Down to the literal minute, we had the time set as to when we would all finally spend time together.

We had Shana’s mom clocked:

At 6:30p, she would be leaving out for her club meeting.

Our guys were to arrive about 6:45, leaving open-that fifteen minute window to allow enough time for Shana’s mom to come back and pick up anything she thought she might have left.

She would be walking back into the building at exactly 9:25p.

If all goes well, we all should be good and out by then-as if we never were there. 

We made plans to get together over at Shana’s house on that cold November 4^th day, where Shana would be cuddled up in her bedroom with his friend Wes. And he and I would be snuggled up on the comfy living room sofa by the door-you know: “talking.”

Shana and Wes tucked themselves back into her cozy bedroom-door closed-while he and I had the luxury of looking at the front door while we talked. My heart was beating fast. I was shaking like the last leaf on a tree. 

“Come here and stand up. Stand right here-right here in front of me,” he said to me with a deep frown in his brow, strategically positioning me in front of him like a chess piece.

“Why?” I asked repeatedly all the while, allowing him to position me the way he wanted me.

“I just want to look at you,” he responded. 

He began to run his hands down my arms, waist, hips and thighs without saying a word, like he was examining me. It was creepy and weird to me: his touch, his way, the scene-everything. I couldn’t tell if I was turned on, scared or both. I think it was both, but I was so afraid to allow myself to be aroused enough to respond, so I just stood there.

He then lifted my shirt up, grabbed me by the waist, and then turned me around so that he could now look at me from the back. I cooperated by still allowing him to turn me in circles as if he was admiring something that he was about to buy, take home, and eat. When I made my way back around to standing in front of him, he moved closer to the edge of the couch while looking up at my face as if he was asking for permission, yet, nothing came out of his mouth. He placed his hands around my ass and something finally came out: “Why do you always wear things to cover your butt? You can still see it!” he said-bluntly-in a tone totally opposite the moment.

That caught me off guard and made the moment even more awkward for me. I reached to pull my shirt back down while quickly removing his hands from around me as if to convey the message: “You blew it!” to him.

He ignored the gesture. He then stood up to turn the kitchenette light on then turned off the light in the living room (where we were).

He sat back down and proceeded with more instructions: “Stand back right here,” he asserted. 

He was so awkward and technical. I was so nervous and nervous. When he reached underneath my shirt again, I jumped back a little bit-not wanting him to touch my stomach. He was going straight for my breasts anyway; grabbing them while letting out an awkwardly aroused sigh that sent chills through my body as he began to caress my breasts fervently.

Before I knew it, my pants had hit the floor along with my shirt and all the rest of my clothes. He scooted back on the couch for me to get on top of him. I grabbed his dick and thought hard about mounting him, and just going for it-only because I could tell that was what he was expecting and positioned himself for me to do. I wasn’t quite ready to do it though. He had positioned himself about as blunt, awkward and assertive as he was in conversation that whole evening already. I was powerless the whole night: from the conversation, his touch and this very moment. I needed some time to think, even though my clothes were off of my body. Although I knew he was laying there waiting for me to mount him, I could not do it. I froze. My mouth froze as well. I wanted to tell him that I needed him to enter me first-before I could mount him. At the point of intercourse and entry, I had a thing about being laid on my back, missionary or any way submissive and “in receipt-of” first-before the party could begin. It always seemed like that was they way it was supposed to go. It turned me on. I gestured to let him know how I wanted it without dripping a word from my frozen mouth. He cooperated. He laid me on the couch, folded my legs toward my chest and gently slid himself into to me. At that very moment, there were fireworks woven in between his moans, grunts and breathlessness. I had no idea this was going to be like this. I felt like a fucking virgin. It felt so good. My mouth dropped and I began to cry. I didn’t know what was happening to me at this moment. I just couldn’t process it at all. His shaking and deep breathing lead the whole moment as I followed his lead by slowly meeting his manly thrusts deep into me. We were fucking as if each long stroke was something that we both wanted to last forever. We must have sounded like two animals in a slow heat.

He jumped, yelled out and pulled out of me as if he was trying to stop himself from cumming so soon: “Angie, please-please get on top of me, I want to talk to you,” he pleaded. I could do it this time. By now, if he asked me to stand on my head I probably would have.

But he lay on his back.

I got on top and mounted him. My legs were shaking nervously like a doe struggling for strength. I was afraid to grab him and put him inside of me, but rather-hoping he would take the lead again.

He did.

With his right hand, he grabbed his dick while holding my ass with his left hand and slid himself back into me, biting his bottom lip as if he was singing his favorite song; thrusting into me as if he was making moves to the beat of that very same song. It was awesome. All I could do was throw my head back and bite my own bottom lip.

He went from biting his bottom lip to puckering them and frowning with a kind of pleasure like he was in full concentration of the circumference of my warm vagina that gripped him so tightly. He nodded his head back and forth in total disbelief yelling “ah shit,” repeatedly-as if after this night, it was going to be some trouble…

It was explosive.

It was weird because initially, I wasn’t in the mood to fuck him and he hardly gave me the foreplay that I was so used to with Santana, and I certainly didn’t give him the foreplay that I loved to give. I wondered if my pussy would even get wet enough for him. But from the moment he lay me down and entered me-I exploded and it was on and popping from there.

His awkward lovemaking was slowly turning me on. I felt like I could get used to his way. His touch-every sound, every facial expression he made, turned me on. Every step of the way, he surpassed my arousal times ten. So much so that I could barely fuck him back. I remained frozen stiff throughout the entire fuck. I could hardly move-consistently. He dominated everything all the way down to the way he fucked and thrust me. It was as if he just wanted to take and scrape it all. I eventually allowed him to use me every which way he wanted to. I had no other choice.

This second sexual encounter (with him), felt like what my first time (with Santana) was supposed to be like. I didn’t know the how-many-eth time it was for him, but I know he wasn’t a virgin-like Santana was-our first time. I didn’t care though. I just knew that from the moment I was with him this night, I felt like a virgin-all over again.

 He more than busted my cherry (so it seemed), he also busted my fucking tear ducts because I cried silently while biting my own bottom lip as well, from the very moment he entered me throughout the entire fuck-the whole night. It felt unbelievable. I was a combination of: embarrassed, horny, virginal, sad, happy, worried, uptight and aroused with this weird dude who had been stalking me forever and a day. He didn’t know what to think about all my emotions in this moment. All he could do was let all that he had inside of him-out, while he looked up at me wiping my tears:

“I wanted this so bad. I wanted you so bad. I thought about you for so long. You don’t know how bad I wanted this moment. I’m so happy right now-girl, I’m so happy right now,” he confessed.

I still could not say anything back because I was still frozen. He was still doing all the fucking and grinding deep up into me while my eyes continued to roll in my head and my tears rolled down my face. I believed what he said, because he had been fucking me that night like he had been alone with me inside his mind and in his dreams he kissed my lips a thousand times, and sometimes saw me walk outside his door.

Hello…

I was stunned. I placed my hands on top of one another, covering my lower stomach with my fingers and kneading my pussy-in an effort to keep his focus on and into my pussy only.

“Angie-you got some good pussy. This pus’ is gooo-ed,” he pronounced and grunted, with his lips puckered again-looking like he was some thug, yet he was far from one. He seemed to pucker his lips when it would get exceptionally good to him. I liked that. It was especially exciting because I always had a thing for opening my legs for my man. So the thought of mounting him with my legs spread apart while he looked right down into my world as he slurped through his lips, was exciting to me. He would grunt, pucker and stare at my crouch-while enjoying the rhythm he had going; thrusting himself upward and deep into me with that concentrating look on his face-listening to the sound of himself going in and out of me-still puckering his lips and looking in as if he could see the circumference of it all in x-ray vision.

It was a mess between us. He was digging from inside of me-a wet rush down onto him that was making all kinds of sounds that he was enjoying like good music. Each thrust into me seemed to pop sparks inside of me, yet I still couldn’t respond. He had a firm grip onto me and fucking me as if the top of me was not even there. He kept grunting and stroking up and into me harder as if he was going to fuck a verbal response out of me. He grabbed me by my waist and held me stiff, then began to grind up into me like he was punishing me for not fucking him back or telling him how much I loved it. I refused to say a word and do anything more than bite down on my jowls, eventually, I was gasping and moaning out for mercy. He was working hard and enjoying it so much. It was almost like had I told him I loved it-the fuck wouldn’t have been as good. He was working hard. I couldn’t talk if I wanted to, I could only gasp and squeal into the air. I was too stunned and speechless. Scared and aroused-all at the same damn time.

The more I gasped and squealed with my head falling back, the harder, deeper and slower he grinded up into me. I dug my nails into his arms, biting down on my teeth until my jaws and ears wanted to pop out the sides of my head.

I couldn’t take it anymore.

I fell into his chest and bawled myself up like a snail while he lifted his legs up-nearly folding me in half; thrusting even deeper, and harder up into me. In an instant, he grabbed my shoulders to look me in the face: “Angie-Angie! Say you’ll have my lil’ girl, say you’ll have my baby. Say it-say you’ll have my baby.”    

Little did he know those were the magic words that snapped me out of the daze I was in: im-me-diate-ly. I wanted him out of me, and I wanted me having this lil’ girl from out of his mind (once again): im-me-diate-ly.

“No, no!” I finally spoke.

“Please!” he kept asking-desperately. “Please have my lil’ girl.”

I could hear him near gargling, so I quickly lifted off of him but held my face into his chest while holding his dick with my both my hands; covering it completely as if I did not want any air to get in and ruin his moment and change what it was his dick was feeling while being inside of me.

I was insulating.

He was ejaculating.

I was jerking him.

I made sure every ounce rested in my hands-not inside me.

I wanted off of him-but he kept holding me like he did not want to let me go. 

As we got dressed and after, I never responded to anything he said to me for the duration of his stay-at all. I just wouldn’t talk to him. I froze up-all over again.

It was time for Shana to make he and Wes leave so that we could straighten up the house before her mom came back home.

I walked towards the kitchen away from him and he came following me, backing me into the wall. He kneeled and dropped down to his knees to look up at me almost apologetically and like he had one of those “Lady Sings the Blues”/Billy-Dee Williams moments. It was so manly and romantic-his “way.” The way he frowned his brows and puckered his lips as if to say “ooh” when he would talk to me-like he finally had the gift he had always wanted. It was a combination of lust and adoration; almost like my pussy + heart were was written all over his face. That’s what turned me on more than anything about him. He looked at me the same way he did after we fucked, the way he did before we fucked. The same way he looked at me standing outside talking to me, in Wes’ car and everywhere else. That look was always there before and after. And I liked that. 

He was so awkward, but sexy.

I was feeling just as awkward as I did before we fucked-standing there feeling just as awkward after. No less awkward while standing outside talking to him, in Wes’ car and everywhere else. 

I held my head downward but turned to the right some-not wanting him to look at me in the face. His placed his thick fingers to the sides of my face-trying to secure and center my face in his hands to look at him:

“Please talk to me. Tell me if I made you do something you didn’t want to do?” he kept saying, over and over.

“No, I wanted it. I just have something on my mind, that’s all,” I responded.

To him, that must have sounded like this was goodbye forever:

“Angie, tell me. Is this the last time I’m going to see you again? Tell me,” he demanded to know.

“No, no it’s not.” I replied.

“I’m going call you later tonight. Is that okay?” he asked. 

He did.

We talked on the phone for a long time about our night we had and the days before it. All of a sudden, my other line rang. The male party asked: “Angie, what are you doing?”

I was confused because it didn’t sound like Santana, but I knew that the only other guy who had my telephone number was Pucker (who was on the other line with me).

The male party opposite Pucker started laughing in my ear. I was really confused then.

It was Pucker using his parent’s line trying to confuse me. When we got back to our line he said to me: “Angie, I notice that you were nervous-real nervous, why? Why were you so nervous?”

I didn’t have a clear answer for him, but I did not tell him that I thought he was Santana either. We talked for a while longer, and then got off the phone.

We ended up cozying up on the phone pretty much the same time everyday-routinely-until my schedule changed because I had gotten a job at the hamburger joint that I had applied to, the same night that I officially met him. 

You see, we had originally first saw one another once while shopping for sneakers for Santana one Saturday afternoon-back when I was pregnant and home on one of my weekends from the pregnant jail.

He and Wes were in the sneaker store following Santana and me around every section that we turned to walk through. Pucker would make his way across from me-forcing me into eye contact. I managed to ignore him for a long time, but it was obvious that he was not going to leave the store until I acknowledged his presence at some point. I decided to look back at him and he looked at me like a baby deer caught in headlights. I kept Santana preoccupied with conversation representative of my being his personal shopper, slash fashion critic, slash buyer; so as to distract him away from this guy and his buddy who totally invaded my space.

It was soooo weird.

If Santana caught that exchange, he would have sworn I knew them, but I didn’t. 

I didn’t think much of Pucker at that time because he looked like an older guy. And by this time (and years into a relationship of normalcy with Santana); it was like my crushes on older guys and my flings with girls, was [what I thought it was]: a phase that would soon pass. So in that sneaker store, Pucker (in my eyes) was merely another cute older guy trying to get my attention. And I did not want to give him the same opportunity that I gave the last older guy that sequestered me the last time I was in a store with Santana. It was a nightmare for me.

It happened quite some time before I was to report off to the pregnant jail. I was no where near showing-in the face or stomach.

Santana and I had walked around to the store to buy all the things to calm and satisfy my cravings that I was having: vinegar, pickles, peppermints and plain potato chips. Out of nowhere appeared this older man (who invaded both of our spaces). He looked at Santana with his arm around me then looked at me as if he had a flashback and remembered his own daughter was once in love the way were. He had a few choice words for me: 

“Don’t let this young man ruin your life! Don’t let him mess your life up before you get to live it! You bea-u-ti-ful girl you! Don’t let him get you pregnant and make your life go down the drain! Don’t do it!” yelled this stranger- sounding like the ghost of my estranged dad who would rather burn in hell than to know that I was in the condition that I was in.

It caught both Santana and me by surprise and ruined my day. I was already waning in and out and back and forth about what I was going to do about the pregnancy. This all was too much for me. I looked around for my dad in that store because it sure as hell seemed like that man was paid to say that, or some hidden camera person was going to jump out and apologize. Santana and I hurriedly walked out having bought nothing. My taste buds were even affected-my cravings were no longer. I just wanted to go home and finish off the cry that had begun the moment I turned away from that strange man and burst through the doors of that store to head home. Santana was so hurt. That scene both haunted and traumatized the both of us. Neither one of us said a word to each other about it-ever again. He just held me while I cried myself to sleep.  

So when Santana and I were sequestered in that sneaker store as Pucker followed us around; I would be damned if this was going to be a repeat of what had happened just a short time right before. Uh uh-no how! No way! I insisted. So I broke Puckers forceful eye-contact then coached Santana into picking out the nearest sneaker, and we hauled ass out of that store.

But Pucker seemed to reappear what seemed like every other time Santana and me would go for a walk around the block and down to the (haunted) corner store.

From the moment we would make it to the left side of the street to begin our walk down on the long main street, like clockwork-this blue vehicle would be out in the distance blasting this classic jam by a group called “Cameo.” As lyrics would play: “Back-back-and-Fourth-and-Fourth. Our loves goes: Back-back-and-Fourth-Fourth. As we go…Back-back-and-Fourth-Fourth...” I could tell when it would be moving closer to us, because the sound would be clearer-backed by a lot of base from his speakers. After about the third time this had happened, when I would hear it, my heart would begin to beat faster. Because just as disregarding to Santana’s presence he was in the sneaker store-he was that same way when he would see us walking. It’s just that when we were in the sneaker store, I had no idea that he was that same guy-all that time. 

But this day in particular that he had come down the street blasting his music, it all came together-it was him, yet again. Each time we would see him, I would just lower my head and hold Santana’s hand tightly, and he would grab mine even tighter. Even though Pucker was evasive, Santana knew I didn’t know him-so we both just ignored him.

Pucker refused to be ignored though. His face was becoming more common to me; popping up in strange places all over the city.

This next time, from behind the kitchen of a chicken joint he was working at. He was peeking out at me looking like Tyrin Turner peeking from behind the fence in awe of Janet and her crew in that Rhythm Nation video. It was strange-he was strange.

This time however, I was not with Santana. I was with my oldest brother’s girlfriend-out shopping. It was the same day that my mom and Dana’s mom’s had Santana sequestered in the house, torturing him by breaking the fake news to him that I was gone out on a date to explore my options. Ironically, I was out without Santana, but instead: being explored: 

“Hi, how are you doing?” he asked, feeling like it was his lucky day.

“I’ve seen you before! I’ve seen you before! Can I talk to you for a second?” he said, excitedly and as if his double-confirming that he had seen me before was enough to have earned him the right to have my hand in conversation.

I didn’t respond to him, but rather, acted as if I didn’t hear him; fidgeting through my purse as if I was preoccupied and digging for something-do or die.

“Can I be your friend?” he asked-urgently. It was so awkward.

I thought he so was weird because he was so eager and excited. But he was simply trying to get in on this first open opportunity he had seen me without Santana-which was a rarity for anybody to see. Wherever I was, Santana was not too far behind.

I looked up at him and snapped at him: “I have the same boyfriend!”

He kept on insisting:

“I can be your friend. Can I be your friend? I can be your friend,” he kept insisting-impatiently and awkwardly as if he was bargaining at his last chance at life.

I scolded him with my eyes and gave him the look of death. Because although it wasn’t visible to him, little did he know, I had a possibility growing inside of me and it felt gross to me-having him in my face this way.

We made it out of the chicken joint without my being plucked. 

Pucker refused to be ignored however.

He appeared again-the day Shana and me were up at the mall shopping and picking up job applications. We ended up, last, in Walgreens. At the end of the store aisle I saw a man staring down the isle as if he knew either Shana or me. I couldn’t make out that I knew him and I was sure he didn’t know me, so I moved out of his view and stood closer to Shana and whispered to her: “Girl, you didn’t take nothing did you? ‘Cause it’s a man in here way down at the end of the isle-following us from isle to isle!”

I had to double-check on that with Shana because she was cunning as they come. She was a very sweet girl with a soft-spoken and delicate way about her, but you had to watch her. She could steal the clothes off your ass and have you walking around not knowing you were naked.

Once, she borrowed a pair of my sneakers and I called her up to get them back from her. She did me one better-she brought them to me. She allowed me (and went out of her way) to make me see that she was returning them by sliding them right back under my bed. But sometime during her visit, she stole them right back from me and tried to convince me that I must have misplaced them. She was sneaky like that-so, you had to watch Shana. I sure as hell didn’t intend on going to jail from Walgreens that night.

“Girl I didn’t take anything! I swear-she insisted.

I responded: “Girl, he keeps looking down this isle at us like he knows one of us-or something.”

She squinted and looked down the isle but he had walked away.

Coast clear. 

Another guy walked down the isle, and up on Shana:

“Hi Wes!” yelled Shana into the guys face, they hugged.

She introduced us.

“I’m in here with my dude-you guys hanging out longer? How are you getting home?” asked Wes.

From the other end of the isle, that same man walked towards us slowly.

He nodded and spoke to Shana as if he knew her. She spoke back to him. Wes was whispering in her ear.

Low and behold, it was that same guy who drives up and down my street, who works at the chicken joint and disregards my boyfriend.

This time, I was outnumbered-everyone knew each other except me. Confidently, patiently and like a gentleman, he gave me his hand, and introduced himself to me by name.

I replied:

“Hi,” I said quickly, throwing my hand up then down: quickly, too.

“Angie is it okay if Wes takes us home?” asked Shana-in front of everybody.

I pulled her to the end of the isle:

“That tall man always tries to talk to me girl! No! Not if he’s with him!”

I laughed and gasped-thinking of how he seemed to show up everywhere I seemed to be.

In her high-pitched voice, Shana replied:

“Girl that aint no man! That’s Wes and n’em’s boy. They all grew up together. They’re all around the same age. He’s only about a year or two older than you and me! He just looks older than us. He is so fine! All the girls chase him! He is fine! I don’t know what you’re talking about! You’d better get on with that one if he’s chasing you like that!”

I laughed and said:

“He’s so hairy and tall. Look at all that shadow hair on his face. He’s got hair all on his arms and shit girl. No! What eighteen year-old boy looks like that? He’s sooo hairy!” I cringed.

Shana thought that was the funniest thing she had heard all day. 

We walked out and over to Wes’ car. Hairy got happy-thinking he was going to be able to sit next to me in that back seat that he stuffed himself into with space left for me.  Before seating could take its course, I told Shana to switch places with me so that I could sit in the front with her friend Wes-who was driving, and she could sit stuffed in the back with happy Hairy. She agreed. We got situated and starting heading home.

From the back seat, Hairy’s long arm kept reaching for my arm.

He kept begging for conversation in that same bargaining and impatient way he did at the chicken joint that day. I would short answer his constant questions with my head turned downward and to the left, then I’d turn quickly back to the right to look out of the window.

We pulled up to Shana’s house and I hurriedly opened that car door to get away from that man! Eighteen my ass!

“Could I PLEASE talk to you for a second, one second-PLEASE,” he pleaded as if he could not take the chase anymore. I looked at him and squinted my eyes as if I was seeing if I could trust him:

“Yeah…” I snapped.

He looked surprised, and looked me in the eyes as if he trying to trust that I would not yell: “Psyche!”

I didn’t. 

We stood outside the apartment talking small talk.

“May I switch phone numbers with you?” he asked. 

“I keep telling you that I have a boyfriend! I cannot call you! And you can’t call me!” I snapped again, desperately hoping that it was enough to make him go away and I would never see him again. 

“Pleeeeeaase let me call you. Call me then-please, I just want to talk you soooo bad,” he pleaded.

I paused. I was trying to think of a question to ask him that would be a perfect exit and way out for me. We went at it-and fast-like a game of talking tennis:

“Do you have a girlfriend?”

“No.”

“Why?”

“We just broke up.” 

“What was her name?”

“Yolanda.”

“Why did y’all break up?”

“It just wasn’t working out.”

He was ready. He refused to lose-knowing that he would never get another chance at me like this again.

Eye of the tiger.

I paused for a second then mechanically gave him my phone number while still squinting my eyes, and looking him into his. 

He called me that night, and the next few nights.

I decided that I liked him after all. He was good-looking and it was something awkwardly sexy about him that I could not resist. He wouldn’t let me. And the way he would talk to me would be like he was pulling my arm-afraid that if he let go, he would never talk to me again. I could tell that he liked me a lot. During one of our conversations, it turned out that he lived in the next community over from me. We joked about him stalking me and clocking me down to the usual time of day I would be walking to the corner store-which typically would be the time Santana made it up to the house after work, and we would go on our daily walk and talk.

I would laugh-listening to his awkward methodology and things he was telling me he was doing trying to get to me and how he had narrowed down the proximity of where I lived. Little did he know, at that time, all those times that he would stalk me and Santana walking down to the corner store, I was craving something vinegary, salty, pepperminty and pickley in taste. My “possibility” would be sending me to the store almost the same time everyday with that craving (unbeknownst to him) but I did not tell him that part… 

We talked about everything, enjoying getting to know one another. Day by day, I warmed up to him-letting him in on anything but that. So although I enjoyed our talks and thoroughly enjoyed our first night over at Shana’s house and every other time we would get together; all bets were off when it came down to actually discussing Santana, and what was (then) my “possibility.”

Pucker had no idea that all those months he was stalking me; I was with-child. He had no idea about all the transitions, transformations and changes I had gone through in my life during all those very same times he was pursuing me. And as far as I was concerned, none of it was his business or a topic in our many lengthy conversations in getting to know one another. The fact still remained (and as he had already known) I still had that same boyfriend. And he had no idea that by the time we first got together over Shana’s mom’s house that day, I was no longer with-child.

But he had a secret too.

All that time I was keeping a secret from him-he was keeping a secret from me: A girlfriend-at the hamburger joint I had applied to and was working at who too, was my new friend working there with me…

~~~~~~~

My first day turned out well: Learning how to make mashed potatoes in bulk, carve biscuits and bake them, sweep the floor, busts tables, fill up the honey jars-it was all gravy.

It was a girl there that remembered my face from being in my home one day with a mutual friend. The mutual friend attended the same artsy school I went to.

When mom and me first moved to the neighborhood-far and away from my closest friends, although me and TGGF kept in contact, that left a lot of time for me and Santana, especially since Twin was sent away and expected to go live with my dad, whom I was still estranged from.

Mutual also lived in the vicinity-within walking distance, and wanted to drop by to see how I liked the neighborhood. The girl she brought with her was this girl in particular-who worked at the fast food joint with me. She had come in just a couple hours behind me on my first day:

“Hi! I remember you!” she said to me.

“I’ve been to your house before! You have the boyfriend who you had been with for some years and you guys are all deep in love and stuff, remember me? I play soccer. I was on my way to practice when I had run into my friend who was on her way over to visit you, that’s how I met you,” she said.

“Oh okay, yeah I remember! Hello! Good to see you again! I remember. You live in the area as well! Okay I remember!” I replied.

“Well actually, I live right at the bottom of the hill and around the corner from you-closer to you than she does actually!” said Soccer.

“Oh okay, that’s good. Well it’s really good to know that, and good to see you too. Small world huh?” I replied. 

This girl seemed to be so taken by my relationship with Santana. She had no idea that so much had happened with Santana and me in those months since then-when I was obviously feeling very gung-ho about us then (let her tell it). But by this time, I had gotten some of the best dick that I never dreamed of. I had been cuddled and hugged up with Pucker so much in the meantime and in between time, that all she was reminiscing about Santana and me, seemed so long ago. I listened and played along:   

“Well maybe we can take our break together! Hold on, let me go and ask if we can okay? I’d love that Angie,” she said.

“Sure, I would too! Do ask him,” I replied.

We had our break together over biscuits and honey, talking about how she met Mutual-just rambling on-and asking questions about Santana and me. I could tell that Mutual probably had briefed her on my relationship with Santana, considering the fact that all the years Santana and me were in high-school and in love; Mutual attended there too, and was one of the many girls who wanted Santana oh-so-badly but couldn’t have him because he was with me. So I was sure that Soccer was feasting of all that information that Mutual had given her. It seemed to be such a fairytale to Soccer-like at one time, it was for me: that fairy-tale version of Santana and my relationship that by this time, oh my, had run into lions and tigers and bears a-plenty, yet, we were still holding on to the love that both of us could not let go of and now, the bond we shared… 

After some time, Soccer and me hit it off pretty good and had a good work relationship. It became a pleasure to come to work and have break with my new friend whenever we were scheduled on the same day. My life schedule was so filled up with trying to spend some time with Santana, work, and squeezing Pucker in, with his hungry demands. He couldn’t keep his hands off me. I had no time or energy to be intimate with Santana whatsoever and Pucker was clocking my life and schedule down to the hour to make sure I would spend less time with Santana to his hopeful point of never. He was trying hard.

Shana and Wes’ relationship wasn’t going as hot and heavy as Pucker and mine was. He and I were still “honeymooning.” Shana and Wes weren’t, so getting access to Shana’s house or Wes’ house was getting to be tough. I would be able to squeeze Pucker in for a few hours when my mom would be out with Shana’s mom in the evenings during the week-which wasn’t that often.

Sometimes we would have to make due with taking it to the back or front seat of his car-which was working out fine until we had our hide away infiltrated by the cops one day.

This thing with Pucker was almost like a drug to him and for me, but for different reasons. It seemed to be so new for him, and it definitely was new for me. My first time (with Santana), I had already been so “prepared”-ready, so mechanical and knowing just what I wanted to do, how I wanted to do it, and with whom I wanted to do it with for my first time. I had just “had it”-had sex. I was the “rehearsed” one. We both were virgins yet, he was the only one who got the full-on feel of what feeling like a “virgin” was (during sex, our first time). I merely got the fairytale of being the envy of all the girls who wanted the popular guy that ended up with the “different” girl, changed her style and molded her into the princess he wanted her to be--the prom night Cinderella story and the rest is “history (in the making)”:    

Possibilities.

Promises broken.

Now Pucker.

…fighting hard to meet his needs while trying to maintain life, work and my relationship. Unbeknownst to me at the time, I was so busy tending to Pucker every chance I got that I was hardly even noticing that Santana was actually open, out, and away more-giving me the room I needed to tend to Pucker, for reasons that until later; I would not find out. 

Pucker was on it.

His way to me was a long hard road and climb. And he made sure I would not ever get away for any moment of the day that he could have access to me, any way he could.

Whenever I couldn’t see him face to face, he would be on my phone breathing hard and mumbling with this awkward tone of voice as if he was jerking off. He was so creepy and sexy to me. It would turn me on when he would lower his voice and talk to me about any and everything nonsexual until he would get up the nerve to just say (in words) what the lust in his voice would already be saying for the whole hour that we would be on the phone.

We had gotten into that routine and habit of him calling me and starting the conversation out that way; cuddle-talking until he couldn’t take it anymore. It was like he wanted to see if he had the willpower to allow us to enjoy our conversation from start up until we’d get off the phone, but it seldom worked out quite like that. He’d confess and remind me how good our sex was to him and how he needed me, when I couldn’t get to him. He was so pitiful. I’d masturbate on the phone with him to help him get off.

 “Angie, I love that pus, I love that pus I love that pus,” he’d be saying over and over while I would be masturbating and moaning for him. To help me along, I would need for him to get rough with me-and talk rough sex with me to get me off quicker:

“Angie-I’m going to kill that ass, I’m going to tear that pus up when I get to you-do you hear me! You hear me!”

“Rougher,” I whispered and demanded, desperately.

He would grunt and fold his lips tighter-spewing sexual threats about fucking and laying in to me every which way possible.

I needed it rougher. His awkward, creepy ways were easy in helping me discover sexual things I liked to do and feel that I did not think I had in me to feel with Santana. Santana’s style was completely different than Pucker.

Each step of the way-it began to get me higher to take him higher; listening to the sound of his awkward heavy breathing, desperate and perverted-like we had never seen one another before, or in ions. 

Considering how he had me intimidated on our first night together, while spending so much time with him; I was learning that he was lamer than he thought he was or would ever cop to. I could tell that he had never been this kind of intimate with a girl before. I mean, I knew he wasn’t a virgin, but he was far too excited at the newness of it all-like Santana was. But Santana was a virgin. It wouldn’t be until later that little did I know about this bit of “history” of mine in the making…I was creating a monster that later bit me in the worse way.

But in blind-sight’s meantime and in between time, I was growing to love what we had and what we were doing because he made me feel desired-just like Santana did yet, I guess because he wasn’t a virgin (like Santana was), his touch-his way was more aggressive than Santana’s was. In that regard, Pucker was good for me-that worked for me the way it should have the first time, my first time. Although receptive and as “virgin-rehearsed” as my mind and imagination told me and I showed Santana I was on one hand, but as mechanical and rehearsed for my big moment as I was on the other hand-despite the fact that Santana and I were both virgins-it was like I took his virginity rather than him “having” or “taking” mine. In my mind, as a virgin, I knew all the submissive and aggressive steps, positions, and all that I wanted “re-enacted” from like—a list in my mind. So our first time was a gumbo of every aggressive then submissive sexual and sensual thing possible. My every submissive [and especially] aggressive move was like marking off a line on a list of “things to do.” With Pucker although I wasn’t a virgin anymore, it felt like he “took” and “had” my virginity—the way it was supposed to be. I relaxed and just allowed him to “do” and let happen, whatever happened. I didn’t have any “things to do” in my head. Unfortunately, the “things to do” in my head all came from things I had no business experiencing during my innocent years; sensations that I should have never been turned on to. So my first time with Santana-I was chasing sensations. This time with Pucker, I let sensations chase and catch up to me. And I loved that feeling. It aroused me immensely. 

He aroused me immensely.  

The exciting part of it all was that our telephone conversations that would start off normal, to the point of him breathing hard and mumbling with his awkward tone of voice. Jerking off came to be a kind of foreplay before he would come to pick me up on those times I could get away to see him. We would have phone sex to the point of arousal and then stop. The plan was for me to always come to meet him “as is;” wet and ready for him to grab me like I owed him something-pulling at me to straddle him with no words being said between the two of us. By the time we would pull over to fuck, he would be rock-hard, ready, lit and stiff like a cement street light pole.

Routinely (creating this monster that I never knew would come back and bite me in the worse way), while he would be driving us up to our spot, the moment I would get into the car and before he could even get momentum going; I would sit up on my knees and bend over to suck him senseless-opening my mouth and throat to devour him slowly, deeply and tightly without coming up off of it, doing my best to concentrate on matching the head job in my mind with the way we would soon be pulling over to do: Me-mounting him, while he would be grinding deep up into me every which way possible until he was about to cum. He would rarely thrust in and out of me-just grind up and in to me like he was digging for gold.

I loved that with him. He loved it, and loved that I loved it. It was like our central moment in all this was the mounting time. I wanted to please him as best as I could. 

On route (while driving) and until mounting time, I was giving him head until the very moment we pulled over. He lifted my skirt up and pulled my panties over to the side-that aroused me: having my panties pulled to the side. He seemed to know all the right things to turn me on without any reminders other than his retaining all the secrets I would whisper to him during phone sex. I was so impressed and taken by his extreme attention to those little important details that he meticulously turned around to use on me to make me feel good.

I immediately climbed on top of him and without warning, or conversation of any kind, he impatiently grabbed me and thrust himself inside of me with a vengeance, knowing that the only time he would be hearing me howl and open my mouth to moan and scream aloud was at that very moment.

After that, he did what he always did: hold me down by my waist and ass so tightly as if I was about to run away if I got the chance to raise off him enough. He locked me down and grinded deeply up and into me while taking these awkward, deep, desperate, large bites all over my face neck and shoulders. We would be stuck like two cats in heat with him repeatedly yelling: “Killin’ that ass. I’m going to kill this ass” ritualistically. It seemed to get him off like it would when he would say it over the phone during phone sex-as if he couldn’t wait to get his hands on me.

I was always too stunned to move my own body or utter a word or sound when we would fuck. I’d just hold it in-resisting. I was so afraid to make a fool of myself if I were to let go of all that I was feeling going on inside of me from my pussy, heart and head come bursting out of my mouth.  

He seemed to be aroused by it and be frustrated by it at the same time.

We both had two kinds of resistances going on-driving us both crazy.

Him: grinding a dam-making it hurt so good and locking me down so that I couldn’t move even if I wanted to.

Me: wanting to grind back, but being forced to sit there and take it-pissing him off by gasping and squealing and resisting that loud moan and scream that he seemed to be trying to thrust and grind from up out of me. Like every other time we were together, tear rolled down my face. I couldn’t help myself. This must be love. 

His lips were puckered up so hard while he grunted sexual expletives as if he was cueing the fuck out of me for me to chime in and sing soprano. He was so routine and mechanical.

Every single time we’d fuck, I knew when he was about to cum:

Grab me (tightly).

Shake (like he was having a seizure).

Bite my cheek (trying to control and grab hold of himself). 

Those became my cues.

Routinely, I jumped off of him and engulfed his penis in both my hands as best I could, to insulate and keep the sensation going for him. The feeling of him shaking and grunting so hard would drive me crazy wild because he’d sound like he was slobbering, but he wasn’t. Like he was having a seizure, but he wasn’t. 

A monster in the making…as this history in the making would soon prove…

We had just gotten done and I climbed from on him and sat back into the passenger seat-worn completely out. He was tired, and placing his hands on top of his head trying to regain his composure-oxygen circulating back to brain.

Someone stood outside, pecking on the window on my side:

Knock-knock.

That oxygen made its way to Pucker’s head and I regained all my strength on impulse.

Our eyes stretched wide, looking at one another shell-shocked. Alls we knew was that we were safe because the doors were locked, but we could not pull off and away because we weren’t parked in a position to drive straight out and down that long narrow hill.

All that fucking like grown folks we were doing a minute ago meant nothing because at this moment, we behaved like two kids caught in the middle of something and about to get in trouble of some kind for it.

The knocker decided to help us out by shining the extremely bright light into the window at us:

Knock-knock (again).

“Roll that-there window down will ya’?” said the cowboy with the shiny silver and gold pins covering his shirt and collar, gun by his side.

Pucker rolled down the automatic window:

“What’s the matter, your parents won’t let you date this young man?” asked the cowboy, looking at me and then the both of us.

“No sir,” I replied-probably looking and sounding like Celie answering to Mister.

“Well that’s too bad lovers, got to take this party elsewhere-but not in this park. I’d better not ever see ‘ya’s again over here at this hour okay?” warned the cowboy.

“No sirrrrrr, never again,” we replied in unison. Two late teens doing grownup things but sounding like two busted missing youth choir kids.

~~~~~~~

Pucker called me with third degree bass in his voice; never having sounded so serious all the while I had known him.

“I want to talk to you about something Angie,” he said.

“Sure,” I replied.

“Let me think of how I can say this,” he contemplated.

“Say what?” I asked curiously.

“I see you some mornings at the bus-stop when I’m driving to school. Do you ever see me? Do you ever see my car?” he inquired-cautiously.

“Uh, no, I don’t-I don’t. Why do you ask me that? And why wouldn’t you offer me a ride if that was so?” I asked replied-knowing that where I was going in the mornings, I probably would have turned him down anyways, for fear of him figuring out why I would be going where I was going, but my destination sure wasn’t to school…  

Although I would be at the bus stop standing near the rowdy bunch of boys and boisterous girls looking like I too, around the same age as them, was probably preparing for college (like them); my direction in life had gone differently than theirs.

Pucker continued to speak really slow-as if he was thinking about and processing every syllable of every word that he couldn’t wait to get out to me:

“Well, I-be like, having a few people carpooling with me in the morning. Wes sometimes drives, and my friend Slip-who goes to another school nearby-will sometimes drive. He drops us off and we ride back with one of the homies. Slip says his sister went to school down there with you,” he paused a second, I guessed to see if I had a response. I didn’t, I continued to listen:

But uh, a couple times though, somebody else who was riding with us had made mention of you…that’s all,” Pucker threw out there-almost sounding: broken-hearted (slash) speechless (slash) let-down (slash)-at a loss for the words to say-ish. 

“Well who is it and what did they say!” I snapped, knowing full-well it couldn’t have been anything of a sexual nature that could hurt or upset him to cause him to have this kind of sound in his voice I was hearing. He already knew that I had a boyfriend.

“Well, it was a girl who says it. The girl is a girl who I’ve had an off and on relationship with for few years.”

“Yolanda?” I asked, remembering the name of the girl he mentioned out in front of Shana’s house that day we stood there tennis-talking.

“No…you work with her,” he confessed. 

My heart started pounding a mile a minute, knowing that I had only met about three girls and only one was close enough to be able to say and tell anything about me: Soccer.

“Who is it?” I asked, impatiently-hurriedly. Knowing that Pucker knew nothing about my fairytale fantasy of relationship with Santana and all other “possibilities” made possible and brought to life with feet for slippers…

He paused for a long while.

“Who is it? Who is it? Who is it? Who is it?” I kept probing-trying to poke holes into this awkward silence of his-to get him to spill the beans.

When he spoke, low and behold it was indeed Soccer: my new friend from work whom I would most probably be having biscuits and honey with in a few short hours.

I flipped the script and said to him:

“Why? Why didn’t you tell me this! Oh my goodness. Oh no! Soccer never mentioned you, or even having a boyfriend-ever. Why did you do this to me? Why did you put me in a position like this? I like her,” I sighed-stunned.

He didn’t seem to care about that at all. That wasn’t the point of his phone call and this conversation.       

“Yeah, she likes you too. Every morning that I drive past you, she points you out and says: “There goes my friend from work-she is so pretty and so sweet.”

Lowering his voice to the point of envy and confusion-like he was mimicking Soccer-he proceeded: “It went from that to: “She’s got the best little relationship with a guy that she’s been with for a few years now and I met her almost over a whole year ago. We met up again and the two of them now have a BABY and are going to get MARRIED! …he emphasized, and continued to mimic: “He looooooooooves her-she’s such a sweet girl!” he stressed-making sure he emphasized the word “love”-the same way it was delivered to him. 

Part of me felt like I didn’t owe him any explanations because he already knew that I was with someone. And he knew that detail of our relationship or the stage it was in at this moment was always off-limits and never up for discussion. So with that in mind; my being shocked about him bringing this news to me-quickly wore off. The only thing in my head at this point was Soccer, she was so kind to me and really wanted to be my friend. And here I was unknowingly fucking her man—and thinking I was falling in love with him. That hurt. But now I have to look her in the face tonight and several more nights going forward-coming to the realization that I probably looked her in the face many of other nights where in the daytime, Pucker would leave school on his lunch break or leave early for the day-to come see me. We saw each other so much and fucked constantly-I lost head count as to how many times.

Pucker broke the dead silence and my daydreaming:

“Are you mad? Are you-you going to leave me? Are you mad? Don’t leave me,” he pleaded.

Dead silence.

He broke through with full-force, so as to remind me that my ‘gray’ lie was no better than his ‘gray’ lie.

He yelled:

“You lied! You lied too! You said nothing about getting married and having a kid and shit!” he kept repeating, trying to probe me into discussing it-feeling like I owed it to him at this point.

I returned another awkward silence.

He quieted himself and calmed down.

“Are you not going to be with me anymore more?” he inquired nervously.

(Awkward silence-still).

Eventually I replied (simply):

“Nah, I will,” not wanting to answer any more questions-period, and as well, Pucker could tell that I had no interest in answering or elaborating any further...

DID YOU BEGIN READING/SAMPLING THIS CHAPTER BUT WANT TO READ WHAT A SUMMARY OF WHAT CAME BEFORE THIS CHAPTER SEQUEL'S CHAPTER? Click here to get you caught up

BACK TO EXCERPTS