Rosie O'Dell (22 page)

“I see Suzy came through,” I said.

“Huh?” said Rosie, putting the book on the table. As she closed it I saw
several other circles on its pages. This girl was great. Long-term planning.
“Oh. You mean the condom. Yes.” She passed it to me with a sweet sheepish smile.
“Let’s see if we can make it work.”

I’d put one of these on before. A year or so ago, Brent had stolen a French
safe from his father and mother’s bedroom and brought it to me so that we could
practise, and be ready for any day now when called upon to don one in earnest.
Brent had opened it and, with just the thought of putting on a safe giving us
erections, we took turns rolling it on and rolling it off.

I took Rosie’s condom with great confidence. But what the hell did they have it
covered with? I could not tear the wrapper no matter what I did. I got so
frustrated I felt my penis softening. Rosie looked amused as she reached out and
said, “Let me have a look. Oh, now I see your problem.”
She took
the slightly serrated edge between thumbs and forefingers and gave the wrapper a
little tear and passed it back to me for the
coup de grâce
. I removed the
condom, saw that I had gone flaccid, and panicked. Rosie gently pushed me onto
my back, took my penis in her mouth until it was hard again, and played with it
until I came. Then she said, “How long do you estimate before you reload? I’m
thinking, knowing you, five minutes.”

She was right. The good old days of youth. Within her time frame I was up and
ready again, all anxiety having left me. With the condom on, I touched and
fondled her. But now between her legs, for the first time since I’d become
acquainted with the region, she was as dry as a bone. “Oh for the love of… ,”
she muttered, touching herself down there with her fingers, “the trials and
tribulations of a young woman’s passion. No wonder Juliet killed herself.”

“Don’t feel too bad. Romeo killed himself too.”

“That’s something, I suppose.” She hopped out of the bed and walked out the
door, smiling over her shoulder. “Don’t go away. I’ll rustle something up out
here.” It was the first time I’d seen the back of her body entirely naked from
top to toe at a distance. It came to me that I was dreaming. Reality could not
be this good. She came in again carrying a tube of something. Her front coming
through the door brought on the same sensation of fantasy.

“Are you real?” I asked. “You are too beautiful.”

“I think I’m real, my lovey, and more than just a cute ornament with the help
of this, I hope.”

“What’s that?”

“K-Y Jelly. It’s supposed to be a good lubricant. It’s water soluble, so it
doesn’t stick to the vaginal walls like petroleum jelly does.”

“Christ, how do you know all that?”

“I read about the lubrication stuff in a book the grown-ups had hidden away in
their bedroom, plus there’s info on the label. I found this a couple of months
ago in their room half gone, so it must work. Let’s give it a go, shall we? I’ll
apply it to you if you apply it to me.”

“Can we go natural first? We’ll keep that in reserve. I’ll do unto you what you
did unto me.”

“You can do unto me whatever you like,” she said. “I am yours to do with as
you wish.” I gently pushed her back and applied my lips and tongue to her for
five minutes. When she drew her knees up and opened them wide, dripping with my
saliva and her own fluids, I moved my body be
tween them. “Let me
know if it hurts,” I said, “and I’ll stop and use the stuff.” I had exchanged
enough knowledge with the boys to know all about that first-time trauma, the
taking of the cherry.

“What?” She looked up at me. “Oh.” She kissed me. “No, it won’t hurt. That’s
long gone. I’ve been using tampons for two years.”

I can still remember, over thirty years later, the physical and mental feeling
of slipping my penis in. But my greatest memory is her face—the way she
gradually tilted her chin back so that the top of her head was practically
touching the bed—and her knees she pulled so far back she could rest the soles
of her feet on my shoulders. And for the first time in our intimacy there was no
danger of being heard or of someone coming in on us. As a result Rosie was
unrestrained. Approaching her orgasm she said, “We’ll come back here again
tomorrow. We’ll come back tomorrow and do this again…” over and over until her
words became a jumble of incomprehensible mutterings, tiny shrieks, and oh oh
ohs. I must say, it was a wonderful experience.

After it was over, she reached down and pulled the condom off, dropping it near
the edge of the bed, and cupped her hand over my soft wet snail of a cock. “By
the time I’m finished with you,” she said, “you’ll be able to do a thousand
push-ups in a row.” Then she whispered, “I love you.” And she said those words
about twenty more times, not one following quickly after the other, but after
about thirty seconds of silence each time, until my penis stirred and stood at
attention again. This would be the third climax so far tonight and I was raring
to go.

She rolled over to her condom diary and took one out. She didn’t waste time
passing it to me to fumble with, but without even looking at it gave it a little
rip, took out the ring, and rolled it down over me, all in jig time. “You
certainly have naturally good hand-eye coordination to learn to do that so
quick,” I said.

“I’m motivated,” she laughed and got up on all fours and leaned down on her
elbows and presented that beautiful high ass to me. Her vulva was slightly open
under the upward push and her pink anus looked small, tight, and perfect. In
fact, the whole ensemble was exquisitely inviting. I touched her anus and
delicately pushed my forefinger in a half-inch. “That’s nice,” said Rosie.
“Everything you do is nice.” She reached back between her thighs for my cock and
pulled it forward and in.

With my hands on her hips as I thrust and thrust into the centre, I looked
around. I didn’t think I had a foot fetish, but her feet on my shoul
ders earlier, and now the sight of them resting on their
insteps on the bed with their soles upward and the toes clenched, were a
powerful aphrodisiac to me. Leaning slightly to the sides, I could see her
breasts swaying. I reached ahead and cupped them as they hung down vertically.
The feel and thought of handling them like that turned me into a jackhammer as I
pounded and pounded. When I started to slow down a little, Rosie said, “Don’t
stop, don’t stop,” and began moving faster and faster. I shifted one hand to
her pubic hair and fondled the area of her clitoris. On one hand, she lifted her
upper body to the length of her arm and reached the other hand back to my hand
and guided its movements there to suit herself. Sometimes, she would let the
tips of her fingers graze my penis as it went in and out. When I was coming, she
thrust her backside against me hard half a dozen times, intensifying beyond
belief my release.

We slept like babies in the late afternoon sunshine and the cool air from the
window, spooning tight together under the sheet. When I woke up with another
hard-on pressing against her bum, she reached back, gave it a confirmatory
squeeze, and rolled over again to her condom cache. I said, “How many do you
have left?”

“Just this one.”

“I don’t think there’s anything left in me. We could do it without one. And
I’ll pull out just in case. Otherwise, what are we going to do for
tomorrow?”

“All we need is one little bugger to reach the egg and—that’ll look impressive
on our resumés: mom and pop at fifteen. Here, let’s stick the safe on today and
let tomorrow look after itself.”

Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow, Rosie always came up with the condoms. She
told me that Suzy got some for her, but so as not to embarrass her too much
during her visits to Planned Parenthood, she also filched some from Rothesay’s
stock in the drawer by his and her mother’s bed.

The next year and a half comprised the happiest months of my life or, I was
sure, anyone’s life. Energetic, strong, and horny, and crazy about each other,
Rosie and I lived to make love. We took every opportunity we could. Mutual
masturbation or fellatio, if that’s what the circumstances permitted in my
house, say, when Mom and Dad went out for a short time. A fully clad quickie
down in the entertainment room, if there was presence or movement upstairs. Long
languorous bouts on Rosie’s bed if her mother and stepfather went away or if we
were certain they were out for the after
noon. The first
Christmas of our intimacy presented a challenge to prolonged sex because Pagan
was home for the holidays. But Rosie and Suzy concocted a routine whereby she
and I would go to Suzy’s house when her mother was working a four-to-midnight
shift and we would use the second bed in Suzy’s room, a single bed put there for
Rosie to sleep in when she stayed over. There we copulated and struggled not to
fall over the sides of the jiggly bed, and laughed like two loons whenever one
of us did. Meanwhile, good sport Suzy stayed downstairs or went to the
supermarket or the pizzeria and she shook her head when we came down starved for
our lions’ shares of an extra-large pizza.

We thought we knew how lucky we were as we traced our fingers on the firm,
smooth skin, muscles, and turns of our young bodies and praised each other’s
beauty. I loved how Rosie’s breasts, even though they were full, would point
straight up when she was lying on her back, with no sag to the side whatever,
and when she was standing, there was no fold or crease where the bottoms joined
her ribs. But we had no idea how lucky we were, because that realization only
came with remembering how we looked and felt back then, years later, with
scarred hearts.

We were very careful not to be caught, or at least Rosie was. It was almost as
if she had practised her caution. Absolutely abandoned in our lovemaking when
she felt we would not be discovered, she resisted any impulsively risky moves by
me. Only once were we actually caught out. I should have realized from the time
my semen nearly dropped on her head that it would involve my mother. Rosie said
back then that the universe was under the control of an evil jokester; she might
have added that his chief lieutenant on earth was her Auntie Gladys, my
mom.

AS SUMMER A PPROACHED
,
MOM
and Dad decided to
spend the long weekend of May twenty-fourth cleaning up around a little rustic
house they’d bought in the town of Dildo, Trinity Bay, about an hour out of the
city. Dad had bought the house for the name of the town. He even had notepaper
letterhead printed up with his name and Dildo as his place of residence, which
he used for communications intended to shock or amuse his colleagues and
friends.

I told them I couldn’t go out with them that weekend because I needed the time
to prepare for exams less than a month away. Okay, then I could stay with Brent,
they suggested. But I said no, we’d only spend the time gabbing and watching
sports on TV. I wanted to study and do assignments. So they made the big
decision: since I was nearly fifteen, they would trust me as a responsible young
man to stay home for the first time by myself all night for these two nights. I
could get Brent to come here just to sleep for company. Mom made it clear that
she absolutely trusted Rosie and me not to do anything untoward. She could tell
from observing our behaviour together in the past, she said, that we both had
too much dignity to treat each other with anything but the greatest
respect.

Rosie was pleased when I told her. She had been fantasizing about having her
way with me in my own bed, she said. She was thinking of some different acts we
could perform in honour of the occasion. I told her I couldn’t imagine what
might be left to do. And she replied, touching her buttocks, “Sometimes you put
your finger in. Would you like to go all the way with that K-Y Jelly stuff?” I
closed my eyes and leaned against the wall so that I
wouldn’t
faint. She was talking about something I’d fantasized about myself but
considered so far from possibility in my naive mind that I’d dismissed it. “I
know,” she said, pretending to hold me up. “I felt the same way when I thought
about us doing it.”

That Friday night, I didn’t call Brent to come over. I wanted it all to Rosie
and me. She arrived in a taxi and went immediately upstairs to my room. “It’s
just like I remember it,” she said, beginning at once to disrobe. “There’s no
chance of your mother and father coming back all of a sudden tonight, is
there?”

“None whatsoever,” I said. “They are there for the weekend.” I didn’t know
that for certain. Perhaps they might come home for some unforeseen reason. The
house in Dildo could burn down, for all I knew. I didn’t think Mom would come
home just to make sure that I wasn’t doing to Rosie what I was about to do and
had sworn I wouldn’t do. Mom wasn’t that sneaky and deceitful. And anyway, I
didn’t give a sweet shag. There was no way I was denying myself this
opportunity.

Rosie had a big handbag, and she needed it. She took out of it her locked diary
full of safes and her tube of lubricant. “So, if you’re okay with it,” she said
earnestly, “I would like you to put your bird up in my bum. Every time you
caress it and put your finger in there it really feels good. So what do you
say?”

I was quivering: “I’m okay with it.”

Lying there naked on her side, one knee bent and her foot resting on the calf
of her straight leg, a little glistening in the cleft, matter-of-factly taking
the cover off a condom, she said, “I thought you would be. It’s really erotic to
do that, isn’t it? The very heights of intimacy. Now this condom is already
lubricated. A middle-aged mother comes in handy. But on top of that, we’ll put a
nice bit of K-Y Jelly on it, and you can put some jelly in my bum. We don’t want
to do any damage there.” She looked at me. “I don’t want to be wearing diapers
for the rest of my life.” She collapsed on her elbows in giggles, the condom in
one hand and the tube of K-Y Jelly in the other. I put my arm around her and
kissed her laughing mouth. God, I loved my girl. I took the tube from her and
proffered my penis, upon which she rolled the condom, received a handful of
jelly from me, and smoothed it on with both hands as if she were moulding a
masterpiece. Then she turned over and pushed her backside high in the air and I
daintily applied jelly in and around the puckered pink. Keeping from coming was
my greatest challenge.

Then slowly I poked my penis in. Rosie raised her head and
sighed heavily. I asked her how it felt. “It’s, ah… okay,” she replied. She
reached back and took one of my hands off her hip and placed it on her pelvis.
When I started to caress her clitoris she said, “That’s better.” But after a few
more strokes she said, “Tom, let me turn over and try it from the front.”

She lay on her back and spread her legs wide with her feet in the air and she
put her hands under the small of her back, hoisting her bottom to give me easy
access. After a few more strokes in that position, with me playing with two
fingers a couple of inches above, she said, “That’s good, that’s good, that’s
hitting a good spot.”

When we finished with mutual orgasms, mine twenty seconds ahead of hers, which
felt like a very long time to me, she got up immediately without our usual
cuddle. “I’m going out to the bathroom to examine things,” she said.

Lying there, I looked at the condom, still on and filled with semen and
appearing rather soiled. Gingerly, I took it off and carried it at arm’s length
to the bathroom in my parents’ room, dropped it in the toilet, and flushed. I
was amazed at the difference in my mental attitude towards lower bodily
functions, hers and mine, immediately after my ejaculation compared to
immediately before. Before, I had never felt such excitement and desire at what
I was doing. Now all I wanted to do was jump into my parents’ shower. I swiftly
did so.

When I came out, she was lying on the bed on her side. I stretched out near her
and rested back on my elbows. “You had a shower,” she said. “That’s good
thinking. You’re not supposed to mix up the orifices without a thorough
cleaning.” She cupped her hand over my penis. “Even after using a condom,
because something might be left on the base of your buddy here and then
transferred to my chummy-thing. Especially when someone is so well endowed, the
condom doesn’t go all the way to the base.” My penis stiffened and she gave it a
squeeze. “My goodness, a short pit stop and then zero to a hundred in two
seconds again. You are something.”

“Don’t blame me,” I said. “You’re the cause of it, you’re so sexy and
beautiful and I love you so much.” She closed her eyes and brought her face
nearer for a long, motivating kiss. “Did you want a shower too?” I asked.
“Before you force me to race around the track again.”

“No, thanks.” She made a wiping motion between her legs. “I had a whore’s
bath.” She giggled at me and lay her cheek on my thighs and gently caressed my
penis, looking at it cross-eyed she was so close. “What did you think of what we
just did?”

“It was good.” And truth to tell, I wouldn’t have minded doing
it again, right now. “How about you?”

“It was fine,” she said. “It wasn’t as excellent as the regular way. It felt
more like an internal massage than making love. I’ll tell you what, though. It’s
a good thing to keep in reserve for when we want each other and I’m
menstruating. Then we won’t have to wait four or five days or pull out the
tampon and risk leaving a mess.” Up to then, if we happened to go to bed when
Rosie was menstruating, she would rub her pelvis against mine until she
climaxed. “And I thought of something else in the bathroom, too. Sure, we don’t
even have to use a condom when we do it that way. So if we ever run out, we’ll
still be all set. And you’ll be able to come right inside me then, too. That’ll
be interesting, won’t it?”

“Very.”

She lifted her head and took the top of my straining penis into her mouth. Then
she got up on all fours and pushed her mouth further down over it, but abruptly
stopped. Removing her lips, she looked up at me and said, “Jesus, I almost
gagged then. I’ve got to learn how to deep-throat you properly.”

“Deep—? You mean that dirty movie. Where did you hear about that?” I had
thought that that movie was restricted boy-talk. One of the guys in grade ten
gabbed about his father having a copy of it hidden on the top shelf of his
closet under his sweaters.

“What did you think, girls don’t read fashion magazines?” She got out another
of her condoms and rolled it on. Then she kneeled on either side of my neck and
held herself open for my tongue, after which she walked back on her knees,
deftly put me inside her, and sat down on her haunches, smiling contentedly down
at me as I reached for her breasts.

MY BLISSFUL REMINISCENCES OF
the night in my morning dreams were
disturbed by my mother’s voice. When I opened my eyes, she was standing in the
door to my room. “Tom, wake up, Tom. What is that in our toilet?”

I glanced at my clock. Ten after ten. After I had brought Rosie home by taxi at
eleven-thirty last night, I came back here and flicked on the TV.
My Darling
Clementine
was about to start on the Late Show, and I watched the movie
and about a hundred commercials till it ended at two-thirty. “What are you
talking about… toilet?” I asked, before the horrible possible truth dawned on
me.

“Come out here and look.”

“What are you doing home, anyway?” I tried to inquire
confidently, padding down the hall after her.

“That’s not the issue here. You are. But just to be clear. It was raining so
hard that we couldn’t get anything done outside, so we came home. Okay? Are you
satisfied with my explanation? Now you explain to me what that is in my
toilet.”

A blind person could explain what it was. It was a crumpled used condom resting
placidly on top of the water, still full of semen and still flecked with tiny
pieces of shit. Evidently, it had failed to go down when the toilet flushed. “I
don’t know,” I said on the forlorn hope that she didn’t either.

“It’s a used condom full of semen and with bits of feces adhering to it,” she
said. Damn that unerring nurse’s eye.

“Huh?” I said.

“Don’t try to play dumb, young man. I want you to tell me what that used condom
is doing in there.”

“I have no idea. The backstroke?”

As I might have anticipated, she did not smile at my tired Groucho-Marxism.
“Who was here in this house last night, Tom?”

“Uh, me, and Rosie, and Brent, and Roy, and Suzy, and Trevor, and Vicky, and I
forget. We had a little party. Played some music. They were all gone by
eleven.”

“Who’s Roy, Trevor, and Vicky? I never heard of them.”

“Kids from school. You don’t know them.”

“Which one of you left that in there?”

“I don’t know if anyone left it there. Maybe Dad did.”

She looked at me. It was not so much an “I only wish” look. It was more of an
“Are you completely off your goddamned head altogether?” look. Quietly, she
asked, “How come Brent went home? Why didn’t he stay here as you planned?”

“For the same reason I didn’t go over there for the night. He had something he
had to do with hockey. You may be aware he’s a hockey freak.”

She was really keeping her cool. “Did you and Brent have a fight?”

“No, why would Brent and I have a fight?”

“Tom. Tell me the truth. Did Brent throw that in there?” She looked directly
into my eyes, not in anger, but in sympathy, in understanding. Suddenly I got
it. My mother thought Brent and I were gay lovers and that Brent, because he was
the bigger and stronger of the amorous couple, had spent the evening bumfucking
her son silly.

“What are you talking about, Mom? We’re not fruits or
something.”

“Did I say you were? What time did Rosie go home? How long was she here after
the rest left?”

“She left at the same time as the rest. She and I got a taxi to her place
before eleven-thirty.”

As I spoke, Mom walked down the hall and into my bedroom. She took hold of the
duvet and removed it from the bed with one snap. Then she leaned over the
mattress and examined the bottom sheet. Even from my distance I could see them:
at least four short curly hairs proving beyond any reasonable doubt that Rosie’s
head of auburn hair was entirely natural.

Mom slumped down in my easy chair and looked at me in pain. “My good God,
Tommy, you’re only thirteen,” she breathed.

“Mom, I’m nearly fifteen.”

She sprang to her feet and stepped towards me and roared, “Thirteen, fifteen.
There’s no bloody difference. And your attitude about that only proves how
bloody immature you are. You are a child. Rosie is only a child. She may have
breasts and hips”—she gestured towards the bed— “and goddamned pubic hair, but
she is only a child. You may have ten pounds of cable between your legs, for all
I know, but you are only a child. And you betrayed my trust. And you exploited
that poor girl’s vulnerabil—” Her hand flew up out of nowhere and smacked me
hard across the face. It was the first time in my life my mother had ever struck
me, either in anger or as punishment. I stood there looking at her immobile, my
hands by my side. She glared back for thirty seconds. “Now listen. I’m not
telling your father when he comes in from the garage, because it will hurt him
so badly and he’ll lose all respect for the piece of garbage his trusted and
beloved son turned out to be. It’s bad enough that
I
will never be able
to depend on your word again. But at least now I know.” She turned around to
walk out.