It wasn't my parents he should really worry about. All they'd do is frown at him and tell him, in polite icy tones, to leave. And then they'd yell at me.
He should worry about Bob. If Bob ever found out he was up here with me he'd beat him to a bloody pulp.
Johnny was relaxing a little, as he saw that my parents weren't going to come barging in on us. He shrugged out of his jacket and looked cute in just the black tee shirt.
"So what should we do?" He asked softly, licking his lips, looking at me with that look. I felt my stomach kind of lift drop, the same feeling as when a roller coaster plunges down from its highest point.
"Um, well…" I slipped out of my shoes and took off the thin sweater slowly, up over my head.
He came over to me, wrapped his arms around me. He felt so warm, And I could feel the muscles in his arms, traced his bicep with my fingertips. He kissed me and I closed my eyes, shutting out everything except the sensation of his arms around me, his tongue gently playing against mine.
He was so real, I thought it again. Not like Bob in his fancy clothes and expensive car, covered in his wealth like armor, no one could touch him.
Nothing protected Johnny. He was so vulnerable in a way Bob never would be. I opened my eyes and peeked at him, saw his dark lashes curling a bit, brushing his cheeks. His black bangs fell across his forehead. His fingers fiddled unskillfully with the clasp of my white lacy bra, and in the movement of his tongue and his closed eyes I could tell he was concentrating on it. Then he got it and slipped the bra off my shoulders, tossed it gently to a corner of the room.
"Cherry," he said in a breathless little way, his eyes barely opened. He pushed me toward the bed and I fell on it and he fell on top of me, cupped my breast in his hand. I noticed his nails were all bitten down, noticed how dark his hand looked against my white skin and how that was somehow exciting…
His other hand was under my long skirt, touching my thigh, the top, then sliding to the inside. I sucked my breath in and wriggled my hips on the bed, closed my eyes when I felt his finger slip inside.
"Cherry," He whispered in my ear and I felt a shiver. His finger hadn't stopped, it wriggled and explored even as he spoke to me, and I had a hard time speaking back.
"Yeah?"
"Can we, do you mind if we…" He trailed it off, kissed me instead, but I knew what he wanted to ask. I wanted it, too.
"Yes," I said, and laid back, watched him undo his jeans and shove them down, watched him flip up my skirt and pull off my underpants.
I wondered if he'd done this before with some other girl, some greaser girl who swore and wore lots of make up, a girl who came from a bad home like he did. He slipped it in with little effort and I thought he must have, he couldn't be a virgin.
It felt good, his rhythm different than Bob's. When he got close to going he squeezed his eyes shut and looked like he was in pain. I felt pain, too. The sharp stabbing pain of the missionary position, and he tensed, all his muscles contracted and I felt the pulse of his orgasm, thought of the disapproval of my parents, thought about the pure rage Bob would feel if he knew.
It felt so good to be bad.