The Light and The Fire

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In trying to categorize this story, and deciding whether to break it into chapters or to go with a single story of multiple pages, I sought help. ElectricBlue66 stepped up and offered his; for that, I here express my thanks.

This chapter and Chapter Two will be in First Time; the other chapters, I will play by ear.

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Every high school boy has one of two things: a girlfriend, or a girl on whom he has an unrequited crush. In the summer of 1979, I had the latter: Melanie Clayton, with whom I had graduated the weekend before Memorial Day. Five-two, one-oh-five, hazel eyes, brownish-blonde hair in a Dorothy Hamill pageboy cut, cheerleader, basketball player, my compatriot in the National Honor Society — she was the total package, and every guy in Ashwood, Nebraska thought as I did. (To get you up to speed, Ashwood is roughly thirty miles southwest of downtown Omaha and thirty miles northeast of downtown Lincoln; our population then was just shy of two thousand.)

Oh, I’m sorry, I forgot to introduce myself — my name’s Dan Everton. In contrast to Melanie, my dealings with extracurriculars were limited to Spanish club, interscholastic festivals, and watching from the trumpet section in the marching band as the Ashwood Vikings won seven football games in four years. However, that did have a splendid side benefit — that is to say, I got to watch Melanie cheer for them.

To complicate matters more, my crush on her only stood to grow worse with the coming fall. I was doing what many working-to-middle-class Nebraska high schoolers do, have done, and will do: I would be off to the University of Nebraska at Lincoln. Melanie’s family, meanwhile, were not ultra-rich but could partly afford (a generous financial package doing the rest) to send her to her chosen small liberal arts college in central Iowa. They could also afford her a nicer car than most of us had. Never mind this muscle car fetish Seventies guys continue to brag about; despite my grades and ambitions, I’d be going down to Lincoln in a shitbox ’62 GMC pickup which, despite its “Don’t Laugh, It’s Paid For” bumper sticker, was able to me where I needed to go, and that in one piece. This stood in contrast to Melanie’s ’74 Datsun 260Z — a sporty, sprightly little car to match her personality.

Our different standing and cars formed a partial contributor to her attitude toward me; she was always sweet and friendly — as long as I didn’t try to ask her out. In her case, “I’m… kinda seein’ someone… he doesn’t go to this school” wasn’t the traditional ruse many girls use in place of, “I wouldn’t date you if we were the last heterosexual male and female on Earth”; she really did have a boyfriend at a different school, closer to suburban Omaha. She even had a t-shirt made with their picture on it, and she always talked about him as though, in Nebraska slang, “he hung the moon and the stars.” Therefore, as long as we Ashwood guys didn’t approach her romantically, she got on great with us.

Impending semesters and interstate distances do not have good effects on established relationships, much less crushes. I wasn’t entertaining any hope of doing much beyond sitting close on her porch and holding her hand as the sun set; anything else, I figured would come in time (if it were to come), with another girl I might meet later. Even so, I felt the need to share my mind and emotions with her; if nothing else, she would know them before we parted ways.

Opportunity chanced my way one late Thursday morning in August. Many days, I worked part time at the local Ace hardware store, as a way to mark time before going to Lincoln and also to help with paying my truck’s upkeep; today, though, I was lucky enough to have off. I was sauntering down Melanie’s street, on my way to I neither knew nor cared where, when I noticed her sitting, idly and alone, in one of the two deck chairs on her front porch; more to the point, the only car in front of the house was her Datsun. Mr Clayton was at work, while Mrs Clayton must have gone grocery shopping, to their church’s Ladies’ Auxiliary meeting, or other such.

Melanie caught sight of me first. “Hi, Danny!” Her voice was so bright I could hear the smile in it.

“Hey, Melanie, how’s it going?”

‘Not bad, not much doing… how about you?”

“Same here… got nowhere in particular to go, nothing really to do.”

Her next words are still affecting my life, even today. “Come up and sit with me?”

No guy in Ashwood, least of all myself, would have refused such an invitation. I was up those steps in two seconds; in four, I was parking my five-nine, one-eighty-four frame in the chair next to hers.

“So… this is it,” I said with a dejected resignation.

Melanie read my tone. “Aww, what is? Something’s wrong?”

I looked straight ahead, fearing I’d start crying if I turned toward her. “This is probably the last time I’ll sit here, being close to you.” I swallowed a rising lump. “Here we are, off to college in a couple weeks… in different states, even…” I had to pause to keep my composure.

“I can still be your friend,” Melanie offered in a kind voice, over and above the usual “I think of you more as a brother than a romantic interest” tenor she had taken with the male population of Ashwood over the last year and a half.

“But it’s not the same, and we both know it,” I said, glumly. “I’ll be one place, you’ll be another…” I was so wrapped up in self-pity that I initially failed to notice Melanie had silently moved closely enough to me that her bare right knee — her knee was bare, that is; her ass and uppermost thighs were in cutoffs — was resting against my bluejean-clad left one. “And there’s Mark to deal with.” Mark Morton, that is — her “doesn’t go to Ashwood School” boyfriend, about whom she had been so crazy.

He played for his school’s football team, had a mane of blonde hair, and drove a sweet ’68 Chevelle. In short, he did much better in the female-attracting department than most of us Ashwood guys could dream.

Her voice was distant and morose, a tear running through it. “Not anymore.”

Three months earlier, this news would have had every guy in town rejoicing; today, though, was a day for listening. When a girl is crying, a wise boy does not delight in the misfortune that has brought her to this point.

She went on. “My birthday was a couple months ago.” This birthday, of course, was her eighteenth, on the eighteenth day of June; my own eighteenth, for what it’s worth, had fallen on the twenty-sixth of April. (As a short piece of inconsequential trivia, our dates of birth fell such that our combined ages were exactly five whole years old the day President Kennedy was shot.)

My hackles went up. “What’d he do?”

“He wanted to give me a — well, a gift, if you wanna call it that.”

My hand instinctively reached for hers; to my surprise and inward happiness, she took it. Outwardly, though, I kept a more solemn composure. “He said he’d make me feel special… I should do for him, and… and he’d make me… feel good,” she recited between a procession of sobs that had crept into her voice.

I said nothing, but slipped my left arm around her right shoulder; she leaned into me, still crying. “I told him I wasn’t feeling well… when all I wanted… was just to be with him… without going to bed with him…” I put my other arm around her, and she had both of hers around me. “Son of a bitch figured me out… and dumped me, can you believe it? On my birthday,” she trailed off.

While I would not have done this to her — not simply because she was my crush, but because she was a woman, crying like this over a male (age and sexual maturity do not necessarily a man make) to whom she had given so much — I didn’t speak, choosing instead to let her vent while I brushed hair out of her eyes. At length, she looked up. “You wouldn’t have done that to me.”

“Damn right.”

“I see it in your eyes. You’re too nice a guy for that.”

“Thanks… I try.” What she really saw in my eyes were my own tears of sadness that it happened that way with her, and of anger that I hadn’t been there to defend her.

“I wasn’t even thinking.” Another sniffle ensued, and she wiped her eyes with one finger. “I need to blow my nose…”

I offered her my T-shirt, which she didn’t refuse; she then looked up, halfway trying to smile. “Sorry for being such a mess.”

“No need to be sorry, babe –” I stopped short, startled at my own words. Had I just called Melanie Clayton, the dream girl of all Ashwood, “babe” — and meant it?

She was as surprised as I; three seconds passed before she found her voice again. “What did you say?”

I hemmed and hawed, trying unsuccessfully to stall for time, but Melanie saw through that; her voice was soft, but awed. “You called me Babe — and I can tell you meant it.” She snuggled up to me. “That’s… that’s the sweetest way anybody’s ever told that to me.”

I hooked our fingers together again. “I try.” I was not given to a variety of phrases that day; if I thought something worked for me, I went with it.

“Hey, I have an idea — wanna go inside?” she offered. “Hang out, watch some TV, put some music on, do whatever?”

I stood up, our fingers still threaded. “Lead the way,” and she did.

I would have been fine with sitting on the couch in the living room, watching the big color console; instead, she led me to the basement, where we found a loveseat and a smaller black-and-white unit. We turned it on, decided on The Price Is Right, and got settled. I wedged myself into a corner of the couch, with Melanie leaning up against my side. We stared in the direction of the television, but before long, we had given up watching it. She was interested in getting a comfortable spot — but found a more pleasurable one by far, for us both. This was especially true, considering the erection she was giving me in such proximity as now — against her body in general, and her bottom in particular.

She gave a little wiggle, putting on an affected accent more reminiscent of a parodied Melanie Hamilton than of the real Melanie Clayton. “Whah, Ah do declay-uh, Danny Everton, you must feel happy to see little ol’ me!”

I smiled, blushing. “I don’t do such a good job hiding it, do I.”

She got up long enough to turn the TV off.; when she came back, she turned so she was facing me, and able to run her hand over my chest. “What say we… make our own entertainment.”

My heart jumped into my throat as I tried to process what I had just heard. “W-what’s going on?” I wasn’t necessarily objecting as much as I was curious what brought her question on, and so suddenly.

Melanie caught sight of me looking away; she blushed to match me, and her voice became quieter. “Oh my Lord — am I reading you right, Danny?”

“You mean… have I…?”

“You never have, have you.”

“Is it that obvious?”

She kissed the side of my face, just in front of my left ear. “Just because you got The Talk in fifth grade, or took biology in ninth, just because you know about Tab A fitting into Slot B, you still can’t hide the truth.” And she was right — academic knowledge and experiential knowledge aren’t always the same, as I was soon to learn.

She gave me a bit of a grin. “Ya gotta know how to show those Lincoln coeds how we do things here in small towns — show a little bit of country lovin’.” Her voice then turned less happy, but still hopeful. “And even if only once before I go to” — and she named the town where her chosen college is — “I’d like to spend some time giving mine to a nice guy, one who won’t make me feel used regardless of whether I say Yes or No.

It’s okay. I never have, either.” She gave me a soft kiss. “It doesn’t matter who leads or follows… we’ll lead and follow together.”

She slipped her “Husker Cheer Camp ’78” t-shirt off and straddled my left thigh; almost immediately, I blushed far harder, having released well before I was ready. I’d never before been so embarrassed; Melanie, thankfully, read the situation. “Oh, you came, didja?” When I nodded, she undid the top button of my jeans; I happily offered no resistance. “You know, I’ve heard some of the girls talking about their guys… they say that what you did could work to your advantage. Here, quit hesitating.” She turned away from me, thus indicating that she wanted me to undo her bra. Inexperienced that I was, I figured it out quickly enough, and watched them bounce a little before getting situated; I neither knew nor cared what size they were (and still don’t to this day), only that I liked their look. “M-may I?” I asked with a nervous hesitation.

“That’s why the good Lord gave them to me… that’s why he made me a girl in the first place.” She took my right hand and placed it firmly on her left breast. “Now you’re catching on,” she grinned. I weighed it in my hand for a few seconds, then started to roll it and give it a good soft squeeze before doing the same thing to her right one.

I was so focused on her breasts that I failed to notice — at first, anyway — that she had undone my zipper. “Mmhmm, I was right,” she grinned.

“Right?”

She leaned in to kiss me; after six seconds, she pointed it out. *You do know that you’re hard again, correct?” And so I was.

I grinned a little. “Don’t I have good reason to be?”

“Oh, that’s what I am, a good reason?”

“I can’t think of a better one,” I smiled.

“Well, we’ll just see how good — hold up a second,” she smirked; she took the opportunity to undo her shorts and slide her panties off, after which she turned completely around in a 360. “How’s that for a view?”

I could barely think or speak, but managed to fumble around for “I… I like it… a lot.” A gentle cloud of hair shielded her labia, as was the way of the Seventies, and her ass looked the perfect size for a good wiggle or undulation of the ‘come hither’ variety. Beyond that, I needed no words, and therefore didn’t have any — but Melanie did.

“You got to see what’s under mine, so it’s your turn to repay me that favor” — she smirked — “or do I have to come over and collect payment for myself.”

“Six of one, half a dozen of the other,” I smiled as I worked my own jeans off and left myself in nothing but my well-tented underwear. She took care of those, after which she wrapped her hand around my erection and gave two hard pulls. “There’s the appetizer.” She then pulled away from me and sat at the opposite end of the couch, on the edge of the cushion with her thighs apart and arms out. “Now how about a main course.”

i knelt on the floor in front of her, leaning forward to kiss her deeply; in return, she grabbed my ass with both hands. “C’mon, you can get closer than that,” she whispered with a husky smile; to prove her point, she wrapped her legs around my waist, pulling my chest flush against her breasts.

New territory that this was for us, our bodies knew what road to take. One good thrust, and I knew I’d found the right place by its damp, comforting warmth, and the way Melanie’s vagina slowly clenched and unclenched on my penis. After a strained groan through clenched teeth as we felt me taking her hymen, she gave a soft, higher-pitched moan, something between a kitten’s mew and a dove’s coo, a voice entirely unlike her alto-register normal speaking voice. As she did, she ran her right hand along the length of my left arm while holding me tighter with her own left arm.

She and I then fell into the rhythm as old as humanity, our lips sealing each other’s; with each thrust, she bore down more tightly on me. I was already enjoying the feel of being inside a woman, but her ministrations were making me feel as though my penis were getting longer and deeper, insofar as such a thing is possible. In that same high, piping voice, she would occasionally break our kiss to spur me on with encouragement — “Yeah,” “come on,” “yeah, just like that”; if I had been causing her pain, she was hiding it masterfully.

I, meanwhile, was content to let my body do my talking for me.

Within a moment or so, though, her moans began to come more quickly and she threw herself backward onto the couch, pulling me with her. She Frenched me harder yet, to hide the half-moan, half-scream from somewhere deep and primal. I — more to the point, my lack of experience — wasn’t sure if that was part of a female orgasm, but I knew a male one when I felt it; Melanie did, too, grabbing my ass and thrusting me deeper into her as both my full testicles found their release.

As I had not come around to her house with sex on my mind, and therefore had not brought or requested a condom, the only place I could release was where I did — straight into her. These slivers of reality intruded upon my brain long enough for me to offer a silent prayer that she was on the Pill; I refused, however, to be so rude as to say that prayer aloud.

Melanie looked up at me, her eyes shining with tears; one blink sent some down her cheeks. “We should never have let it go this far… you know that, right?” I turned away sadly, knowing she was right — but only long enough for her to take my chin in her left hand and turn our faces back together, so she could kiss me. “But I’m so thankful we did.”

All I could think to do was return her kiss and say, “Me too.”

After a few seconds of kissing and embracing, a reality different from mine woke her up as well. “C’mon, we gotta get dressed.” When I hesitated with another disappointed expression, she set me right: “You don’t have to go yet… but you do notice Mom and Dad aren’t home, don’t you?” That woke me up too — it wouldn’t do at all for Mr or Mrs Clayton to come home and find us naked; we were both fully clothed in, at most, thirty seconds.

I wanted to make a move toward the TV, but thought better of it. This being 1979, and cable not so readily available outside Omaha or Lincoln, the only available offerings at that hour were soaps, noon news, or PBS; besides, I’d just had the adventure of my life, with a girl I thought I’d never be lucky enough to have it with. No way can TV compare to that.

I put my arm around Melanie, who in turn snuggled up close. We gave each other little kisses, and I ran my fingers over her knee; I was even in the middle of jiggling her breast in my hand when, from upstairs, we heard the sound of the front door opening. This was followed by “Melanie? Melanie, where are you?” Mrs Clayton had come home from wherever she’d been.

Melanie yelled, “Be there in a minute, Mom!” She then turned to me. “See, what’d I tell ya.” She gave me a quick little lip-kiss, then told me, “Stay right here, and whatever you do, don’t make a sound.”

She then dashed up the stairs. “Coming!”

Mrs Clayton called back, “Good, I need a hand with these groceries.”

With the memory of earlier so fresh for me, I did what any self-satisfied guy would do — I smiled to myself, rolled over, and passed out. It must have been half an hour or so before Melanie came back down. She shook my shoulder, kissed me again, and said, “Nice nap… but it’s probably time you got going.” I made a motion to stand up, but she sat down on the couch beside me, her hand on mine, saying, “We may only have had today… but at least we can go off with a sweet memory.” I slipped an arm around her as she continued, smiling: “You get sent off to Lincoln with some country lovin’, whereas I…” Here she turned serious, and somewhat wistful. “I’m off to” the college town she chose, “knowing not all guys are pressuring assholes.”

“I do my best,” was all I could say.

“Best, nothing — you succeeded.”

We held each other for a few seconds more, after which she disengaged herself and pointed out a side door to the basement. “Better show yourself out this way; can’t have Mom seeing you going out the front door.”