. "Nobody knew if you were coming!"

She'd asked if I were coming?

"The one who's in the papers?" my attempted frivolity.

"Well you are, at least in Oregon," the second syllable 
pronounced as "gone". In Portland, it's "gun".

When she turned crimson, easy enough to see, I realized 
it wasn't related to the state. She'd acknowledged my 
card.

I ignored it. "Hop in." Probably she'd been really busy 
that holiday season. Didn't matter.

"No, that's OK. I'm almost there." I noticed the 
absence of a ring on her left hand.

Who knows why, but I stayed. "So I need some exercise, 
too," pulling to the curb. "So how you been?" my 
awkward re-start. "Here, let me carry that."

"Seventeen years at it, less my year away." She avoided 
saying Oslo.

"That long?" to protract the conversation. Maybe I 
could ask her what she was teaching; sometimes they 
change around.

"Seems like three," she laughed the laugh I liked. 
"Kids keep you learning things."

"Like about glaciers," remembering. "Coming to the VFW 
tonight?"

"Probably. You're all my kids and you remember your 
first ones best." It had never really clicked with me 
that I'd had her, her first year.

"So what say I check if they have anything new at the 
Carnegie and we walk back to my car and I take you to 
lunch? That's if..." Actually, she'd not even asked me 
to walk with her.

"At the A&W?" she pretended to frown. "We'll have some 
lemonade first."

She surely remembers liquors in Oslo, I was certain, 
but doesn't remember she'd served me that drink ten 
years ago.

Headed toward her house (which she'd bought, she was 
pleased to report) she switched on the car radio. "I 
like Nat King Cole," as she twirled through the one 
from High Noon and found "Unforgettable".

"Me too," I concurred. Unforgettable is right.

"So you married yet?" looking my way.

"Hardly," wishing not to talk about it.

She stared away. "I'm sorry I didn't answer your card. 
You didn't say and I didn't want to presume." I'd not 
mentioned the card. Was my mind that transparent?

And I didn't say what? That I wasn't married? I'd left 
everything unsaid, actually. You don't write what 
you're not, not across from a smiling Santa. Maybe I 
just didn't want to follow the leads.

We were at her driveway. "I'll just drop you off," I 
decided. Flat Lake wasn't my town anymore. Was 
Portland, though?

"Because I loved you," she stated, almost voiceless and 
staring straight ahead. "I didn't answer your card 
because I loved you."

I didn't move until the fullness hit. "Loved me? When?"

"Then. When you graduated. Before, too. Maybe I didn't 
know it till Oslo, though." She was still looking 
ahead, not at me.

I thought of those years and I wanted her to know. "I 
didn't know what to do," unasked. "I guess I'd never 
loved anybody."

"Not even in Oslo?" her eyes now on mine. Were there 
tears? Whose, I don't know.

"Then, yes."

"It's part of my life, too." And there were tears, even 
if invisible.

"Was I a little crazy sometimes?" suddenly flooded with 
the lightness of those times.

"That's what my roommates decided," too serious to see 
the humor.

I was thinking, the funny parts slipping away, "Greta?"

She waited for me to figure it out.

"Maybe what I mean is I've never known... that I've 
loved anybody." I caught my breath and finished. "So 
can it make sense that I still love somebody?" If I 
knew this much, maybe I'd know something.

We'd not been touching, but she took my hand. "It makes 
sense to me. It's a big old world."

"You always said that, 'A big old world', Greta."

We sat together, remembering, hands still linked.

"Can we... I mean, even if it's the A&W?" The thought 
of her opening the car door terrified me.

"You dance still?" starting to sway her braid to Nat 
King Cole.

"You're the music," pulling her to me.

*****

Her breasts were still so soft.

Of course I'd never hurt a woman. Physically, that is.

Years of pent-up realization burst outward. If I'd 
spent the decade reliving her touches, replaying my 
virginity, remembering rolling naked in the Norwegian 
night for the other girls' ears, the flood might have 
been expected. Pent-up frustration, some might have 
called it. But I'd not reclaimed the story until now. 
What burst out was my need to be completed. Sex was 
just the vehicle.

At first she seemed frightened. I wasn't the boy she'd 
erotically enslaved, the graduate she'd initiated, the 
lover who'd pleased her time after time on the USO 
mattress. I was a creature bent on consuming her. My 
erection was all I was.

Probably I did hurt her flesh, but she didn't cry in 
pain. Her tears were hungry too. I forced my way into 
her from above, from behind, from below, denying her 
climax. Maybe she was forbidding the same to me, for no 
sooner would I prime to impregnate her, than she'd 
displace me and contort for yet another penetration.

At one point, we bounced our bed so hard that a slat 
fell from the frame and we took our chances with the 
rest of the substructure. (Why did I think of it as 
"our" bed, I didn't process, but it was what she'd laid 
me upon the first time. I owned it. She owned it. I 
owned her. She owned me.)

At another point, my penis was in her mouth and I was 
caressing as far as I could reach between her legs. My 
chin ploughed through her juices while my tongue 
probed.

At yet another point, her twisting bent me, but even 
when it hurt, I didn't care. This wasn't about carnal 
pleasure; it was about conquest and surrender, both 
ways for both of us, the blitzkrieg of intercourse.

They say at forty (I didn't believe the number, but it 
was true), a woman wants her love slow and floating. 
But Greta, like me, wanted what we'd missed. When we 
finally let ourselves go, slamming on the bed where 
she'd once manipulated my boyhood, our skin was awash 
with smeared semen, sweat, secretions and saliva.

In Oslo, she'd still seemed older, creamy, exotically 
cool, almost. But here in Flat Lake a dozen years 
amounted to nothing as I pumped my pubescent reserve 
into the warmth of teenage virgin.

"Oh, God. I didn't know I still could hit the high 
note," her self-pleasure so merited.

Not leaving me wonder why she didn't know, "Maybe it's 
my Lutheran thing, but after you, the ones I slept with 
in Norway, I mostly had to pretend. The girls where I 
lived, we'd give each other 'Acting the Big Act" 
scores," she smiled. "But with you, then it wasn't 
pretend. That's why my roommates liked to stay."

I didn't smile. It made me sad, the idea of another in 
her bed, even there.

"Then you're not going to believe this either," to 
change the subject.

"No, I don't. You were a sailor."

"Easier plumbing, maybe," the Flat Lake maleness not 
wanting to admit how small the count.

"It was good I went to Norway, Andrew. I had to show 
myself I could be pretty. It just got old, though, 
pretending."

"You're very pretty. I knew that the first day you 
walked in and told us about geology."

And we both knew we were at last telling the truth.

*****

Hardly anybody at the VFW recognized me, at least 
enough to drag me into the knots of exaggerated 
recollections. It didn't matter because I had Miss 
Hanson to talk with. "Greta" sounded odd in the 
setting. Fortunately, sitting in the corner where 
they'd stashed the parade flags, the scratches below my 
ear didn't show. She'd been appalled at our afternoon's 
carnage and I told her that we couldn't do it again 
until I was healed.

"So are you all well yet?" she whispered while the 
classmate with the most kids was applauded. Six, but 
he'd been married three times.

"I think so."

She reached below the table. "Yea, I think so, too. Bet 
I still can, if you sit straight."

"Let's dance," to stop her.

After the final toasts, a dozen cars made their 
individual ways to the lake, dispersing along the 
shore. From the first-love reunions I'd witnessed at 
the VFW, I wasn't surprised.

Greta sat on my lap, facing, our bodies connected top 
and bottom. Neither of us wanted it to end, me as still 
as when in sixth grade I'd surrendered to the measure 
of her fingers. Now it was to the rise and fall of her 
vagina, milking me into her as she flushed in 
fulfillment.

"Actually," she challenged afterwards, not bothering to 
redo her stockings, "you wanted me to, there under the 
table."

"Maybe."

Later that night, after comparing notes on who was who 
("That was Kathleen Penner? I didn't recognize her and 
her last name's different. I thought she was just a 
spouse."), we floated, me hard and immobile within her 
until she jostled. When she couldn't hold back any 
longer and came, the ripples rolled up and down around 
me, shimmering.

She had to have been internally raw from the 
afternoon's excesses. Certainly my penis felt so. But 
climaxing without motion exacerbated none of our 
abrasions; perhaps we could have loved as joyfully even 
inches apart, sharing just our eyes. Perhaps I'll never 
know completeness, but at least I know its taste.

*****

Apparently no teacher at Flat Lake had ever left at 
forty. What would Miss McGraw have done besides go to 
church?

We married that Christmas in Flat Lake Lutheran because 
they were her family. When I twirled her around at the 
reception (Luther didn't worry about married couples 
doing it) only us nuptials knew we'd danced to "Let It 
Snow! Let It Snow! Let It Snow!" in Oslo. I'd found the 
78.

Atlee at the barbershop noted that my rental parked at 
Miss Hanson's after the reunion hadn't passed 
unnoticed. But small town folk can turn an eye if 
nobody loses money or you aren't relatives.

"She's a little older, right?" as if Atlee didn't know 
exactly. "She'll make you a good wife, that Miss 
Hanson. Still pretty as a picture, if you don't mind me 
saying."

"No sir, I don't mind one bit."

He wouldn't charge for the trim; it was so I'd look 
like I was still from around these parts, he judged.

1969

A tragic year, an annum that perpetuates a reporter's 
career. I'd gone to the Chicago Tribune and we lived 
just a commute westward. Greta, of course, had returned 
to the classroom. You don't deny what's God-given. The 
Kent State follow-up was only what I'd learned in the 
Navy -- follow the leads, assemble the pieces. It 
shouldn't take the press to do it, though, but that's 
why they have prizes.

Greta and I still dance and I'm still the student. Kids 
these days like gyrating to "Honky Tonk Women" or maybe 
"Bad Moon Rising". I know because of where I go to get 
my stories. Probably because I stay with my Atlee-style 
haircut, they trust me. They're confused, these kids, 
practicing free love in the liberated lecture halls 
while others take bullets on the Green. Not wrong about 
the war part, but without the invincible innocence we 
had when we went to fight. To fight and to love.

I'll never master the tango. Greta's pretty good and 
can induce standing sex when she leans way back, but 
that's just in our living room. Of course if she's in a 
squirrelly mood at a party and somebody throws on a 33, 
she can make me climax to about any tune. And that's 
not the worst part. She darkly suggests that a few of 
her closer friends know when to watch, but won't tell 
me who they are. I just try not to give it away with my 
expression.

If they masturbate you at twelve, you're in for a long 
haul. It's just partly about sex, but that's how you 
remind each other. She says that her friends who know 
aren't fooled by my vacant smile and agree I'm great. 
Great at getting masturbated? I just report what I 
hear.

Greta and I can dance to "Sweet Caroline" and "Someday 
We'll Be Together". There's still plenty of good music 
for lovemaking.

END

HOLLY ON THE WEB

Wherever you found this story on the web, thank you to 
the server. My problem is that I've no systematic way 
to update the various servers. As literary errors (or 
just poor word usages) are made known to me, I'll 
repair that which is salvageable on 
http://www.asstr.org/~Holly_Rennick/. My website's not 
much graphically, I admit, but HTML isn't my native 
language.

You can contact me via the site's message form, that 
HTML code by the smart people at ASSTR.

I won't be changing the story significantly, so if you 
didn't like it before, that much will remain the same. 
But if you did like it, an update may read a bit more 
cleanly.

 Holly

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
It's okay to *READ* stories about unprotected sex with
others outside a monogamous relationship. But it isn't
okay to *HAVE* unprotected sex with people other than
a trusted partner. You only have one body per lifetime,
so take good care of it!
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Kristen's collection - Directory 29