Sex Prose from Sessions in the Balcony

I think I was 15 years-old . . .
This was not going to be my first time, but it was going to be my first time with a girl I never met before. I was introduced to a girl from the next town over. I liked the idea that she knew nothing about me. This way, she might not judge me. I liked that we did not know the same people and she never heard any of the local rumors about me.
She knew nothing of my background and I knew nothing about hers. I met her through a phone conversation, but I had never seen this girl in the flesh. We began speaking by accident. At first, I thought she was a girl I met in a mall—but she wasn’t.  As it turned out, the girl I met gave me the wrong phone number. As a joke, she gave me the phone number of her friend instead of her own. (We’ll call her friend Jessica for now)

Jessica was a year older than I was. She came from a wealthy family and lived on the waterfront in the town of Merrick. Our first phone conversation was awkward, to say the least.
“I think you have the wrong number,” she said.
“Is your name Jessica?”
“Yeah, but I don’t think I gave you my phone number.”
After speaking for a short while, Jessica was able to figure out what happened. Describing her friend she asked, “Was she short with long, brown hair . . . kinda sprayed up really high.”
“Did she have blue eyes?”
“And did she wear, like, really red lipstick?”
“Yeah, that was her.”
I thought that would end it, but somehow, we continued the conversation.

During this time, I was in between schools. I had been removed from public school and I was awaiting placement in alternative schooling. Meanwhile, I was alone for most of the day. My Mother and Father were in the early stages of opening their own business, so I was left at home with a set of rules.
The rules were this: I was not allowed to leave the house. I was to stay home, unless given permission to leave. I was allowed to have visitors, but the list of visitors was few and anyone who visited could only come after school—unless they cut class.

Jessica asked, “So what a minute . . . you stay home all day?”
“For the most part.”
“What do you do?”
“I drink a lot,” I told her.
“I smoke weed too. I sell LSD sometimes and I have a few tabs left over, so I might do that tomorrow.”
She asked, “Could I come over?”
“Sure,” I answered. “Why not?”

The next morning, I wondered if Jessica was going to call me. I figured girls lie all the time. They say they will call or they say they will come over, but none of this happens.
I woke up and followed my usual routine, which consisted of smoking a cigarette while sitting on the roof of my home, taking sips of gin, which I had stolen from a friend’s house, and I smoked the last of my weed. Then I climbed inside my window.  That’s when the phone rang.
It was Jessica.

“Do you still want me to come over?”
“Did you think I was going to call you?”
“I wasn’t sure, to be honest with you.”
“Do you even want to know what I look like,” she asked.
“Of course, I do.”

“I’m kind of short. I have a pretty face, some freckles and I’m not fat.”
She sounded pretty. Her voice was cute and bubbly. I could not picture her in my mind, but whatever opinion I had of her did not seem ugly. Besides, It wasn’t like there was a line of girls beating down my door to begin with. I figured, worst case, I would have someone to hang out with for the day. If she came, saw me, and left, then at least someone came, saw me, and left. It beat being alone. Else, my day would be nothing different from the last. Else, I would have stayed on the couch. At least now I had something to fantasize about

This was before the age of driving. Jessica had her license, but she did not have a car. She took the bus from Merrick Road, which stopped at the bus stop across the street from my house.
I figured, if Jessica was horrible looking I could just stay in my house and not walk outside. But again—there was no line of girls at my door, and if she was bad looking, there would be no one around to see what she looked like and tell everyone.

An hour passed. Then two hours. A short while after, my phone rang. By this point, I had switched to vodka and orange juice. But I was not holding it well. I answered the phone and it was Jessica.
“Where are you,” She asked.
“I’m in my house.”
“No . . . I mean where do you live?”
“I live on Merrick Avenue.”
“Well, I’m at the 7-11 on Front Street. Is that far from where you live?”
“I’m five houses away,” I told her.
“Then come and get me. I’ll be waiting by the payphone outside.”
(Obviously, this was before the cell phone creation.)

We hung up the phone and I downed the last of my glass. I was already drunk at this point. I was drunk enough to wobble down the street, but I was not so drunk that I would throw up anytime soon. I was a long haired, teenage kid. My jeans were ripped at the knees, my shirt was black, my jacket was black leather and my boots were steal tip. I had no idea what this girl expected. Jessica did not speak like any of the girls I knew. She listened to different music and she did not like guys with long hair—but yet—she agreed to meet me.

I walked down Merrick and across Front Street towards the store and the payphone that was mounted against the wall on the front side of 7-11.
There she was. She was not very tall, but she was pretty. She had a strange look in her eye. It was really odd. It was the kind of looked that explained why a girl like her came to a town to meet someone she knew nothing about.

I approached her. “Are you Jessica?”
She smiled.
“You’re cute . . . but you don’t look anything like I pictured.”
“What did you picture,” I asked.
“I don’t know,” she told me. “I kinda thought you would be bigger.”

Jessica and I walked back to my house. As we walked through the door, I asked, “Do you want me to make you a drink?” “What do you have?”
“I was drinking vodka and orange juice before you got here.”
“That’s fine.”

I poured her a drink.
I was more drunk than nervous. I was not sure what to say. I didn’t know if she would go up to my room and fool around. I didn’t know what she would do.
As I prepared the drinks, she sat in the den and watched television.
“You have a nice house.”
“Thank you,” I said, and handed her a drink.

Jessica sipped from the glass and made a face as if she sucked on a lemon.
“Wow, that’s really strong,”
“It’s not too bad.”
I made her drink stronger than mine. I figured if I drank too much more, I would throw up, and throwing up is not a good way to get a girl in my bed.

I thought she was going to leave. She looked around my house as if she thought I was strange. Then she took another sip and said, “It’s kind of hot in here. Do you mind if I take off my pants?”
I was not expecting her to say that . . .

We went upstairs and into my room. Jessica began to undress. She was not the first girl to be naked in front of me, but she was the first to let me see her naked. Her skin was pale and her nipples were a soft shade of pink. They were pointed and stiff. Her breasts shaped perfectly and her stomach was flat. The hair between her legs was a small patch of reddish brown—just like the hair on her head.
I had never seen anything like this before. I did not have to ask her to take anything off. She did everything on her own. She stripped down, taking everything off—even down to the necklace around her neck.
Jessica asked, “Are you going to take anything off?”

I was nervous. As I began to lift the shirt over my head, I felt Jessica’s hands touch my side. She helped me out of my shirt. Then she unbuttoned my pants, and next, she unzipped them, and then took them down. She pulled my undershorts off and said, “There, isn’t that much better?”

My room was a typical troubled-teenage boy’s room, with hardwood flooring, posters on the wall, stereo, dresser drawers, black-light and black-light posters, psychedelic lamps, and the usual mess. However, I cleaned my room that day. I cleaned it just in case.

With our lips entwined, we shuffled over towards the bed. Jessica laid down, and then I laid down upon her.
“Have you ever done this before?”
“Yeah,” I answered. “Have you?”
She smiled, “Yeah . . . all the time.”

Fortunately, the alcohol delayed my performance. Otherwise, I would have finished very quickly. After several minutes in the missionary position, Jessica wrapped her legs around my back.
We switched places and then she got on top of me. This was good for me because I was too drunk and it was hard to keep up the pace. Eventually, after trying different ways, I regained the top position.

“I want to try something with you.”
“What’s that?”
Jessica opened her legs to get out from beneath me. Then she rolled over, and perched herself up on her hands and knees.
“I want to do it like this.”

Her back was shaped perfectly. Jessica looked over her shoulder with a sexy little smile. She watched as I moved behind her. I looked down and stared for a moment. I had never seen the female body from this angle before and I was unsure if I would ever see it again in the near future. I lined myself to go inside, but Jessica stopped me.
“No,” She said.
“Not in there. Put it in the other hole.”

This was only my second sexual experience. I had seen anal sex in porn movies, and I heard people talk about it, but I had no understanding of how to start this—how to ease into it—and how to keep it to a mutual enjoyment.
“Put it in,” she told me.
She let out a bit of a scream.
“Put it in deeper,” she told me.
The fit was very tight. The harder I pushed the louder she screamed. I moved in and out. Slow at first, but then I began to pick up speed.

I pushed myself in and out of her, watching my shaft disappear, and then reappear. She moaned, but I was not sure if Jessica liked it or if she was in pain.
And just like that . . . . it was over. I felt every muscle in my body stiffen, and then explode as I released into her backside.

After we finished, Jessica asked, “Are you ever gonna call me again?”
“Of course,” I told her
And I did call too.
I called three days later.
Turns out her parents sent her off to a mental facility out east.

I’m telling you . . . . crazy chicks dig me.

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