You only get to turn twenty-one once.
Uncle Jon always said that day was one of the best of his life. Seeing as he'd gotten discharged from his military service on his actual birthday (in the process escaping Vietnam alive, and he was sure glad about that part, there being all those stories about guys a week away from flying out and then in that last week they step on a landmine and killed or turned into a paraplegic or something), and that meant he could finally buy a beer legally (tell me why the US Army is glad to hire you on when you're eighteen but in the ol' freedom-loving USA you cannot buy a fucking drink at that age?) and he felt 'free as a hog on ice' as his own father, my grandfather, used to say.
Yessir, twenty-fucking-one, that Jon back then. Still had his army buzz-cut on his birthday, which he said weirded out some of the hippie-chicks when he got home, especially the ones he was hoping to get intimate with, but he said it wasn't but a bit of time, maybe six months, before he'd have 'rectified' the hair situation, and the old family photos proved that, with him bearded and scruffy and his arm around some long-haired beauty with no bra and bushy armpits that looked like fuzzy brown bunny-tails sticking out from her tight top. So for him turning twenty-one was some mighty major momentous threshold, that's for sure. For him life only got better after twenty-one.
Although I obviously cannot get into the head of Uncle Jon, and the relief that he must'a had when that fabulous confluence of good luck hit him back in 1970, I was feeling pretty darn good about my upcoming threshold on March 31.
All's I knew was my own scene: my last year at uni, my degree a couple months away, my driver's license would now work at The Boar for a drink, and I had a sweet girlfriend. The world was my oyster, or whatever the expression is, although I'm not all that fond of oysters myself. But I get it, pearls, salty slippery tastes, wide open opportunities.
But the best part, the absolutely best part, was the girlfriend one.
Speaking of salty slippery tastes and everything...
Mae Lynn Dickerson was the apple of my eye, my pomegranate of perfection, the princess of pleasure, the whipped cream on my hot chocolate, and not only did I not deserve her, but we both knew it. This type of luck just don't happen to a backwoods Vermonter boy, that's for real. I didn't know how long we would last, but I was determined to enjoy every damn moment.
How the hell did an upscale girl from Tennessee (she would say it 'Tinnessee' if she'd had more than a two glasses of wine, especially if there was another southerner around) get to U Vermont?
That is one hellava question and I don't know the real answer, only what Mae said herself.
She said she went as far away from home to college as her Daddy would let her, and since having met him and knowing that he was paying the bills, I am sure he wasn't too happy about her being way-up-north-almost-in fucking-Canada territory.
At other times (she got this question a lot at those illicit late night keg parties when folks would hear her accent) she answered different. Sometimes she said hearing about 'Green Mountain Boys' made her want one of her own (I usually got an elbow in the ribs for emphasis on this one.) Said once that her own Daddy had gone to UT (University of Tennessee for you ignorant of this fact) and she wanted to one up him in the alphabet department (Vermont's postal code is VT, gettit?) That one got more laughs than it deserved, but that's the beer talking.
So anyway, I don't know exactly why she picked UV but I didn't give a rat's ass, we were together as a couple and that was just fine.
But talk about a perfect girlfriend, my luck and everything.
Was she perfect? Just about. Her flaws were limited and minor, save one. The minor ones included the fact that I usually couldn't get her to go without a bra in public, even though she would have looked dynamite and she didn't have the kind of chest that would be uncomfortable unsupported and everything. Sometimes she could be a bit contrary, you might say headstrong. And the fact that when she made potato salad she'd put in chopped up onions which I would have preferred she didn't, but she said 'old family recipe' and I can understand heritage and all that.
She had a sense of humor, and that dimple on her left cheek could kill. She's just two fingers shorter than me, I think we make a handsome couple, her hair just a tad lighter than my brown, fine like silk thread, and when my penis is up her I cannot imagine a more perfect union, ha ha.
So a week or two before My Grand Event she starts asking about a suitable birthday present for me.
I say how about we fuck all day long?
She laughs and says that isn't exactly possible and she knows I couldn't do it anyway. I point out the time we fucked three times in a day, and she reminded me that it was three times in 18 hours, the third time on the next morning so that didn't exactly count as one day, and we got into a minor skirmish which I won't go into at the moment for various reasons. Mostly having to do with her getting the better of me in arguments, which she did a lot, one hellava smart girl there.
Anyway, now we get to her one main flaw, the 'major' one I mentioned, and I am not saying it is a dealbreaker, because it obviously isn't, and it has to do squarely with my specific birthday request.
"How about you let me cream in your mouth? For the first time? You know how much I would crave that, babe."
Well she give me a look with that sort of disgusted face that goes along with getting a plate of food, say with boiled snails on it, something not that appealing, and then her eyes give a little flicker, out of nowhere.
"Davey," she says in that way when she is trying to explain something beneath my comprehension, "this is not the first time you have made this request. Do you have any idea what it might be like to have a mouthful of sperm?"
I did not have this exact experience in my portfolio, at least the way she was asking, and told her that.
"Can you imagine it though?" Her eyebrows hit the ceiling while she stared at me pretty hard.
I could kinda do this of course, but considered that beside the point.
I said that if I were a girl and loved someone enough I could imagine doing things that maybe weren't all that pleasant but might still do them if I knew it would please my partner, expressing my love and everything.
So she's looking at me hard, and I am positive she is going to ask me what sorts of things I have done for her lately even though she knew I wasn't that fond of doing them, and so I try to head that off at the pass and offer up some reasoning, some 'dialectic' my philosophy prof would call it.
"Babe, I lick you good, all the way. Till your juices are running down my chin, soaking my beard, my nose buried in your cunthairs. I'm just saying that if you wanted to do a super special birthday present for me that doing the same to me as I do for you would be something grand and special and..."
I paused for a moment, trying for the right word, since I am not especially a poetic type, and finished with "ineffable" which I have no idea where I dredged that word from.
She's looking at me with those big brown eyes and I see those gears turning and she's getting just the beginning of a smile going, although maybe not the smile I want, but it doesn't matter since she starts talking.
"Ineffable, eh? So you would really, really like me to suck that cock of yours," she even points, "not just as foreplay but all the way, to a fluid soaked completion in my sweet warm Tennessee mouth? So that I take your semen in completely?"
"Babe, that would be extraordinary, my fondest wish."
She looks at me with sorta wild eyes, then away, then back at me.
"Dave, I will consider this."
Hot damn. Even getting this far was closer to this little letch of mine than we had ever gone before.
