Friday is one of my sleep-late days. I learned my lesson my first semester and NEVER scheduled an eight o'clock class. This semester, though, I had a Tuesday and Thursday nine o'clock.
National and State Government
was required and the only one available was the nine o'clock. But Monday, Wednesday, and Friday I could pat Monica on the ass, accept her goodbye kiss, and roll back over.
Let me back up a little.
I've mentioned John, my next-door neighbor. Well, John was another recently separated veteran, and he was one of the guys who had gone over there and done it while I sat that fucking war out in a nice air-conditioned Air Force gig in northern Japan. The second sentence in our conversation when I met him was him asking me how the pot was in Japan, and I knew, right then, that a friendship was formed and I was right. It turned out to be a friendship that has lasted over a half-century now.
Anyway, we struck a bargain in the first days of that friendship and for the next four years he had a telephone and I provided the pot. When Monica or I got one of our rare phone calls he would just bang on the side of his trailer until one of us went to the door and then went to his trailer to answer the call. It quickly became apparent that Darla, his wife, didn't like me. I think she thought I was a bad influence on him. She was always kind of standoffish and, well, I've always been pretty much a loner (being raised by an alcoholic will do that to you) so it didn't matter.
All of which was why I was surprised that Friday morning.
Monica was gone to class, and I was in that twilight stage, just drifting off, when I heard the door of the trailer open. I didn't think much of it, to be honest. That trailer park was almost a commune, well, almost a commune among the six couples who were in school, all of us pretty much the same age. If we needed the proverbial cup of sugar, or a beer or whatever, doors weren't locked and we trusted each other.
I didn't even bother to open my eyes.
If you've ever lived in a trailer you'll know what I mean when I say you'll never get snuck up on in one (to hell with what my third-grade teacher Mrs. O'Neil would have to say about the grammar of that last sentence. It says what I mean.). I understand that modern trailers aren't as bad, but in 1973 our used trailer had been built sometime in the 1960s and you could feel every footstep that was made.
I was aware of the footsteps, then, and just assumed Monica forgot something and was fetching it.
"I talked to Myra," Darla said, and THAT got my attention. I rolled over to face her as she went on.
"I suppose this is inevitable," she said as she did that arms-crossed-in-front thing only a woman can pull off and look good while doing it, and peeled her T-shirt up and off.
She held my eyes as she pushed the silky shorts down and let them fall to pool at her feet.
I was surprised.
A line in a book I read once, I think it was a
Parker
novel but I wouldn't bet much on that, fit my expectations if I ever saw Darla naked - - she was yellow on top and black on the bottom.
So I was surprised that Darla was yellow on top and pale brown on the bottom, a natural blonde.
I've read that redheads and honey blondes (not that pale Nordic blonde, but the midwest farmer's daughter blonde) have the thickest hair. She was one of those thick-haired blondes and below her belly button a three-inch wide strip of thick, very curly, very pale blonde hair disappeared into the thigh gap between her skinny legs.
And skinny was the word to describe her. She was about average height for a woman, I guessed her at 5'4" or 5'5" or so, but she couldn't have weighed more than about a hundred pounds, one ten tops.
Darla had one of those faces that is difficult to categorize. Oh, all of the parts were in the right places and she didn't have any deformities or anything. Starting at the top, she had that thick blonde hair, her best feature, that she wore short, not quite to her shoulders, with a little flip at the bottom that would have looked good with a poodle skirt.
Her eyes were brown and wide set, framing a narrow pointed nose. Her ears were a bit oversized for her smallish head. Her mouth was small and her lips thin. Her chin was a bit long and pointed. She kind of reminded me, thinking back, of Jamie Lee Curtis but lacked Jamie Lee's, well, raw sexiness. Darla was a grade school teacher and always dressed like a grade school teacher. I couldn't even recall seeing her in shorts before this morning.
Her shoulders were wide, an athlete's shoulders, and it turned out she had been on the cheerleading squad (why was I not surprised at this bit of information?) since grade school. Her collarbones left a distinct dip, something I found was called the "saltcellar" in some 19th-century literature (Social Studies majors' minds DO tend to become cluttered attics of useless information over time) and if you're interested, the technical term is the
suprasternal notch
. Her deltoid muscles were well-developed and round.
She carried so little body fat that the ridges of her sternum showed and her small breasts didn't look like they would EVER fail the pencil tests. She was one of those women whose breasts were barely bumps, tipped with perfectly circular areolas the color of creamed coffee, and nipples a shade darker, flat against the areolas, about the size of the tip of my little finger. I doubted that she filled the cup of the A-cup bra she usually wore.
Her ribs showed clearly and her firm belly showed the ridges of her abdominal muscles although she didn't have the "cut" of a true bodybuilder.
Her waist was ridiculously small, I imagined it at 22 inches although I wouldn't have been surprised at 20. Her belly button was a cute slot of an innie centered precisely in her belly at her waist, and I had the weird urge to see if I could put a quarter in it. It was that kind of surreal encounter.
The hollows of her hips, those depressions that start at the roundness of the hip joint and trace down to a woman's pussy, were distinct. But it was her pussy, of course, and that thick pale hair, that caught my attention most. The line of that hair was so distinct I suspected she trimmed it, something very rare in those days. But it was thick and curly and filled her distinct thigh gap nicely.
Darla was one of those women with skinny legs that were also sexy, something I have found to be extremely rare on the distaff side. Think Vera Ellen doing her dancing in
White Christmas
and you've seen her legs.
I don't know how long I looked. I was still kind of in that twilight state, but I took my time.
The look on her face was a cross between a smile and a smirk. Okay, I know that's not a good description, but it's the best I can come up with. She stood, that look on her face, until my eyes finally moved back up and met hers.
"Well," she said, and her voice was that trained teacher's voice that could calm a class of third graders without being raised, "Do I pass inspection?"
I grinned then, my absolute BEST boyish grin, the one I used to practice in the mirror.
"Dunno," I said, finally coming fully awake, "Only half done. Turn around."
The smile spread and the smirk disappeared at that.
"Very good, David," she said, and turned.
Her back pretty much mirrored her front, the spine showed clearly as did the big complex of muscles that formed a hollow in which her spine nestled. Her elbows had those little wrinkles that I have always found sexy (I don't know why).
