The Fog of War
You’re climbing down a ladder on your way to see him, climbing down each icy rung so delicately; it’s pitch-black, after 2 a.m., and you’re nervous. You can see the TV flickering through the living room window but no other movement. Your mom’s in her pre-bedtime stupor; all is well.
Now the grass is numbing your feet, so you’re stepping gingerly towards the barbecue, where your socks and boots are stashed.
Dead of winter, Puget Sound, 1991. The fog’s in full force, groping everything in its path and you’re just a little spark of teenage lust in worn-out Docs, darting through.
It’s only a block-and-a-half to the high school parking lot, but it feels so much longer. The nitrous of these brief forays into liberation is dizzying. You stop halfway behind the shed to catch your breath and think about how sexy you look. Your black cotton leggings and round little ass—his prize. He’s been hot for it so long he won’t know what to do with it! You’re breathing hard, leaving clouds before you—your fingers freezing, you shove them up, under your shirt, a hand on each breast and a nice little squeeze—have they gotten just a tiny bit bigger? Seems like there’s a new slight excess, just beyond the breadth of your grasp. God, your nipples are hard as bullets. He’s gonna go nuts.
At the tips of your toes, the ground is silver with frost. This is where you made out with S a thousand times. Rolling in the dirt, his skateboard beside you and his fingers hungrily inside you and his breath hot down your neck. Only two weeks ago, you were here with him and you asked, “Am I beautiful?”
“Course, baby, yeah,” he said without stopping.
“And am I, like ... thin?”
At this he stopped and ran a hand contemplatively around your side. “Pretty thin.”
The bastard. But how could you compete with the girls he most preferred. Girls who went to the junior high down the hill. Girls without hips. Girls without protest.
You follow the fence up the hill and see the boundary wall now, but beyond it, around it, nothing. The school itself is completely engulfed in fog. It’s so cold—your nose is running and your jacket feels too sexy and too thin and he’s not here?? You step around the wall and the parking lot is deserted. You look around and listen hard for the sound of a car. Maybe he got caught up at a party. Maybe he’s drunk somewhere. Or high.
Excellent.
Now what. Alone at your stupid high school in the middle of the night. You climb up onto the wall and tilt your head, listening for his car. Nothing but the drone of foghorns, echoing through the streets of your sleeping hometown. You climb down morosely and think of S. His wet kisses, tasting of Camel Reds and coffees with way too much sugar in them. Wonder where he is. He made you feel old, that boy, and not in a good way. Like a thirty year old, too smart and not enough fun.
No one understood why you were together. But you were together for almost three years and eventually they stopped asking you. And meanwhile, your own bewilderment had grown beyond imagining. So you dumped him. Shit, of course you dumped him! He was lame. Not worthy.
And yet, on the day you chose to tell him all this, you felt a weird sense of nostalgia and let him walk you home for one last session. The two of you in your parents’ living room, “Bleach” on the tape deck, engaged in ‘heavy petting,’ as your mom would say. Him fucking you with his fingers harder than any boy ever had. Let’s get in my parents bed, you said. They won’t be home for two hours.
“Yeah, totally.”
He stripped off his many layers. So many layers on those semi-homeless skater boys. You started to take off your boots and he grabbed your hand. No, leave those, he said. And he pushed up your baby doll dress and started licking the inside of your knees. Your panties were already off and you were sooo wet for him. You were throbbing. Almost doubting your plan! Your pussy anxious for his fingers again. The start of his knuckles. And then, yeah, goddaaaamn, there they were, pushing in, thick and strong and crammed together, fucking you.
You moaned and clutched at his wavy brown hair—you loved to rub those shaved parts around his ears, the base of his skull, feel the stubble with the palm of your hand and grab his hair while he’s jamming his tongue in your mouth and telling you what a slut your cunt is for his fingers.
“Yeaaah, you’d do aaaaanything for that shit, wouldn’t you baby ... ”
He’s lying against you, whispering in your ear, and you can feel his cock digging into your hip, the heat waving off his hard and bruised limbs. He has the most beautiful olive skin. Whenever you got drunk you would just tell him to shut up so you could forget his personality and lick his gorgeous body all over. To suck on his nipples and kiss his hungry stomach and totally devour him.
You reach over and rub his cock, straining against the thin fabric of his boxer shorts. Sometimes you feel like you’d let him do anything but that’s just your lust talking. In the back of your mind there’s a need for control. Your hand’s on the flesh of his erection now, so hot and desperate, he’s grinding it into you.
“Come on Marya, it’s been forever.”
Not really, you thought. It’s been since I heard about you and that prepubescent skank in front of everyone at Giustin’s party.
“Yeah, OK,” you say, kissing him, pulling him onto you, “Fuck me hard this time, loser.”
“Oh god yeah ... ” Then he was naked, and on top of you, his beautiful body driving into you, his teeth against your neck, the stubble of his scalp scraping against your cheeks. And you, trying to stay detached—though you’re grabbing his ass with your rebellious hands and groaning for real—fuck! you thought, this was supposed to be a token act, proof that there’s nothing between you, proof that it’s over.
“You can’t get enough, can you baby,” he grunted as his sweat dropped on your face and his body thrust into you like the best porno daydream, “You slut, you little slut,” and when he threw his head down in choked ecstacy and his beautiful body contracted into spasms you couldn’t get enough, your cunt determined everything and as he ground his pelvis into yours, giving you every last drop of his come, you felt like you would die without him.
But you dumped him afterwards anyway.
There’s a lump in your throat and you light this pathetic bent cigarette you found in your pocket. That’s the spark. You’re the loser. Halfway down already and your fingers are totally numb, you’re jacket’s too thin, you’re shivering so much. Trying to be sexy is usually just uncomfortable ... You’re trying too hard. Nothing feels right. You’re hoping that when he shows he’ll have a bit of wine for you.
In the distance, the clock tower bongs three times. Jesus. Are you going to spend the night alone in your own high school parking lot, freezing your sexy little ass off? You fish a vial of Poison perfume out of your pocket and dab it on clumsily. Five more minutes and you’ll accept defeat and go back to the ladder. Though it seems all wrong to climb that ladder sober, with NO fresh memories of getting it on.
But then out of the silence, a car climbing the hill. First one all night—it has to be him. You toss your cigarette and start walking towards it, but you hesitate, because you can’t see very far and suddenly it occurs to you, what if it’s not him? It could be a cop, or some psycho tweeker looking for wee-hour entertainment.
As the blurry headlights crest the hill you make a dash and crouch behind a bush, your heart pounding and pounding and why are you freeeeaking out.
The headlights get brighter as they creep towards you. They’re driving really slow, which means they’re drunk or a father or something, and now they’re turning towards the parking lot, which doesn’t mean anything. Everyone cruises the HS lot when they’ve got nothing better to do. Goddamn fog, can’t even tell what kind of car
it is.
The car pulls to a stop at the furthest parking space. The door opens and someone gets out, someone tall, must be a guy.
“MaaaRYYYYYYaaa?!”
Idiot. You run towards the car.
“Jesus Christ, Giustin, are you high?”
“High ‘n’ horny, sweetheart.” He grabs you into his arms and buries his bristly face in your neck.
“Fuckinay—calm down,” his embrace is so warm and big, smelling of incense and potsmoke, so inviting ... but you push against him anyway and try to punch him in the stomach. “I’ve been waiting here forever, you dick.”
“Yeah, sorry about that, dramas at the casa, you know ... Don’t worry about it. Get in.”
He cranks up the heat and you press your palms to the vents. He’s leaning against the door, facing you, smiling.
“What?”
“I’m just stoked, that’s all.”
“What, stoked that I’m using you? Stoked that you’re my ho?”
“C’mon, don’t be like that.” He gently takes a bit of your long hair in his fingers. “It’s just ... I never thought he was good enough for you. Seriously.”
“Aren’t you supposed to be one of his best friends?” You frown towards the windshield. The headlights are on but all you see is white. “Turn your headlights off.”
“I guess.” He flicks the lever and everything turns to black but the glowing dashboard, and the two of you reflected in dim red and blue. “But these things are fluid. We’re teenagers for fuck’s sake.”
His hand slips behind your neck and he’s pulling you in, he’s kissing you. His tongue so strong and his mouth so warm you just want to crawl inside. His hands so hot, so deft and comforting, into your clothes and down the back of your silky underwear already, massaging your flesh, groaning.
“Oh gaawwd, girl, I’ve been dreaming of this ass for so long, I can’t even tell you ... ”
“Remember to mention that when you tell everyone... ” you murmur, breathing deep and throbbing so much yourself that it kind of seems like you’ve been dreaming of it too.
Copyright © 2005 by Holly Vitale. All rights reserved.
Holly grew up on the lovely shores of Puget Sound, during which time she wrote for fun and pursued a career in journalism. Around 2001 she had a bit of a ‘quarter-life crisis,’ moved to Australia, and changed careers completely. So at the moment she’s back to writing just for fun, but hasn’t ruled out getting serious again someday – especially when it comes to writing about sex. On a personal note, she gives heart-felt thanks to the people who have encouraged her to be naughty over the years.
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