Bonjour, dear readers! It's your friendly neighbourhood Newsies fanfiction writer, moseph! Yes, I'm back with a vengeance and, this time, a partner in crime! This charming fic, entitled 'Blood Brothers' (as you know, since you clicked on it) will be co-written by myself (as this chapter is) and the lovely, the stunning...Brunette! So sit back, relax and enjoy all the co-authorship fun!
Disclaimer: We don't own Newsies. Period.
Picture this: New York City at dusk; trails of smoke drift upward, mingling with soft, fluffy clouds painted on an indigo sky; the angry horns of taxis and SUVs play melodically on the ears; the lights are soon to come on, turning a bustling metropolis into a glittering fairyland.
You're an average sixteen year-old girl – smart, social, cute and a bit naïve – on a red tartan blanket spread across an apartment building fire escape, accompanied by a less than average sixteen year-old boy – very smart, slightly socially inept, quirky and cute in a subtle way. There's red wine and soft jazz. It's perfect and picturesque – an absolute night to remember.
And you are wearing a chastity belt made of iron.
I am said less average boy: David Jacobs; Dave or Davey if you must shorten it. You, average girl? You are giving me blue balls.
I'd been seeing Lisa Goodard for two months and, to my great surprise, she's unlike any girl I've ever met.
Let me rewind and give you my little back story.
I am a nerd. Grade A, prime nerd, in the flesh. I was born a nerd, I will die a nerd; any children I spawn are certain to be nerds. My father married a fairly normal woman and produced two out of three average children, but he was certainly the core source of my own nerdiness.
My classmates have always made me painfully aware of my, um, "uniqueness", thus accounting for low self-esteem, introversion, sarcasm, well-developed math skills and a profound appreciation for Buffy the Vampire Slayer.
Once, in my childhood, I'd had the thought that I was doomed to spend my entire adult life studying botany, growing a fichus in my closet bedroom in my parents' apartment and conducting very emotional engagements with blow-up sex dolls.
Believe it or not, only half of these ideas came from movies or television. The other half came from my neighbor's son Jamie – twenty-five years old and still living in his mother's apartment, eating Cap'n Crunch at six pm and tormenting his mother's harmless 25 lb cat.
Needless to say, at fourteen years old, on the brink of the emotional core of adolescence, I was not optimistic about my future.
That summer – the summer before my freshman year of high school – I picked up a job at my local ice cream parlor and discovered the beauty of females in the form of Suzanne Winters.
She was as beautiful as a flat-chested, four-eyed, metal-mouth fourteen year-old girl could be; I found her absolutely intoxicating. The way she wielded the ice cream scoop, digging out round, creamy blobs of runny, melted goodness; her lips as she pronounced "double chocolate chip" as only she could; the glint of her braces in the late afternoon sun as she wished customers a pleasant evening – every last inch of her screamed out to be touched. I pined for her all summer long until one day, when she arrived for her two o'clock shift in tears – her beloved Siamese, her precious Minxiboots, was tragically run over by an SUV.
A distraught supervisor asked me to help Suzanne calm down. She followed me (my knees shaking) around the back of the building and tearfully retold the story of her precious feline's death. All it took from me was an arm around her shoulders, a promise of undying support, and an obvious – but subtle! – whiff of her shampoo, and suddenly I was flat on my back, having my powder-blue polyester shirt ripped off by a tear-streaked, grief-fueled Suzanne.
She was needy. She was vulnerable. She wanted me at that exact moment.
Fortunately, I managed to make out a rational thought amongst my mental reactions to all the new physical experiences, and dragged the still horny and raging Suzanne into a supply closet slash closet. I lost my virginity between a giant tub of rocky road and the new shipment of paper cups.
Suzanne moved at the end of that summer, but I knew that I had tapped into something incredible; something few other self-proclaimed nerds, geeks and dweebs knew: that females were humans just the same as any boy. I learned that, when approached by someone kind and caring, the shield came down and they were instantly more vulnerable to the opposite sex.
That was the key to my success.
The discovery didn't turn me into a pimp or anything. It didn't lead to mind-blowing orgies in the girls' locker room (much as I kind of wish it did). But it gave me a strange new confidence and allowed me more high school hookups than I'd ever thought possible.
I'm not a slimeball; I never purposely sought out any drunk, horny party girls in a hookup attempt. I never had a game plan or gave myself points for my conquests. I never did anything against anyone's will.
It just happens to be formulaic. I'm at a party, just observing the action and walking the perimeter; I see a girl who looks pretty, interesting and, okay, maybe a bit tipsy (I'm talking no vomiting, stumbling or slurring; mild verbal diarrhea only). We talk, there's a subtle connection, a bit of chemistry and suddenly, she makes a move. Let her take control, allow her to believe I'm new at this and then, well, it's the stuff teen movies are made of. And while no lasting relationships were born from such trysts, the mutual (though confidential) satisfaction of both parties was unparalleled. Few admitted the experience to their friends and even fewer admitted to themselves that it really was amazing sex (even the drama department diva couldn't fake those screams). One or two even came back for more.
And such was – and is – my life and business. I'm an urbane Seth Cohen, a suave and cunning Xander Harris, a Robin trying on the Batsuit for size. I'm living, breathing proof of the old adage that looks can be deceiving. I'm a hardcore nerd with the sex life of a rock star (in proportions).
So Lisa was proving to be quite frustrating.
When Lisa waked into my AP English class on her very first day at a new school, I barely paid her any attention: cute, yes, but judging by the Lacoste sweater, the pink-tinted pearls and the unnaturally straight hair, she wasn't my type. I'd seen many a type-A overachiever come and go and they were all the same: they appear brilliant, but in reality, everything they know comes from a textbook and they're more interested in a thick wallet than a high IQ. I wasn't rich, but I had brains to spare and I was more interested in an appreciation of intellectual pursuits such as poetry and space sciences than the ability to spell the word 'verbatim' and not understand it. So I wasn't expecting much from Lisa.
My opinion of her changed drastically over the next week. We were paired together to write an abbreviated adaptation of Othello and not only was she familiar with that and several other of the Bard's works, she was able to offer insight and witty lines that I couldn't have done any better. Of course, she did spend a lot of time on her hair and with her cell phone in hand, but there was more to her than met the eye, clearly enough, and I kept her number after the presentation. Still, I wasn't hopeful – I saw her talking to WASP posterboy Dylan Moores and more than likely, she wasn't looking for a nerdy Jewish boy. I expected to never hear from her again.
Again, Lisa surprised me by voluntarily sitting in the seat next to me and chatting with me all period long – no assigned partnership required. Another week of long conversations about Victorian authors, indie music and Thai food and I asked her out for coffee and crappy poetry on a Friday night.
And though it was practically social suicide, she said yes.
It's been two months now and though we've been on many dates and exchanged mix CDs and even did the cutesy photo booth pictures, I've never gotten past first base.
God, I really like Lisa. I care about her. She's more to me than my other hookups. I want to be with her because of who she is, not what she'll do. With her, I can see a future. But damn it, a man – no, scratch that, a PERSON – can only endure so much discussion of a fifth cousin's wedding without asking for SOMETHING in return. Lisas of the world, please – GIVE THE DAVIDS OF THE WORLD A BREAK.
"-and the bridesmaids' dresses, oh my God, they were like pale pale baby blue, almost grayish, and they were like, long with all these, like, blue-ruffley things along the bottom and a gathered neckline and these HUGE –"
I suddenly grabbed her hand. It made her stop. She looked down at my hand, then back to my face with astonished eyes. It was working. Slowly, I brought her hand to my mouth, kissed it gently, then let it drift down to my chest and held it there. I could tell she was feeling the surprisingly firm muscle underneath the thin cotton. When she was stupefied enough from the sudden contact, I pounced.
I pulled her on top, letting her think she was in control, then kissed her – urgently, but gentle enough. She was obviously surprised at both the act itself and the quality of the kiss, and I knew that if I could keep her quiet long enough to whisper a sweet nothing or two, her panties would be mine.
She was giving in. She was allowing herself to kiss back and my hands to wander – through her hair, down her back, up her sweater…
As if my hands were icicles, she jumped away from my touch and disentangled our tongues.
"David!" she cried, more out of surprise than indignation. Time for the romantic virgin act.
"I'm sorry," I simpered, trying to sound truly apologetic. "Just, with all the talk of weddings and the beautiful weather, I…I couldn't help myself. I honestly don't want to rush you."
Lisa looked at me with forgiveness in her eyes. "I don't want to wait forever. But I want both our first times to be special."
Okay, I lied to her about my virginity. It felt important to me at the time – that she feel safe and comfortable with me, like I wouldn't take advantage of her, because I honestly wouldn't – and I was now beginning to regret it. Though another person's virginity isn't something I would think lightly of, I was wondering if she might have been more inclined to go further with a more experienced boy. Plus, all this dilly dallying around, pretending to be all chaste and innocent, was annoying.
But, okay, Lisa was still a virgin and needed her time to process things and I had to respect that and her limitations and all.
Really, though, she wasn't the slightest bit tempted? The wine was seriously doing nothing? I got no points for the romantic date?
We lapsed into silence; Lisa sipped her wine and focused her gaze somewhere in the distance. She was looking a bit flustered, and with good reason – I happen to be an excellent kisser.
A slow, romantic song began and my inner romantic hero got the best of me – I studied her face and body with reverence. Another reason that her chastity was so difficult for me was because she was so, for lack of a better term, hot. Without going into too much detail, she had the kind of curvy body that most girls longed for: ample bosom and alluring hips, teeny waist and shapely legs. She was on the short side – I'm average for my age and she was a good two inches shorter than me. She had simple enough features – wide brown eyes, small nose, cute, round lips – but knew how to highlight them. Though she often straightened her auburn hair and pulled it into a prim ponytail, her natural hair (which I'd only seen twice) was a mass of sex curls – the kind that your fingers would get tangled in a fit of passion. Her personal style was a bit too Oxford wannabe for me, but it projected the image she wanted and honestly, it worked for her – she looked good in those pencil skirts and fitted sweaters.
After she'd collected herself, she took her eyes off the sunset and looked down at the blanket we were sitting on, her fingers winding a thread around and around. A lock of hair – currently wavy – fell into her face and she brushed it away. "I've been talking about myself all night." Her eyes struggled toward me and she blushed. "You must be so bored."
Her fingers were moving frantically. I placed a hand over hers and stopped their movement. "Not really."
We locked eyes. A gust of wind tousled our hair, the music swelled and the sun finally dipped behind the clouds.
This time she needed no coaxing. I finally made it to second base.