On the Edging of Seventeen
In an alleyway near you...
It was prom night just like the teen movies, just as portrayed, the one last hill to climb. The final social boss battle, but with dance music instead of anthems and triumphals. The last test of the political war zone of high school.
Or more like was prom night. Had been. What was happening in the time to be examined had nothing to do with ball rooms, though maybe a bit to do with spiked punch.
He would have had a name like Johnny or Tommy. About 5'9, straight brown hair, kinda light brown eyes maybe coffee with a little bit of cream. He had a button nose and sorta small ears, kind of a round jaw but a chin for sure, not just that direct slope from lower lip into neck, that tragedy. Not “looksmaxing” or anything, whatever the Hell that meant, but not a “chinlet” either, if you could define that.
Sort of a slight build, he had never been fat, so just out of his day to day activity he had that stretched definition in his chest and abs.
You know just… not homely or anything, but not an Instagram model.
None of that mattered though because it was after prom and his tux was now loosened, unbound for the mobility, and he was together with her, his date, probably an Ashley or maybe a Chloe, in a beautiful white dress that she wore for truth, satin (sateen if we're being honest here but we'll forgive her. He certainly had) that wrapped her body and revealed a decidedly, emphatically feminine figure, if not a statuesque one at her 5’1. No Kardashi-ass, no “D-cups, full of justice”, but she was shaped like a woman, shaped with that image of woman that we all know don’t we? Especially in that dress.
They were behind the restaurant their group had gone to after prom. Yes that’s right, an alleyway in the city, hiding out between a dumpster and a huge HVAC vent, you know what’s coming next?
Johnny, or Tommy or whoever he was had kissed a girl before. This wasn’t his first kiss and it wasn’t hers either and it also wasn’t a single kiss. How often is it that back-alley kisses come solo, sounds pretty rare if you ask…
He had his awkward unsure, inexperienced innocent hand in her hair, one of them, while he was kissing her and he’d take his mouth away from hers and they’d just look at each other and smile. That first one. This was their first date, their first kiss between each other. Our hero so bold, our heroine so demure. He pressed his warm lips against hers having produced and alibi for the both of them, holding hands under the table while the other party goers took surreptitious sips from a flask passed between them. They’d had theirs too, but then their hands met under the table, and then her leg began pressing into his and they both realized at once they had taken enough of what the rest were doing and that they had to get away, and now…
And now…
They were kissing on each other, squeezing on each other, hanging on each other with a certain rhythm in movement that always existed in a human contiguity for times like this. His free hand would guide to her waist, her back, might travel around and behind and get, near her butt, but always glide away before it was truly on her butt. Might guide back around and forward, get under her boobs, but never went on her boobs.
Because, it wasn’t his first kiss, but it was…
Well not yet but it might be-
And she had a hand in his hair which was plain but it was also soft and nice and she had her spare hand on his shoulder where there was no cannonball deltoid but it was warm and firm it was man enough for their being… little children, really. The youngest sort of young adults. What era of man it might have been when an eighteen-year-old was for truth an adult was long past in the time they were living in with the smartphone google Delphic oracle and no coins or cash all cards and cars and planes and payment plans. That was the truth of the times our two leads lived in. But as for just what it was they were doing then and there, and how it was they were doing it? All unsure, retreating from doubtful forward steps. Hot quick kisses with flashes of tongue, retracted in modest, made forward again in a mounting need. They may not have been what they would have before, but they did it then just the same way it had always been done, and it was timeless friends. Older than time.
And since before time for certain had there been boys in the bodies of men, just like him, with hovering hands, unsure if it was the right time to take it to the next level but as he was shifting his legs to more tightly wrap himself up into her, bashful of the wood in his pants and embarrassed for it and trying to hide it and not hiding it and instead pressing it into her thigh as she shifted and she actually… well, she kinda liked it, but she was unsure of herself that she liked it so she couldn’t say it so he didn’t know and he was embarrassed of it tracking down his left pant leg pressing insistently into her right thigh and the cut of her dress was such that it was her bare skin it pressed on and he was desperately aware of that and anxiously conscious of the way a bead of precum was now forming there and Jesus he hoped she wouldn't feel that, he couldn't let her feel that.
But she had felt it already and it didn't bother her at all. She wasn't thinking with what part of her mind would be bothered by that
But he was, so he was shifting his legs trying to get in closer without crushing his dick into her any sort of way and he stumbled.
And his hand jerked up to catch himself on the wall while his feet adjusted reflexively and he caught himself without any need for work from his hands and that was fine because his hand missed the wall anyways and instead…
It was on her breast.
Her left breast.
And it was absent of force and it moved without direction or agent. It was only there, cupping her breast. Her… well, frankly, modest, but nonetheless well formed, breast.
And he looked into her eyes, her soft hazel eyes under her dirty blonde hair, still dressed for the dance the curls she’d put into it still framing her face in the heavy shadows of the alley under a half-moon in the husky breeze of the new summer, the blossoming summer, and his hand stayed there on her breast as he looked at her, and his heart began hammering hard in his chest with his mouth still open from the parted kiss and hers mirroring his sort of a, well, dumb expression. An ape expression, in that precipice movement that had been repeating itself through the centuries with him looking at her, her looking at him, that ape part, that monkey brain, you could say found the aggression he had formerly been lacking, and he pulled full away from her, but kept that right hand on her left breast, and looked back and forth to her eyes and his hand on her tit, and it seemed to him then like he was approaching something, the moment wasn’t there, but it was coming. He was coming to it, from far away, roaring toward him, looking from her eyes to his hand, his mouth slightly open, nostrils unconsciously flared very…
and speaking of apes, somewhere in the back of his mind for some reason, he remembered, many years ago, a boy, sitting on the couch next to his father, watching that first scene in that one old movie… old school science fiction with the red eye robot but before that, those apes… those people in chimpanzee costumes, he remembered he didn’t buy the costumes even then as a boy, and that song that was played when that one fella in the chimp suit turned the femur into a club. With the wind noise and Strauss’s horns, as his cupping hand’s fingers reached up to the edge of the strapless top of her white prom dress that obscured the whiteness of her breast like that sun that rose behind the monolith his left hand then shivering left her hair, his fingertips hovering along now with his right over the masking rim, his heart hammering, the arpeggiated Dawn motif of Thus Sprach Zarathustra, but he didn’t know that was the title he only knew, Johnny or Tommy or whoever he was, that his heart was pounding in his throat and the noise of it drowned out the working of his brains as his shaking fingertips hooked themselves on the edge of the top of her dress, and he kept looking back from his hands to her eyes but her eyes didn’t say anything just watched him with her own mouth open in a silent beckoning as he moved and now the C was migrating to the G as tenderly, tenderly, he glided the dress down delicately, down off of her breasts and the sateen fabric graced over her skin and as she felt it moving down it became like a wave electric in her body the anticipation, the shivering, the anxious exciting, she felt the muscles of her lower back tighten, she felt her hands seize in splayed fingers as he guided her dress down, his eyes seeming to swell in tandem to the movement of the so falling slow rolling fabric…
and now they were both watching him do it as it slid into the octave and now with his eyes held open wider than ever his eyes had been open before, to capture every possible piece of this moment lived in, ever nerve hot, flickering raised that first rimming of pink appeared, that first edge of her areola, and with all the incredible drama of the appearing strings, her nipple caught against the rim of her dress, flicking out so hard, her debut, but the flick was that flattened crescendo with the pounding drums so silent compared to the pounding of his heart and there they were.
Chloe.
Or maybe Ashley.
Her breasts
out
in the summer breeze.
The first breasts ever he had seen in his real life.
Real tiddiez.
No more 2D
And as the drums of Strauss’s opus thundered, and the horns returned to Dawn, he lowered his mouth over her nipple, and sucked way too roughly, way too hard, way so inexperienced and she clutched both her hands to the back of his head in his hair and pulled him away tenderly and now intuition took over for him and he adjusted his pressure and he made it good. So good.
Made it so nice.
Neither one of them ever in that position before.
And when he pulled her mouth away and looked back up at her still with both her hands in his hair they heaved. They heaved into each other, both his hands on her tits, his mouth on her throat, forgotten all about the shyness of his beggingly stiff dick he mashed through his tux, into her dress his cock even through the slacks and the sateen and her panties so hot against her maidenhead and a great many a more things happened there in that alley but we're at the edge of Innocence here and the story will finish polite.
Or at least as politely as it can, Edging On Seventeen.