My First Valentine

by Lubrican

Chapters : 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6

Chapter Five

It is difficult to explain what happened to us that night. In fact, I think it started happening before that night, when she asked me to take her to the Valentine's dance. I had given her Valentine's cards before. I'd handed them out like candy at church, to every girl I knew. But it was more of a game to me back then. I gave the best cards to Valerie, but I wasn't trying to woo her or anything. She was just my best friend, and was special. So she got the best card, even if I didn't really mean what was on the card.

And we'd been friends for as long as I could remember. We'd hung out together, spending all our leisure time together. Of course I had cared how she felt, not only about me, but about things in general. But suddenly it really mattered if she liked me, or was unhappy with me. I had touched her before, both in play and in jest and, occasionally, in anger. But I had never craved touching her, like I already was, even before the dancing started up.

And that was just the beginning.

It wasn't love at first sight. It was more like a twelve or thirteen year courtship that we hadn't been aware we were engaging in.

And when the band finally got going, and the music started, and we began a mating ritual that we'd never engaged in before, I couldn't wait for a slow song to come up, so I could hold her against me. Not that fast dancing wasn't fun. Well, after the first couple, during which I was acutely aware that I had no idea what I was doing. But most of the other kids were doing different things, so it was obvious that there wasn't one kind of dance that I was supposed to know, and didn't. Eventually I just let the beat take me, and gave up worrying about it. Val was grinning at me as she capered about, and that was all I cared about.

Her fears about the dress falling off of her were baseless. She jumped and twisted and I watched her unfettered breasts bounce and sway under the smooth, satin material of her dress. I know she saw me looking, but I didn't care anymore. Somehow I assumed I had permission to be a pervert, if only for this one night, at this one dance. I think I sensed something on an unconscious, visceral level, that required no words to communicate.

Finally, the band started a slow dance. We were breathing hard, from our wild gyrations.

"You want to take a break?" she asked. Her shoes were hanging from her left hand. They'd lasted less than thirty seconds after she started dancing.

"No," I said, firmly.

"I'm sweaty," she said.

"I don't care."

Almost carefully, we approached each other. We were hesitant, but I think it was only because we weren't sure how to engage successfully. I looked at some of the other kids, who were already dancing. They just hugged each other and moved slowly.

I could do that.

As she came against me, I smelled her perfume again. Without the shoes her forehead came to just below my nose. I was surprised. I hadn't realized I was that much taller than her. Her hair smelled good too.

"You smell good," I said to her forehead.

"I don't see how," she said, looking up at me.

There were those glossy, full, soft looking lips. Her teeth, behind them seemed to gleam, so white were they. I wanted to kiss her so much I could feel it pulling inside of me. It actually felt like there was a string, or rope or something attached to my balls, and it was being pulled upwards through my body, out of my mouth.

But she turned her face back down and pressed it against the lapel of my suit. Her hands went to my waist and applied just enough pressure that I was assured she wanted to dance close.

I reached around with my hands, and placed both of them on smooth, hot skin.

And got a boner.

I wanted to groan. Everything was going so well. In fact, things were going better than I would have ever fantasized they could go. And I did not want it all ruined by her feeling how much of a pervert I actually was.

She did feel it. I know she did. Because I felt her press her loins to mine. It wasn't for long, but she pressed, and then slid her hips sideways. She was obvious about it, and I was sure she was about to erupt into a scathing rebuke when she pulled away.

She did speak, but it was only one word, and it was into the lapel of my suit coat.

"Pervert."

I got no rebuke.

If I asked her to dance, she accepted. Eventually we just assumed that, unless one or the other of us called a break, we'd dance every one.

The erection flagged after a while. I had surreptitiously adjusted it upwards, so it wouldn't make too much of a bulge, and my suit coat hung down enough that I wasn't too worried about it. I had to adjust it again, back down, when it got soft. I did that during fast dances, because I'd noticed that people looked up a lot while they did that.

She never said a word about it. Apparently she felt that her one word pronouncement was enough.

But she never shied away from slow dances either. In fact, she pressed herself against me even more firmly as the night went on. At one point, Mr. Mulgren, the Social Studies teacher, appeared right next to us and said, "Break it up, you two, lest ye become an example of North American mating rituals in one of my lectures."

I had never felt so bold, as I looked at him and said, "I've never even kissed her, Mr. Mulgren."

"I'm not worried about the kissing part," he said, smiling.

We did move apart, but only until he moved on.

A little while later she looked up.

"So the pervert wants to kiss me?"

I thought of at least five clever things to say. I thought about teasing her. I thought about asking her how she'd feel about that. And while I thought about all those things, that string attached to my balls tugged her mouth towards mine. At least it seemed that way, except that I had to lower my head, until I felt those soft, warm lips press against mine and the world was transformed into a fuzzy, soft cloud, upon which I was riding, flying.

I had been jealous of her dates with other guys. Oddly, I benefited from those dates, because she'd learned a couple of things on them. I was made aware of this as the tip of her tongue gently prodded my lips, prying them lovingly open, so she could coax my own tongue from its safe haven.

She sucked at the tip of my tongue and that rope attached to my balls got as tight as a guitar string.

"I thought I told you two to cool it," said Mr. Mulgren, again at our side.

Reluctantly - and I could tell she was reluctant about it too - we dragged our lips apart. I suspect her eyes were glazed, but it was hard to tell, because mine were glazed for sure, and everything looked kind of fuzzy.

"You said you weren't worried about kissing," I croaked.

"Maybe you should have some punch and take a little break," suggested the self-appointed representative of the morals police. Or maybe he wasn't. Maybe teachers got assigned. I had a quick little fantasy of a piece of paper on the bulletin board in the teacher's lounge. At the top were the words "Morals Police Assignments for Valentine's Dance." Under that were names, and quadrants of the gym, establishing beats, all laid out so that roving teachers could make sure some arbitrary line wasn't crossed.

I was grumpy. All I'd done was kiss her.

I felt Val's hand take mine and tug. We went over to the row of chairs by one wall, where she had left her shoes and purse. Others had done the same thing. There were five or six kids sitting down, mostly wallflowers. I'd sat there like that in the past. So had Val. So it wasn't all that odd to sit down. Two of them were in Chess Club, so I knew them. We nodded, but to them, I was in another class of citizens. I was with a gorgeous girl, whose eyes communicated to the world that she was happy to be with me. So after cursory greetings, they looked away and resumed whatever discussion they'd been engaged in.

"You want some punch?" I asked.

"I want to leave," she said.

I felt panic stab into me.

"Really? I thought we were having a good time."

"We are," she said.

"Then why do you want to leave?"

"I want to be someplace Mr. Mulgren isn't," she said.

I felt panic of a different kind. I'd been so bold as to kiss her, but I'd used up pretty much all of my boldness in that act. I'd enjoyed that kiss immensely, and I thought she had too. But if I was called on to do anything else, even more kisses, it was dangerous. What if I messed up? What if I did it wrong?

What if I caused disappointment in the girl who, suddenly, meant more to me than she ever had before?

"You want to go eat now?" I asked.

She looked at me and frowned.

"Are you a complete idiot?"

"No." I was injured. "Why?"

"I don't want to eat. I want to kiss you some more!"

"Oh." That rope was back, pulling tight again.

We edged our way toward the doors, thinking there might be someone from the morals squad there to prevent kids from leaving early to go make out. There wasn't.

When we got to the car, things were just a tiny bit strained. I forgot to open her door, but she did it automatically. Then, she put the back of her head on the head rest and sort of straightened her body, lifting her hips off the seat and doing something with her hands, down by her knees, in the dark.

"What are you doing?" I asked, worriedly. It looked like she was having a seizure.

"I'm taking off these fricking panty hose," she said. "They're hot and they make my legs itch."

"Oh," I said, as my imagination went into high gear. Did girls wear regular panties under panty hose? If not, was another part of her body besides her breasts going to be unfettered?

I didn't ask. There wasn't enough bold in the world for me to ask something like that.

I was so rattled, I asked, "Do you need any help?"

"No, pervert," she snorted. "I think I can manage. They come off easier than they go on."

"Oh," I said again.

She held up a mass of cloth in the darkness.

"There! Much better."

I looked over at her. At her lap. I think it was a normal thing to do.

We were in my mom's car, which was a Chevy Impala. It had a bench seat in the front, and I watched as Valerie slid over towards me, turning half sideways so she was facing me, with one knee and lower leg on the seat and the other foot on the floor. I couldn't see it, but my mind knew that this had spread her legs, and that whatever was now under her dress, was facing me. The images that flooded my mind left me almost paralyzed. Almost. My penis wasn't paralyzed.

"What's wrong?" she asked. "Are you okay?"

"No," I whispered, automatically. I wasn't thinking very straight.

"Why? What's wrong?"

"You," I said, again on auto pilot.

"What's wrong with me?" She sounded hurt, and that dragged my consciousness back to the front of my brain.

"Nothing. You're perfect. That's the problem," I said.

"Why would that be a problem?"

"Because I'm a pervert," I sighed.

She scooted closer to me, until that bare knee ran into my thigh. She leaned over until her face was only six or eight inches from mine.

"That's not a problem, silly."

How to describe what happened? It's like looking at a closed book, with hundreds of pages. Each page has lots of information on it, but you can't access it unless you open the book. You remember reading it, but no individual page is clear in your mind.

That's what my very first make out session was like.

We started out in the front seat, and we must have kissed a hundred times. I'm surprised our lips didn't weld together. She was a committed French kisser. I never once thought about where she'd learned how to do that. I was too busy learning from her all the ins and outs. No pun intended.

Initially, our hands didn't do much. We were too busy with our lips. And just breathing. It's astonishing how out of breath you can get just kissing.

But eventually one of my hands strayed to her back, where that expanse of bare skin was, and started roaming around, just luxuriating in the feel of that skin. She liked that. I could tell by the way she wiggled against me.

When the steering wheel got in the way, we scrambled into the back seat, where we could mostly lie down. She ended up more or less on top of me, which let her control the kisses, and let me have access to her back.

It also caused her body weight to press against my groin, where she detected the mother of all erections. I knew she felt it, because she kept rubbing against it. But she didn't say anything other than one time, as she broke a long kiss. She rubbed against it and pecked my lips and whispered, "I love my pervert."

Nobody had ever said they loved me. Not like that. Parents and aunts and uncles don't count. They have to love you. But no girl had ever said she loved me, even jokingly.

That cord attached to my balls twanged, and then vibrated. Where it passed my vocal cords, the vibrations numbed them, so I suddenly couldn't speak.

But I didn't have to, because she started kissing me again.

It was after a particularly good combination kiss and rub that she suddenly sat up. Her left knee went between my legs, and her right foot was on the floor. Her hairdo was against the roof, so she had to lean forward.

"We need to go eat now," she said, her voice husky.

"Are you hungry?" I asked, stupidly.

"No, but we need to go eat."

"Okay."

I started to sit up, but she reached to stop me with one hand on my chest.

"Do you still want to see them?" she asked.

It took me a second, but of course I thought of her breasts. Then I was sure she couldn't possibly be referring to them, so I tried to think of anything else that would make sense in this situation. I couldn't. It was strange, because before this, I'm sure I would have been unsure of myself, and nervous, and jumpy, but now I felt like some mystery had been solved, and some immense wisdom had been granted to me. Valerie loved kissing me, and she loved rubbing against my perverted penis. So it somehow seemed within the realm of the natural that she might grace me with a glance at what I'd been begging, more or less, to see for years.

"More than ever before," I said, hoping like crazy I wasn't making a fool of myself.

I expected her to equivocate, or delay, but her movements were swift and sure, as each hand went to a shoulder strap and pulled. She sort of shrugged forward, and leaned back at the same time, forcing my legs apart as she sat down between them, with her back against the door.

There, in the dark, gleamed two perfect orbs of white. There were dark little circles in the center, but it was too dark to see anything clearly. We sat, frozen for I don't know how long, before she finally pulled the dress back up and put everything back where it belonged.

"Thank you," I whispered.

"You're so silly," she said.

Then, as if nothing had happened between us at all, she turned and opened the door and got out. She let herself into the front and looked over the seat back at me.

"Hurry up! I'm starving!"

We went to Guido's Italian Restaurant. It wasn't the fanciest place in town, but you didn't have to have a reservation. My family had eaten there once, and I remembered the food as being really good, so that's where I took her. As it turned out, they had a Valentine's Day special, where they served both people on one plate, with a carafe of wine. Of course we didn't get the wine. They substituted root beer instead, which is what Valerie said she wanted.

The food was good. She played footsie with me under the table. I had been sad that the making out part was over, but this was fun too.

The special came with dessert, which was a chocolate mousse thing. It was delicious.

I guess it all came together to create something inside me that was pressurized or something, because as I put my spoon down for the final time and looked across the table at her, it just burst out of me.

"Be my valentine," I said.

It was hokey. It was lame. It was trite. But I meant it from the bottom of my heart.

She leaned forward and reached across the table for my hands.

"I wouldn't think of being anybody else's."

It was quiet when we got back in the car. She scooted over and leaned against me, but then went back to her side when the seat belt thing kept dinging at us. She fastened her belt and it finally stopped.

"This is unreal," I said a few minutes later.

"I know what you mean," she said.

"We're not like this," I said.

"Yes, we are," she said, quite firmly.

"Well I sure didn't know it."

It was quiet for a whole block.

"You're such an idiot," she said.

"Why am I always such an idiot?"

"For the life of me, I don't know," she sighed.

"It would help if you did," I suggested.

"Actually, I do know," she said, suddenly animated.

"I can't wait for you to explain it to me," I said.

"Why do you think I spent so much time with you all those years?"

"Because we were best friends?" I said. I thought it was obvious.

"Because I liked you," she said, in that tone of voice that announced she was correcting me.

"Of course you liked me. I liked you too."

"No, you idiot. I really liked you."

I thought about that. Her meaning was obvious, but I didn't want to be wrong and look like a fool. Still, after what had happened, I thought she'd cut me some slack.

"You mean, like boy-girl like?"

"Give the man a prize!" she said, sarcastically.

"I didn't know," I protested.

"Because you're an idiot," she said, as if that explained everything.

I thought some more. I was trying to think of times where she might have sent me signals that I'd missed.

"How long have you felt that way?" I finally asked.

"Since forever," she said, as if that should be common knowledge.

"So why didn't you tell me?"

"Because I didn't want to encourage you."

"What does that mean?" I asked, completely confused.

"You were already enough of a pervert that I didn't want to make it worse," she said. "I couldn't have you slavering all over me. At least not until we were seniors."

"I've never slavered in my life," I objected.

"Oh give me a break," she laughed. "I could have gotten you to do anything I wanted, just by offering to let you see my breasts."

I felt like I had the perfect defense.

"Well, I knew they'd be beautiful. And I was right! They are gorgeous."

"They're just breasts," she said, laughing some more.

"No they're not," I argued. "They're magical ... mystical. They make me happy just thinking about them."

"And I bet you think about them a lot." It was an accusation, if a joking one.

"All the time," I said. "Especially at night, while I -" I cut that off just in time.

"While you what?"

"Never mind."

"While you play with yourself?" She was sharp. "Like you were playing with yourself that time in the middle of the day?"

"It doesn't matter what time of day it is. Things just happen," I said in my defense.

"Answer the question. Do you think about my breasts while you do that?"

"Valerie," I groaned. "This has been a fantastic night. I don't want you mad at me."

"Answer the question!" she said, stridently.

I swallowed. "Okay. Yes. Sometimes I think about you when I ... um ... ease the tension."

It was quiet for five or six heartbeats I could distinctly hear thudding in my chest.

"Ease the tension," she said, her voice musing. "That's actually a pretty good way of describing it."

"What do you mean?" I asked. How could she possibly know anything about whether that was a good way of describing what a jerk off session was like?

"You are such an idiot," she said.

"Stop saying that!" I barked.

She reached over to touch me with her left hand.

"I don't mean it," she said. "Not like you think. I don't actually believe you're an idiot. You're just slow to catch on, sometimes."

I had no argument with that.

"So help me catch up," I said.

"Boys aren't the only ones who ... reduce the tension," she said, calmly.

I managed to keep it on the road as another flood of images became a deluge in my mind. It all got distilled down to a single, "Wow!" though. She giggled.

"Poor Bobby. He thinks he's the only pervert in the whole world. Well, you're not. While you're thinking about my boobs in your room, I'm thinking about what you looked like that day, as I lay in my bed. We're not so different, Bobby."

I had nothing to say in response. My mind was still a jumble of pornographic images.

Eventually I realized all I was doing was driving around, with no destination in mind.

"What now?" I asked.

She looked at her watch, but it was dark. She leaned over and looked at the radio display, where the time was outlined in red. It was after midnight. We hadn't been given a curfew. I'd thought that was odd, but hadn't brought it up. Somebody once said it's better to say you're sorry for doing something than ask to do it and be told you can't.

"My house," she said.

"You want to go home?" I know I sounded disappointed.

"Yes," she said, firmly.

So I drove her home.

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