Every Time I Think of You Read Free Page A

only increased his charm. He, the scion of our town father, would owe me.

    “Sure.”

    “Great! She works for the opera company. We can see a rehearsal, maybe.”

    While that opportunity had little appeal to me, the potential trip posed a problem. How was I to explain the request for my mother’s aged Plymouth? I’d borrowed it for countless errands, done more for her with it, and never so much as scratched or dinged a fender. A few times, Dad had cautiously let me drive his newer Pontiac, but the majority of those trips had been local.
    I enthusiastically shared with Everett the scheme that a visit to the Carnegie Museum of Natural History would suffice. I would have to check on their holiday hours, be sure of which exhibit we’d pretend to see, then perhaps actually stop by and purloin a brochure as evidence.
    I would invent, and perhaps even create, an extra credit report needed for what I suddenly foresaw, and hoped for, as compensation for a spring semester full of delinquent exploits with Everett. I’d have to take notes to prove my research was well done. As a part-time stenographer for a small law firm, my mother often perused my homework notes for their efficiency. I wasn’t getting a possible full scholarship without years of mildly persistent parental coaching.
    As all these concocted plans ran through my head, I failed to notice that I was being casually seduced by my host.
    Everett had turned on his stereo, preset with a small stack of LPs. Fleetwood Mac’s Rumors began to play. He flopped down on his bed, bounced up once while scooting to one side, patted the other, coaxing me to join him like some newly trained pet.
    Glancing down at the damp remnants of melted snow at my pants cuffs, I remembered that he did have a housekeeper, after all, and with an attempted gesture of élan, I plopped myself down beside him.
    I didn’t want to force myself on him again. But after a few minutes of the both of us simply staring at the ceiling, our legs and elbows touching, Stevie Nick’s nasal voice warning that ‘players only love you when they’re playing,’ I did.
    Leaning up and over, I brought my lips to his, and with equal abruptness, Everett’s face and mine collided. A chuckle, a lip wipe with tongues, and our mouths slurped together like sea anemones.
    Everett slipped his finger between us to wipe away a liquid that I realized was dripping from his nose. Our bodies were literally melting after being outdoors.
    Our embraces led to some awkward fumbling on my part. I instinctively understood Everett to be the more experienced. I understood sex, having read pretty much anything I could find in books. Two years earlier, I’d gotten a special library card at the local branch of Penn State given to high school honor students. From what I’d read, I knew what I was, and what men did with each other, in theory. In practice, I fumbled.
    Our hands, much warmer now, and not gloved, grasped each other’s erections while under the confines of undershorts, and in Everett’s case, a fresh pair of sweat pants.
    He being the host, and more nimbly fitted for undressing, Everett pried himself from me, rose up to kneeling, shucked down his sweatpants, his erection bouncing free. But as I grasped it like a handle, he scooted awkwardly off the bed, sweatpants at his knees in a comic waddle, softly locked his bedroom door, waddled back, and directed his cock at my face.
    The next few minutes were an unrefined series of positions that failed to make my mouth accommodate his stubby girth and my lack of oral technique.
    Sighing with mild disappointment, Everett pulled out of my mouth and seemed to decide that I could learn by example. He straddled over me and clamped his mouth around my dick. I hadn’t a clue about relaxation or sexual response delaying techniques, nor, I suppose, should I have. His version done to me felt much more enthusiastic.
    Everett shoved his mouth down further upon me, my moans of pleasure