We get as comfortable as two teens can with a stick shift between us. I breathe fast then not at all. We are both smell like soap. The clock turns backwards, and my pants tighten as we kiss.
I’m a virgin and need to hold off. I think of my brother eating cereal in the morning at the breakfast table, how his slurp and chew sounds like an asthmatic hoglet. I see a thin trail of whole milk stagnate on his bottom lip.
Sheila nibbles with a pulse more reliable than a metronome. She bites my neck and stretches my shirt. The swelling returns and my watched kettle is fit to pop. The seats squeak as we rotate for position and again I must hold back the moment.
I imagine the sounds from car seats emanate from the coupling of a Lazy Boy chair and my dad’s ass that shifts weight during commercials. I’m losing ground. The buxom, silk-haired farmhands of Hee Haw replace advertisements.
I open my eyes to a fast, young, and smart sextress completely on top of me. I am over my head. Her serpent fingers wrap around my business and cut off the circulation between my nethers and my brain and heart.
She pours her words into my numb ears.
Let’s go upstairs
Her parent’s house is empty and I follow her. As I watch her sway ascend, my corduroys rekindle the fire. To douse the flames I imagine I’m in marching band, goose-stepping behind the brass section. I clang my cymbals as the horn players empty their spit valves onto the concrete.
The concrete returns to shag rug, and I’m led into her sister’s room. Weeping clowns adorn her walls and help beat back the vision of curved satin backing up onto my naked body. I try to keep the circus clowns inside their stupid little car, but as the vehicle enters the ring they spill out in rushes of glee.
I inhale terror and exhale seventeen years of tension.
