Why did Marilee continue to hang out with an old guy like me? Especially a petite blonde so cute she could have any boy she wanted on her junior-college campus? Especially given that our journey together had begun as a whim on a rainy day, when she, bored, had grown tired of waiting in the rain for the bus, and stuck out her thumb while I happened to be driving by?
Theists and romantics would probably argue that some unfulfilled meaning were in the air along with the raindrops, destiny and fate falling from the clouds to land in puddles of mud by the side of the road. Does everything truly need to have a purpose? While she splashed her way across the gutter to open the door to warmth and plush dryness, fastened herself in to the security of my Jaguar’s passenger seat, did she imagine the next year or two to follow?
True, her GPA had gone up during our time together, and clearly as the result of it: us old guys know stuff. When she graduated from college, I could look forward to being discarded like a piece of burnt toast — except, with much better memories of her than any slice of scorched bread might be likely to cherish. I was hoping she would go for a PhD. Wishful thinking.
It had all begun with Faust. While she sat there surveying the swishing wipers, and dripping daintily on my upholstery, I struggled to begin the conversation. She seemed contented with the silence.
“What’s the latest and greatest?” I asked, knowing it would sound stilted and creepy to her. Like something her father would say.
She sighed. “This silly paper I’m supposed to write about Faust,” she revealed. “Except I don’t write so good.”
“So ‘well,’” I corrected. “You want an adverb, not an adjective.”
She looked up at me woefully and pursed her ruby lips, the damsel in distress, with her eagle-nose that she hated and I adored. It gave her the look of such seriousness, but when she smiled it was heaven on earth.
“Maybe you would sell your soul for a well-written paper,” I had quipped, hardly realizing that she would wind up later that day doing approximately that. A soul for worldly riches, or sex for scholarly ones, which is a greater sin?
Of course, I had long ago abandoned any belief in sin as the Church taught it. Not that morality has no purpose, but such focus on who should be intimate with whom, and how, seems to me the grand distraction from true immorality such as the war of the wealthy against the poor, or the war of the military against innocent civilians.
Pardon my dry musings, but it was exactly such tendencies that endeared me to Marilee. Or at least prompted her to return again and again. I had no interest in spying on her life in the time she spent away from me, which was possibly another factor inducing her to stick around. No boy her age could consent to go out with her without experiencing as a result uncontrollable conniptions of jealousy.
I invited her over, and we had tea together. And with the best of intentions, I assisted her in her studies, until she sat on my lap and looked into my eyes with enormous clear orbs that burned into my soul with yearning.
Our sex was wonderful. She had no pretense of either experience or innocence. I surmised that this was not her first time, although I did not ask. The possibility was not entirely out of the question, given that she did seem to lack familiarity (or effectively feigned unfamiliarity) with the basic mechanics.
We started by kissing and making out, gradually shedding layers, down to our underwear. Hers was black and frilly. Mine were plain boxers, with scarlet paisley. Finally her bra came off — not that it had much to support. But how wonderful the curvacious mounds it had concealed, and how lovely the way they bounced.
Her cell phone rang, and she scowled, rolling off the bed to shut it off. When she returned, smiling, she tugged at the elastic in my shorts, eventually pulling them down to reveal. It was the way she played with my genitalia that made her seem to innocent. As if she had never held such a thing in her bare white hands before.
I could barely believe it myself. That somebody so young could find me so fascinating. The same way I found her. Seeing through her eyes made me feel young again, a sensation I had thought might be gone forever. It’s amazing what can return to life. And the passion I felt, the electricity where she touched me, and I gathered she felt the same where I touched her, my hands feeling enormous around her tiny shoulders.
And when that touch became charged with sexuality, if I stroked the side of her breast, or she brushed my inner thigh, the charge multiplied a hundred-fold. And then when, finally, she slid away the infinity-knot of her panties and revealed the mysterious forbidden opening within, and I slipped my clean fingers gently against the opening, dripping with warm moisture, I felt sure I might burst. From the sound she emitted, she must have felt the same.
Beyond that point, the rest was inevitable. There might have been a flood, an earthquake, or fire, but it would not have mattered. There was something unstoppable about our drawing together, something “of course,” about the sturdiness of my instantaneous hard-on, something so natural about the way it felt to press my tip between her juicy labia, and work my way into the tight opening as she impatiently lifted her pelvis to shove herself against me, and something so profound and intense about the emotions we both felt, that both of cried out in the most ridiculous ways, and yet neither of us cared how silly it might have sounded.
How she climaxed, again and again, until finally I unloaded my passion deep inside of her, her upward, cherishing gaze goading my orgasm until we both felt the gentle pulsations of fluid being transferred.
Later, I spent way too much time assisting her wording and concepts. After all, I couldn’t just give her the answers — then what would she do on the tests?
A devil’s bargain, to be sure.