"You think his pubic hair's come in yet?" From her expression, she obviously found that an amusing question to ponder.
"Maybe. Wouldn't be much though. Probably not."
"Suppose he masturbates?"
"I wouldn't be surprised. I'm sure I was by that age. He's probably still shooting blanks though."
Deborah and I were seated at a park bench, taking a break after four hours of driving. Through the trees we'd spotted a young boy who was fooling around down on the lake bank. There was a fishing rod, apparently belonging to him, that was set out on a small wooden pier. He was busy skipping stones off the bank instead of fishing. A bicycle was leaning up against the pier's railing, presumably his as well.
Deborah had a thing for boys around the age of puberty. I'd call it more of a curiosity than a fetish. Perhaps because she'd been a late sexual bloomer herself, she wondered about the years she'd missed. Who knows.
One of our many private little jokes was that she should become a professional baby-sitter for pubescent males -- insist on giving them their baths, tucking them into bed. Plus the occasional hand-job, et cetera, of course. It wasn't really that funny of a joke -- if there'd been a way for her to have actually done something like that, I don't doubt she would have.
By then she'd become something of an expert on the various stages of male puberty, so there was no need for me to explain what I'd meant by "shooting blanks". She knew young boys start getting spontaneous erections and having little orgasms well before they begin pro- ducing the various stuff that goes into a proper male ejaculation.
She made this particular one out to be eleven or twelve. But it's hard to tell. He was definitely over eight and under fourteen. Not all that short, but certainly not grown. Not at all filled-out. A "prime cut", to borrow a phrase she once used.
"You know, my dear, if you ever want to try your luck, this is probably the best chance you'll ever get."
She grinned. Apparently I was giving voice to her thoughts. We did that kind of thing a lot with each other.
And what I'd said was true. Unless she somehow got caught in the act, there was no way she could get busted. Almost no way, at least. Close enough to no way? At least close enough for me to delicately tell her that I wasn't going to flip out if she wanted to try something with the kid. We'd been in some strange situations tegether before, but never with a young one
so giving her permission like that seemed appropriate somehow. For that matter, we'd never been in a situation that could involve anything quite this seriously illegal. Whatever it was that Deborah was contemplating in that busy little brain of hers, in the eyes of the law it was almost certainly some form of child molestation.
"How would I approach him?"
"Very carefully, I think. Not like he's some thirty year-old guy. I'd probably just try to make friends with him first. See if you can get him talking. Maybe skip stones with him."
Deborah lit a cigarette. She was stalling. Stalling and thinking at the same time. If her juices weren't starting to flow a little by that point -- literally -- then I'm somebody other than who I am. She has excel- lent people skills when she wants to switch them on, and I'm sure she felt confident she could get that far with the boy. Good choice of words on my part.
Then what, indeed...
"Maybe see if you can get him to talk about sex. Just try to broach the subject with him."
"No idea. Ask him if he uses the internet? If he has sisters?" I was groping for a good answer and not finding it.
"What would you have wanted back then?"
"Mmmmmm.... More than anything, I would've liked to have just seen between a girl's legs."
That answer seemed right, so I continued along that line. The boy was still energetically skipping his stones, but I figured he'd be long gone by the time Deborah finished this. She's quite willing to take risks at times, but she always likes to carefully vet them over in her mind first.
"At that age, I vaguely knew that girls have holes down there, but that's about all I knew. I didn't even know where the holes were located, much less what they looked like." Deborah and I had had variations on this conversation many times before, but I pressed it a little further this time. "Offer to let him have a look at you."
Exhibitionist though she can be at times, she didn't seem to like that idea. "Suppose he already knows about all that?"
"He doesn't. Guys never do."
My response was technically accurate, but she was still correct. If the boy had a younger sister or had played show-and-tell with one of his little girlfriends, he'd know a lot more than I did when I was that age. A lot more. And these days, kids probably did know a lot more.
Still, I tried to rescue myself by saying: "I would love to have been given a live tour of the female body by someone. Basic stuff, 'pee comes out here, babies come out there.'"
"Poop comes out here?"
I laughed. "Sure. Penis goes in here would be good. Teach him the facts of life. Show him your hot-button. Labia minora, labia majora." Thinking, not for the first time, that Deborah's labia minora would be worthy of Robert Maplethorpe's photographic attentions. Assuming he were still with us.
"If you were him, would you have done that? With someone this much older?"
"It probably would have scared the shit out of me if anyone'd ever offered. I got embarrassed easily when I was that age. Peeking at somebody through a window would have been better. I would have done that in a New York heartbeat."
Deborah sat silently for awhile, presumably thinking things over.
While she was thinking her thoughts, my own wandered back to a teacher I'd had a serious crush on when I was about the age of this kid. She would have been about the same age as Deborah. As much as I liked her, my circuits would have totally shorted-out if she'd ever invited me to stay after school to have a look at her private parts. Things like that just didn't happen. And if they did, you'd never be ready for them to happen. At least I wasn't.
Most likely the boy down there was nowhere near ready for whatever it was Deborah was thinking she'd like to do with him. Which was probably precisely why she was so curious about him; he was both an item of curiosity and a challenge, all rolled up into one little person. One currently very unsuspecting little person.
Keep skipping the rocks kid, I thought. Deborah needs some time to think about this...
While she smoked and we bandied about various ways that she might be able to entice the lad, another subject came up which was about the law.
"At what point would I be breaking the law?"
I hesitated a moment before answering. Obviously any- thing involving any sort of genital contact would be illegal, but I knew that wasn't what she was asking. The line had to be closer than that. Where? She wanted to exactly know where she'd be crossing it.
"Good question. I can't see how just talking to him could be illegal, even if it's about sex. Adults talk to kids about sex all the time. I'm not even sure it would be illegal for you to take your clothes off in front of him.
"Whether he consents to anything doesn't matter." I started to tack on a qualifier to the effect that she still better not try anything with him that he didn't consent to, but I knew she wouldn't do that anyway. Deborah is only into consenting activities.
After some reflection, I added: "I take back what I said about talk being legal. Suggesting sexual con- tact must be illegal. Something like 'soliciting a minor' or something. It's probably not as bad as touching, but that's probably where you'd be arrest- able."
"How about inviting him to watch me go pee?"
"Damn. I like that one." I did, too. Deborah was no dumbie, that's for sure. So that's what she'd been thinking.
I babbled out my reactions: "That's good. He has to be curious about that. Especially if he doesn't have any sisters. But even if he does. It's totally non- threatening to him. It's not even directly sexual. If he says yes, his ass is yours for anything else you want to do with him. If he says no, that may not even have been anything illegal to have suggested." I laughed again. "If you got caught, you'd still get arrested, of course."
What I didn't say there, was that it also fit Deborah to a tee. She was anything but modest when it came to her bathroom practices. At her suggestion, we'd even gotten into having "wet sex" in the back yard some- times. Very wet.
"Maybe we could have a distance contest."
I laughed again. "You'd win."
She would win too, but he wouldn't know that going in. He'd think he could beat her. Wrong. And she'd at least get to see his dicklet in the process. She'd definitely been sorting this through.
And I felt myself starting to get an erection.
"So. What's the worst thing that can happen?"
The first response that came to mind was, the worst thing that could happen would be that you'll finally decide you want to do something here, and the fucking kid will go get on his fucking bicycle and ride off.
I held my tongue on that. If I'd said that, she'd probably have told me to go screw myself and marched off back to the car. Pressuring Deborah on anything, no matter how trivial, is virtually always guaranteed to get the opposite result.
"Worst thing? Worst thing would be that he's got a cell-phone in his backpack. He gets a description of you and the car. His dad is the local sheriff, and he's parked on the shoulder, two miles down the road."
That just rolled out, but it sounded well within the realm of possibility as I heard to myself saying it. Shit does happen.
She looked back at the boy. "You think he might really have a cell-phone?"
"I think if I were you, I'd make damn sure he doesn't before I got into anything with him. Ask him."
"I could do that."
"While you're at it, you may as well ask him where he lives. How far away. He probably does live back in that little town, but we could be wrong about that."
"What if somebody comes along?"
"I can wait in the car. I'll honk the horn three times if anyone drives in. If someone walks up along the lake, though, you'll be shit out of luck. Better get him off in the woods first."
"I would anyway."
I was getting on a jag now. "Don't let him see the car if you can help it. And don't give him any ac- curate information about yourself. Tell him your name's Lola. You're traveling by yourself in a yellow Volkswagen bug. You live in Washington. Don't tell him anything honest."
"You can stop now."
We sat silently for several moments. Amazingly enough, the boy was still down there, still skipping stones. I wondered what his "equipment" looked like, and it crossed my mind that that was probably the exact same thing she was thinking about. Maybe not.
Perhaps sensing my impatience, Deborah casually lit another cigarette. I wanted to tell her that she'd be smart not to smoke around the kid, but I managed to keep my mouth shut.
"Okay. The plan is that I go down there and make friends with him. While I'm doing that, I ask him three questions: If he has a cell-phone, if he has a younger sister, and how far from here he lives. If he answers all three questions the right way, then I play it by ear after that. Sound good?"
"What time is it?"
I looked at my watch. "Two-thirty. You can take your time. Even if we don't leave here for a couple hours, we'll be fine."
"Any final words of advice?"
"Just don't let him see the car if you can help it. And if you do do anything, try to make sure we can get at least a fifteen minute head start before he can tell anybody. The freeway's only about five miles from here."
"Think he'd tell anybody?"
"I'd bet on it. Assume it'll get back to the cops somehow, one way or the other. Just make sure we can get a good head start."
"Okay. Go sit in the car. Go read your book or some- thing."
Contrary to what I expected would happen next, Deborah walked back to the car with me. I didn't ask why. When we got there, she popped open the trunk and took out the canvas bag that contained our raggedy old picnic blanket. That was interesting. Maybe that was some part of her plan, or maybe she was just getting herself prepared for anything, like a good Girl Scout. Probably the latter.
We kissed quickly.
Waiting was not the easiest thing I've ever done. I couldn't bring myself to actually sit in the car, but I stayed close to it. Expecting twenty police cars to roll in any second, in a cloud of dust with sirens blaring and lights flashing.
I'd get arrested too, of course.
At a minimum, I expected some old couple in a motor- home to wheel into the parking area and immediately trot their asses down to have a look at the lake. And they would have a frigging cell-phone. They'd also have gotten a good look at both me and the car.
Fuck me. Why did I encourage her anyway?
To distract myself from thoughts of the impending apocalypse, I made up a mental time schedule for her:
If she came back in the first five minutes, she'd scared the boy off. Or he'd just left anyway. Time for him to go home.
If she was still gone at the twenty-minute point, then she would have at least succeeded in getting friendly with him. They'd probably be chatting about bullshit and skipping stones together. Talking about the local fishing conditions.
Assuming she got that far, that phase would probably go on for longer than twenty minutes. Deborah isn't one to hurry something like that; she'd savor the situation.
By the one hour mark -- assuming it got that far -- she'd try something. But that wouldn't mean it would work. If she came back after one hour, she'd probably tried something and been rejected.
An hour-and-a-half, something would be happening. Two hours, and something would definitely be happening.
Five minutes had already passed. At least the boy hadn't ridden off the moment she walked up. But she may not have tried to talk to him yet. He might not even have noticed she was there yet.
The more interesting question was what she was hoping to do with him. I'd wanted to ask her about that, but I knew better; she tells what she wants to tell, when she wants to tell.
I was sure she had a specific goal, though. She sets goals, and she doesn't like failing to achieve them once they're set. Which is one reason it's best not to ask her what they are.
Ten minutes. They must be talking by now. Probably.
A couple more cars drive by.
I was sure I looked like an escaped felon, casing-out a car I was planning to steal. Or to break into. They were probably calling me in on their cell-phones already. I should go back to the table and pretend I'm reading my book. Just a guy taking a break.
But I shouldn't get that far from the car. Plus, for all I know, the kid might see me and panic. Stay calm.
I let my mind wander again to what she was hoping to do with the boy. If he answers the three questions correctly and then goes for whatever initial proposi- tion she makes to him -- watching her take a leak, whatever -- how far does she want to go with this?
I couldn't see her wanting to have intercourse with him. He's too young, and that would be too much.
She would want to see his cock though. Handle it, if possible. Get him hard, and touch it. Probably try to give him a little boy orgasm. A boy-gasm. Knowing Deborah, she might even be able to accomplish that. She could probably get all of him in her mouth, little erection and testicles included. She might do that too.
We hadn't talked about anything involving her tits. In retrospect, that was an oversight on my part. If she did get into showing him her body, she should definitely show him her boobs. How her nipples work. They'd probably already be hard, but she could pull at them and make them harder. Explain things as she did that. All very clinical. At first, anyway.
He'd like that. Fuck, I'd like that.
Get him to unfasten her bra. If she gets into teaching him girl-things, she should do that. The kid would undoubtedly have to wrestle with the hooks. Let him study the back for as long as he wants, and then turn around and ask him to reach around and try to unhook the fucker from the front. With your lace-covered boobs right smack in his face. That'll get him hard.
After it's off and you've given him the tit-talk, ask him to suck on a nipple. Please. Tell him you'd like that. Which is true. Sit on the picnic blanket and cuddle him to your breast. Anyone would like that. Just make sure he thinks he's doing it as a favor for you. Secret favor, just between friends. At least let him touch you there.
She'll probably think of some of that. She likes her tits.
Did she have a bra on? Think so. Maybe not.
Just don't go too fast, and don't go too far. Don't scare the little shit. You may think this is a game -- he won't. No scars. Do be gentle with him.
A few more cars whiz by. Twenty minutes are up now.
How are you going to get him to show you "his"? I know you need to see. Ideally, to see and touch, both.
The pee idea was good -- too good. It isn't going to work. The kid will think that's gross or something. What's the fall-back plan? There is none.
Maybe he'll be easier to play with than I would have been back then. The first person I ever consciously exposed myself to was another guy. My version of same- sex puberty rights. Looking back on that, we did nothing. I wish we'd done a little more. Not a lot more, just a little more. He was probably willing.
But this isn't the same thing. This is my female teacher inviting me to stay after school to "have a look". And to ask me to show her "mine" in exchange. Would I have done that? Hell no. But if I had done it, I sure as hell wouldn't have run home and told my mother. I probably wouldn't have told anyone. Not for years. Especially not if I'd refused.
The kid's probably a Seventh Day Adventist or some- thing. He won't react the way I would have. He's probably not even the little virgin Deborah wants him to be. Little shit's probably fucking his sister.
At that age, I don't think I would have agreed to do anything. Stupid. I didn't even know erections were normal things to have happen. I thought my cock was broken. Weird. My male friend telling me he got them too was a real eye-opener.
Zing. Another car. Also calling this into the police, of course.
But I'm calming down now. Starting to, anyhow.
I hope she treats him nicely. She will. She's re- markably sensitive when she wants to be, and whatever she's doing is as big a deal to her as it is to him.
No. It's a bigger deal to him. Much bigger. I hope she knows that. She does.
I got into second-guessing myself on the morality of what I'd just encouraged her to do, and my reactions to it.
My reactions formed a tent in the front of my pants. Why? Kids that age aren't my thing. If the situation were reversed and that was a little girl down there, there'd be no way I'd go down and try to get her into doing something sexual. Maybe if she were sixteen. But I still wouldn't do it - I'd just like to do it.
Maybe I'm picking up on her energy on this. Or maybe I'm relating to the kid, thinking how much I would have liked to have met someone like her when I was that age. I would definitely have been embarrassed, especially at first.
Don't ask him too many questions, Deborah. Just lead him along, gently. See if he wants to follow. If he doesn't, that's okay. Just let it go.
Say yes, kid. Don't be dumb. Deborah's really very nice. You'll remember this for the rest of your life. Good memories. You're not going to meet many women like her, no matter how long you live.
Zing. Zing, whiz, zap. Thirty minutes.
My how time doesn't fly when you're having this sort of fun.
I wanted to go look. Deborah's the exhibitionist, I'm the voyeur. At a minimum, I wanted to see whether they were still on the bank, just being "friends". If they weren't there, then...
Don't doooo that!
I thought about moving the car. Get it where it would be harder for the kid to get the license plate number, and where it would be faster to drive off. It probably wouldn't matter if he did see the car, so long as we could get a good head start. The faster the better.
But if I start the car, they might hear it and panic.
Do nothing. Wait.
Just short of the one-hour mark, Deborah came walking out of the trees. Walking quite briskly, with a big shit-licking grin on her face, swinging the blanket bag.
Something had happened. Now let's get the fuck out of here.
I got in the car, she got in the car, I started the car, and I drove out of there as fast as I could with- out fish-tailing the car or making gravel fly.
Deborah didn't say a word. She lit a cigarette instead. I looked over at her - she was smiling and ignoring me. At a minimum, she'd tried something and was feeling very proud of herself.
We drove for almost a half-hour in complete silence. Not even the radio. We made the freeway, and many miles after that. We were getting lost in freeway traffic, and there still weren't any sirens or red lights in the rear-view mirror.
It got past the point of getting away from the scene and politely allowing her some time to digest whatever had happened. She was teasing me.
So, I finally asked: "Well?"
Manx. At moments like that, I could strangle her.
"Don't play games with me. I waited for you for an hour."
She looked at me and smiled. "I just fucked and sucked a twelve year-old."
- END -