Miranda pulled down her night-shorts, and began to rub her clit. "Ohhh," she said, imagining that the fingers giving her so much pleasure were those of a handsome lover rather than her own. "Mmmmmm."
The bed felt so comfortable, so soft, especially after spending last night in her tiny fold-up tent. She couldn't help it. She needed a release. She purred again as her fingertips increased their pressure. Would someone else know how to manipulate her pussy the way she did? She was a master, having logged all manner of practice over the years. How many times had she brought herself to orgasm? Five hundred? A thousand? Who knew? But she did know one thing.
No one else ever had.
It wasn't for a lack of options. Scores of boys at school had flirted with her—some with a touch of class, others with all the civility of a caveman with hair on the back, and furry knuckles dragging along the muddy earth as he trudged by. But it wasn't easy. It felt like everyone expected her to lose her virginity whenever it suited them. And not just the boys. How many of her girlfriends had asked her, "Well, Miranda? Aren't you ready? Rick really likes you, y'know. You're missing out."
"Ohhh," she said, as she inserted two fingers into her vagina, already dripping with moisture. "Fuck me," she said to the dark room, to some imaginary lover whom she pictured taking her, then and there. "Just fuck me."
Now with her other hand, she reached under her top and played with her nipples. They were hard and erect, and sensitive to the touch. These, at least, had been fondled by someone else. Just last month, Bobby Gregson, a boy she dated for a couple of weeks, was kissing her so good and so long, and she let him get a feel. He had reached under her bra, and squeezed, and, honestly, it felt good. And exciting. But then he reached for her crotch, and she stopped him.
"Fucking cock-tease," he'd fumed. Needless to say, that had been their last date.
"Oh yes," she sighed. "Ohhhh." She felt her body tense, felt her nerve endings scream and dance, ready to erupt. A glorious feeling of inevitability washed over her like a wave. It was a feeling she knew well, and always wished could last longer. "Oh yeah, oh God, oh God," she said as she came, her hips bucking and jerking as she continued to finger herself, until, spent and satisfied, she went limp, her limbs relaxed now, her body sated.
She sighed again, absently continuing to play with her nipples. She hoped Aunt Marie hadn't overheard. But no. It was a big old house, and Aunt Marie's room was way down the other end of the hall.
Suddenly feeling thirsty (cumming sometimes had that effect on her), Miranda hopped out of bed, and padded on bare feet downstairs, to the kitchen. Opening the fridge, and grabbing a can of Diet Pepsi, she thought back to last night. What a difference. She'd been camped in the woods, in her sleeping bag, under the glow of a gibbous moon, listening to the night-creatures as they rustled about, scurrying through the undergrowth.
Her parents thought she was crazy, and told her in no uncertain terms not to do this. But she was eighteen now, and they couldn't hold her. They could enforce a curfew, establish house rules perhaps, but they couldn't stand in the way if she decided to take a few weeks and walk across Upstate New York.
"Why?" they had asked. It was the day after her high school graduation ceremony. "Miranda, it's dangerous. A young girl, all alone like that . . ."
She shrugged. She could defend herself. She wasn't worried. Besides, she had been the star member of the track team, and could run like a deer, if things ever came to that. But she doubted they would. She'd stick to the main roads, walk only during the day, camp deep in the woods, and stay at relatives' houses along the way whenever possible, just like tonight with Aunt Marie.
She would start out right on her own side street, where she'd lived all her life in the old blue cape she called home, and go through her small town, ten miles north of Albany, heading west. Her journey would come to an end on the east side of Rochester, in the affluent town of Pittsford, where her Uncle Jim and Aunt Helen ran a bed-and-breakfast. They had already agreed to let her spend as many nights as she wanted at the B & B, free of charge. She wanted none of that, though, and had already paid them in advance for three nights' stay. Hopefully that's all it would take, or if she were lucky, it would happen before she even arrived in Rochester. Only time would tell. And then she would walk back home, thinking, reflecting on all she had experienced and enjoy the remainder of her summer before going to college in the fall.
But right now, she didn't want to think about college. There was only The Walk, as she had come to call it. The Journey.
"Why?" her mother had asked a second time. "Why are you doing this, Miranda?"
"I need to discover something about myself," she had answered.
And about sex.
It was complicated.
*
After downing the Diet Pepsi, Miranda went back to the guest room, flicked on the light. She was wired from the caffeine. Smart idea. Drinking pop before bed . . .
She looked in the wall mirror. A blonde-haired, blue-eyed, tanned eighteen-year-old looked back at her. Everyone said she was beautiful. Tall, nearly five feet ten, athletic, fit and toned, with high cheekbones and a warm, friendly smile. What was not to like? She didn't know—but she never thought she was beautiful. Acceptable, maybe, on a good day. But beautiful? That seemed too strong a word, no matter what others told her.
She turned, looked at herself in profile. She had a nice butt, even she had to admit that—toned and tight, yet still round and shapely. Her tits? Not much to write home about. She wore a 34B bra, and had come to terms that she would never have much up front. Of course, the guys at school didn't seem to mind. They kept after her, as if in a horn-dog championship competition. Who could fuck Miranda Jenkins first? Who would she lose her virginity to?
She sat on the bed, took out her diary. It was old-fashioned, she knew, keeping a diary in pen and ink. Some of her girlfriends mocked her about it. Well, who cared? She'd never been a conformist. She was the only girl in school who listed
The Honeymooners
as her favorite TV show. Half the class had never even heard of it. If they only knew she considered Ed Norton the sexiest man she had ever seen . . . Norton was hilarious. He made her burst out laughing every time she watched. She admired a six-pack and a pair of guns on a guy as much as the next girl. But it meant nothing if he couldn't make her laugh.
And when the time came on this Walk, on this Journey, when she met the right guy, surely he would be someone with a sense of humor.
She began to write . . .
*
No one back home understands. Sometimes I wonder if anyone ever will. I don't even know if I do—at least not totally. "Like, totally," as Laurie would say! I miss Laurie, and all my friends. I guess I didn't realize that this little hike across the great state of NY would be so lonely. It's nice seeing Aunt Marie, but it's not the same as my friends. Oh well. This is something I wanted to do, and I don't regret it—yet.
I still haven't found him. And I wonder sometimes. Here I am walking, searching, but will I find him? Who is he? Is he my age? Or is he older? Thirty? Forty? I remember talking to Laurie about that once. "No way would I do a forty-year-old," she said. "That's gross, with a capital G. Ick. I mean, like, my dad's forty!" Well, so's mine, but if I found the right guy, and he WAS forty, I would. I really would. It's not like I'm looking for a soul-mate. Just a onetime thing. It's so weird. I mean, I like some of the boys from my class. But it never felt right with them. I'm not a tease. At least I don't mean to be. It's just . . .
I don't know. I've thought about waiting, maybe even till I'm married. But that's SO old school. I mean, really. Everyone tells me I'm old-fashioned, but not in that way. It's just, I don't know. If I don't want to wait—I guess somehow I figure it's better to do it with a stranger, someone I might meet just for this purpose. Someone I won't ever see again. Some people would call that cheap and slutty and dirty. But I'm not looking for a boyfriend. Or even a lover. Just an experience. I want to know what it feels like, and I don't want to wait for years and years. And I don't want to get involved with anyone. I have too much to do, with college and everything coming up.
Sometimes I hate that I live in a small town. Everyone knows you, and knows who you sleep with, it seems. That's one of the reasons I'm taking this Walk. When I find the right guy, I want him to be a hundred miles away. I don't want my parents to know his parents, or whatever.
I don't know. I'm eighteen, but sometimes I feel so much older. Weighed down. So many expectations. Everyone wants me to do great at college and get some great job after I graduate, and probably they want me to, oh, I don't know, like become president of the United States or something. It's flattering, but it's a lot of pressure.
Sometimes, I just want to do something for ME. And I'm doing this for me. I want to discover things. I want to feel things. I want to know things.
I want to be free . . .
*
