Folie à Deux (11 page)

It’s not really a question because I’m sure she doesn’t want an answer. She wants an affirmation that what we are doing is agreeable, which I provide. Before we can second guess my answer her tongue is back in my mouth. She works her way down my body, confusion clouds my mind, I thought we were going to make love but if I come, I’m won’t be able. She only spends a few moments kissing and caressing but doesn’t take me in her mouth.

She rises and lies beside, pulling me on top of her while grinding her hips. I can feel the coarseness of her pubic hair against my bare sensitive skin and it hurts. My reaction is to push back so that I feel the pressure of our bodies instead. Without warning she drops her hips back down to the bed and says, “Oh my God, I can’t wait any longer,” and with that, reaches to her night table and opens the foil wrapper of a condom. After removing it from the package she forcefully places it in my hand.

The room is dark and I have never seen a condom so I hold it in my hand waiting to see what she does. “Put it on and make love to me,” she says in a voice too loud for the darkness.

I’m so scared. I don’t know how to fulfill either of her requests but don’t want to upset her either. “Um, Carla, I’m not sure how to put one of these on,” I say. I’m sure she’ll be angry because I’ve broken the mood.

She sits up, starts to sheath me, and then says, “Roll it all the way down now.” She sounds annoyed but it could be the heat of the moment. I figure out the rest despite my inexperience. I’m not as hard as prior to the delay but she is still willing to try. I’m cold because the blanket has slid off, my whole body stiff from insecurity except the part that needs be.

She knows what has happened yet still seems patient. She pulls me close and kisses me hard on the mouth. My body betrays the panic reflex in my brain and I engorge immediately. She checks at regular intervals and when I’m ready removes her hand and allows me fumble the rest of the way.

I poke and thrust not knowing what I’m striving for and with every failed attempt, hurt myself. Even if there were light in the room I wouldn’t do any better. She wraps her hands around my hips and gently whispers, “Shhh, relax and let me.”

She takes her right hand, splits my hip from hers and I feel her thumb grab the top of me and two fingers the bottom. She moves me in circular motions while probing what I can only describe as soft, warm and even through the condom which I have never worn before, slimy.

I don’t like the feeling. She’s pulling me into her, dragging me away from my family, my innocence. She is drawing me to become one with her and with the intensity on her face, seemingly to be like her. Once inside, it seems a natural instinct to thrust until my pelvis presses against hers. I hear her sigh followed by a closed mouth moan. From the putrid green light of the clock radio I can see her eyes open just a slit but I can only see the whites so I assume they have rolled back.

I freeze.

I can only act according to her audible and physical reactions. She thrusts her hips quickly and then they recede. By default I withdraw, also soliciting the same blissful expression. Before I have time to figure out this choreography we are locked in a sensual yet slightly violent rhythm.

I feel about to come but really don’t want to disappoint her. I put my mind elsewhere to quell my arousal. I list movies in my head, some I’ve seen and some forbidden because they have sex
in them. When I reach Clint Eastwood’s Dirty Harry movies I realize I haven’t been concentrating for, well, I don’t know how long. I feel guilty. Not for her, for me. I’m losing my virginity. I will never have another chance at this and I’m thinking about movies and my parents. My mind makes me feel gross, superseded only by unshakeable guilt. She’s doing fine but I wish I was more involved.

She doesn’t seem nervous but I’m overcome by my own apprehension. One day, I overheard a girl at lunch talk about losing her virginity. “It only hurts the first time,” she said, “Definitely uncomfortable. I was afraid to do it again because of how weird it felt.” I remember those words vividly because if it hurt that bad, I wondered why girls had sex at all.

Thankfully, Carla doesn’t show any signs of pain. My mind travels fast, as if everything else is slow motion, allowing me to process and synthesize. It seems as though before I can even wonder about her pain, I remember the horses. Maybe the horseback riding takes away the pain too.

My mind is fluttering and I’m beginning to feel worse. Once I regain my focus I look down and see her looking at me. She asks, “Everything’s ok, right?”

“Ya”, I say, embarrassed, wondering if she knows what I was just thinking. Does she know I wasn’t here for a while?

“How do you feel?” She says, her eyes locked on mine.

“Ok. I mean good. I feel good,” I stumble because I don’t know the answer. My body feels good, but my mind is clutching, trying to gain sanctuary anyway I can. I hear the words again, a final loss of composure. I look down and repeat, “Older than my mother.”

“Are you sure?” she verifies. “I’m going to come. Can you?” she asks.

Without answering, as if some involuntary product of my evolution takes over I begin to fuck faster and harder. I don’t know how I make the decision but she reacts with ecstasy. Her eyes roll back again and she arches her hips while forcing the back of her head into the pillow. Her breathe increases and each exhale is accompanied by the slightest whimper. I feel everything below my waist constrict and the throbbing begins to cause waves of pleasure in the same pulse as I thrust. Within seconds I hear myself grunting. When she hears me she lets out a scream. My entire lower half stiffens down to the curling of my toes and I release with an explosion.

That’s it. I am hers and I know she knows it when I see her look up at me. Her gaze is satisfied, coquettish.

“That was beautiful,” she recaps as usual. I hope the words convince her because I cannot share the sentiment.

We fall into a routine seamlessly. Every scheduled wrestling match for the remainder of the season she simply assumes we go to her apartment. There are some weeks that she coerces me to skip practice if I only have one match. I hate giving in but the sex and her begging is irresistible. As winter progresses, she wonders aloud what we will do when wrestling season ends. I have no answer so I never reply to her rhetorical questions.

She knows where I will be throughout the school day, when I arrive home, how long I should take to shower and for how long I eat dinner. She expects my call by eight o’clock and assumes we will be on the phone for a minimum of two hours. Any deviation from this ritual causes great strife, leading to hurt feelings and sometimes tears. Many disagreements are rooted in the naiveté of a teenage boy. I learn quickly that any free time during my day is best spent in her classroom. We assimilate and evolve with little friction.

“I could use a hug this morning,” she says one day as she closes her classroom doors.

“Sure,” I say, finding no reason to refuse. She closes the second door and stands in the corner of the room, invisible from either of the narrow windows. The following day, as I enter she leaves her desk to repeat this and I stand, instinctively in the identical spot as yesterday. We start the day with a hug and an, “I
love you, have a good day.” And with rote simplicity the ritual is entered as customary.

She invites me to eat with her when she brings her mother’s meatball sandwiches. Afterward, she stands up and with the same cadence as the morning lockdown, closes the doors and stands in the corner. She looks to me without saying a word, extending an invitation that we both know I cannot decline. What begins as a hug turns to a kiss. The kiss, into fondling until the bell rings. It seems she is waiting for me to advance the action but fear and the limitations of our surroundings keep me safe.

This impediment is hurdled with silent exactitude the following day. After we eat and she shutters us in, instead of walking to the corner, she turns off the lights and takes me by the hand to the back of her room. Once in the corner she takes her keys out of her blazer pocket and opens the door to the storage closet. The closet is musty and smells of dust, no larger than a typical bathroom, ten feet long by five feet wide with shelves in each corner. Every shelf full of boxes, old projects, supplies and posters. The usable floor space consists of room for two of us to stand and turn comfortably. She turns on the lights to show me where we are and then turns them off, leaving the door slightly ajar.

As I’m waiting for direction she pushes me against the wall and kisses me, informing me instantly our reason for hiding. She stops, grabs my earlobe between her teeth and whispers, “I thought this might make us both more comfortable.” That is the first day that she drops to her knees and brings me to orgasm in school.

Every new foray into a sexual frontier comes with memorable lessons. It’s in the back closet that I learn that my penis is larger than her face. I have never measured myself, although I hear other boys talk about size and hear comparisons. She is a
grown woman and I’m shocked that I’m larger than the height of her face. She stares at me like I am a freak leaving me to wonder if she has never seen one up-close before. The look on her face reflects amazement, she is enamored. Why else would she gawk at me instead of fulfilling the only goal of our cloistering?

Carla’s methods of broaching a subject are confusing, wrought with questions that I can neither foresee nor for which I can prepare. Times when I think I’m following the flow of the conversation and can contribute something meaningful are often turned by an unexpected twist. An innocent explanation of how teaching contracts work, including sick and personal days turns drastically when she tells me that she has accrued over twenty five personal days.

“So, if I were to use a personal day, would you be willing to play hooky with me? We could have a lot of fun,” she asks, using what feels unmistakably like a bait and switch.

Pseudo-sick days are not tolerated by my parents. Carla’s suggestion to miss school for the sole purpose of having sex gives me a horrible feeling in my stomach. I have never skipped school and cannot even think of the consequences of getting caught. I feel myself begin to sweat, “Well, I missed a day for the funeral and I know the school sends a letter home after the third absence so if I have another absence what will I tell my parents?” It seems like a lucid response but anymore, I have no confidence I can sway the course of any plan.

“If a letter goes home, I’ll catch it in the office before it gets sent,” she says without pause, shooting a hole through my only escape.

“Sure, that sounds good,” I reply.

My hesitation doesn’t impede her plans even slightly, “We can make breakfast, rent a movie, have pizza for lunch and I’ll make homemade pasta for dinner.” She is giddy.

I leave my house the day of our tryst as always, telling my mom, “Goodbye. Have a good day. I’ll see you after practice.” I walk reluctantly past my bus stop to our rendezvous. I stand on the corner shivering from a combination of cold and nerves.

Crazy thoughts occur that I’ve never before contemplated. What if my mom leaves early today and sees me standing aimlessly in our neighborhood? Leading me to worry that my dad may come home, having forgotten something. What if my neighbor drives by or another student heading to the bus stop sees me? I panic each time I look at my watch knowing I have certainly missed the bus and Carla is late.

As I’m about to sit on the curb from the overwhelming stress I see her black sports car make the turn onto my block and I feel better. My relief shattered when I see her wearing sunglasses and a baseball cap. Her necessary disguise leaves me with an involuntary disgust so potent that I’m tempted to walk right back to my house. As she drives closer she is grinning from ear to ear, ecstatic to see me.

My emotions are scattered and despite my best efforts to harness them, I’m on the verge of tears when I shut the door behind me. She seems not to notice or deliberately ignores my demeanor, “Good morning sweetheart.”

Her apartment seems a completely different place, having never seen it so early in the morning. She doesn’t have the table set for breakfast but she does have coffee made and a box of doughnuts sits on her counter. She left, “Our tape” playing
on a continuous loop before she left, welcoming us with Nancy Wilson singing, “We Did it All for Love”.