Social Blunders

“He plays all kinds of games with his girlfriends and whores, but with me it’s old, boring squash-the-boobs.” Her voice was sad.

“How do you know he plays games with his girlfriends?”

“They tell me. That slut Tiffany Jane in the shoe department says Skip likes to spread-eagle her on a copier and Xerox the whole thing. I tried getting on top once and Skip called me a ‘feminist.’”

Although she couldn’t be too athletic and drive at the same time, Katrina still managed to keep my attention with her right hand. Manually speaking, most women go at it like the guy is fourteen years old, holed up in the bathroom with a Sports Illustrated swimsuit issue while his sister bangs on the door, shouting, “Hurry up.” Katrina was considerably more subtle.

She went on. “He’s probably got Tiffany Jane in Atlanta right now. Hell, he takes the entire shoe department. I’m taping his dumb football so he doesn’t have to pull out his cock long enough to turn on the TV.”

In her driveway, Katrina decided we’d had enough foreplay. She kissed me long and hard while I fumbled with my seat belt. During French kissing, the average girl expects the boy to extend his tongue instead of her extending hers, but Katrina wasn’t the average girl.

I backed quickly toward my door. “It’s almost eight, we better go inside.”

“I can’t believe you are so anal retentive. If I’d known you were this conventional I’d have chosen somebody else.”

“I’m real conventional, Katrina.”

“Not according to your phrenological chart.”

I got the door open and myself out of the car without falling on the driveway. Katrina followed me out the passenger side, Frenching all the way.

She said, “Let’s do it in the yard.”

“It’s raining.”

“I swear, you have no spontaneity.”

“I don’t believe in spontaneity when it’s raining.”

As I started across the lawn toward the door Katrina tackled me from behind and rolled us more or less under a shrubby bush. She sat astraddle me with her knees on my shoulders.

I said, “You’re not wearing panties.”

“Take me now,” she said.

“Do I have to?”

No use fighting fate. It actually wasn’t that bad by the bush. The ground under my head was nearly dry, and, except for twigs in my back, it was comfortable—not comfortable enough for a nap or reading a book, but passable for nature sex.

Katrina twisted around, yanked off my shoes and socks, and threw them across the yard. She slid onto the grass and began pulling at my jeans and boxers. I arched my back to make it easier on her. When they finally came off, she whirled them around her head like a lasso and let go. Then, she tore off my shirt. This wasn’t my first choice for fun, but I could live with it. Both the Prescott and Saunders houses were dark except for a dim security light over by the Saunders’ driveway. A larger hedge blocked the first-floor view from the house on the other side. I wondered if Gilia had gone to the movie without me. Maybe she was with a boy her own age.

“Okay,” Katrina said. “Let’s rock.”

She climbed on board and went at her thing; I lay back and looked up at the bush. Sex is a lot more relaxing with the woman on top. You can admire the light reflecting on her body and pretend she’s a movie star having the time of her life. You can think about baseball. Woman-on-top combines the best of involvement with the best of spectating; missionary style takes too much concentration.

Whispers came from the street. I clamped my hand over Katrina’s mouth and we listened to a conversation between a boy with two heads, a human fly, and Prince.

“Too dark, ain’t nobody home.”

“We could try.”

“Nobody home and they might have a dog. I’m not going in there.”

“Chicken lips.”

“Worm breath, you’re so brave, you go knock.”

“I’m not if you’re not.”

“We’re wasting time, I told you rich neighborhoods suck.”

“Colored houses give the best candy.”

“Hand me an egg. This’ll teach ’em to stay home Halloween.”

The boy with two heads cocked his arm and let fly. I didn’t see the egg, but a thok hit the second story of the house. Beneath my hand, Katrina struggled to shout. I clamped her harder as the three trick-or-treaters disappeared down the street.

I moved my hand from Katrina’s mouth. “If those kids had come to your door they’d have seen us. Hell, they’d have tripped over us.”

“But they didn’t.” She closed her eyes and resumed hopping up and down.

I grabbed her hips and squeezed to get her attention. “Others will, Katrina. The next batch might come across the yard.”

She exhaled an exasperated “So?”

“So we have to go inside.”

“I’m happy here.”

“I won’t have sex in front of children. Get up, we’re going indoors.”

Katrina considered the alternatives for a few moments. Every now and then she gave an experimental jiggle. That’s when I realized she was doing Kegels in there.

“Katrina.”

“We’ll go in the house, but only on one condition.”

“I don’t do conditions.”

“You can’t come out of me.”

“What?”

“I won’t allow a man to pull out just as it’s getting interesting.”

“I have to pull out to walk.”

“In Five Easy Pieces Jack Nicholson gets inside Sally Struthers and runs all over the room, bumping into furniture and walls and everything.”

“I remember Sally Struthers’ tit.”

“And now she’s on TV collecting money for Feed the Children, so it must be okay. Sally Struthers is normal.”

Why not? The standing position always looked fun in the movies. I sat, then raised up on the soles of my feet. Katrina wrapped her arms around my neck, and, with a grunt—several grunts—I made it upright.

All right. Slight wobble but I’m okay. Felt somewhat like a backpack on backward—all the weight on the hips and the rest was balance. I got my hands on her lower back and we were mobile. More or less. It’s not as romantic or wild as it looks in the movies, but then what is? Given a light woman, it can be done.

“Keys,” I said.

“My jacket pocket.” She pulled her keys out and stuck them between my teeth. Acrobatic details taken care of, she went back to the general purpose of sex—side-to-side, up-and-down, in-and-out. I stumble-shuffled across the wet lawn, for once glad to be barefoot. The porch steps took a one-leg-at-a-time motion with frequent rests. At the top, I sort of fell forward and propped Katrina against the wall. She, of course, did nothing to help. In fact, from the “God don’t stop” and “Oh baby” sounds, she seemed on the edge of something big.

I got the keys from my mouth and fumbled at the lock for some time before the door swung open. Like a groom carrying his bride across the threshold, I stepped into the Prescott house, amazed that we’d made it across the yard and inside without being seen. Katrina kicked the door closed behind me, plunging us into blackness.

What next, I thought, then an instant later blinding light slammed my eyes and a bunch of voices shouted “Surprise!”