Mr. Mouth Eats a Wade Boggs Dribbler

I didn’t want to come off as overeager, so I checked “Have Sex” and “Play Mr. Mouth.” Not wanting to add any more Schwarzenager to my sister’s already barbaric impression of sex, I sat on the floor Indian-style with a throw pillow over my crotch, but Mr. Mouth’s electrified cunnilingus merely heightened the situation in my pants. Luckily his batteries died halfway through our first game.

Cheryl brought Lia upstairs and put her to bed. Meanwhile, I moved up to the couch, keeping the pillow on my lap. Cheryl returned to the den topless. We hit the couch and I dove headfirst into second. While I paid melodramatic attention to her pale breasts, Cheryl unzipped her pants and kicked them to the floor.

Wade Boggs had seven triples that year. I slid in safely. It was like a million Fenway Parks cheering in my chest.

Cheryl let out a low staccato moan and pushed my head down towards her waist.

“Use your mouth,” she whispered.

Staring down at her flaming red thicket, I didn’t know where to begin. I felt tragically overwhelmed, like the time I tried benching 140lbs in front of my father. I closed my eyes and began licking willy-nilly. I was ballparks from any so-called G-spot.

Her thighs slackened with disinterest.

“Forget it,” she snapped. “Sit up so I can get on top of you.”

I obeyed her command, yanking my pants off in the process. With her breasts pushed against my face, Cheryl pulled on me as if shaking a miniature can of spray paint.

“Use your mouth,” I panted.

Cheryl dropped my boyhood like a hot potato.

“I’m 16,” she said. “You’re fourteen. That’d be absurd.”

What could be more absurd than me licking pubic hair? I didn’t argue the point. I just sat there and let her climb me.

“Tell me when you’re going to…you know,” she said.

Cheryl bounced up and down a few times. I tapped her thigh with repeated urgency.
“I’m going to…you know,” I warned.

She slid off and I shot off. Her chin caught most of it. Cheryl shrieked and ran to the bathroom. I pulled up my pants and shamefully put myself to bed. What would I tell Cousin Tommy? With the bases loaded and two outs, Wade Boggs hit a check-swing dribbler back to the pitcher. To make matters more humiliating, Cheryl tiptoed into my room to tuck me in. She gave me a condescending peck on the forehead.

“Thanks,” she whispered. “That was sweet.”

I thought of Mr. Reynolds ghost-riding his Honda 650 Jesus-style and asked Cheryl to leave the door cracked and hallway light on.

“Tell your dad the son of Mr. Massachusetts can’t even bench his own body weight,” I whimpered.

Cheryl didn’t answer. She slammed the door shut, casting my shabby self-image in total darkness.

After being shot in the face by Dick Cheney, seventy-eight year old Harry Whittington offered a public apology for getting in the way of the then Vice President’s errant quail shot. He, the victim, apologized to Cheney, the nigh man slaughterer. Five years later, Cheney has yet to apologize publically or in person to Whittington.

Dick I ain’t so let the above story read as a public apology to Cheryl. I am sorry. You gave me something wonderful and I blew it. Thought Catalog Logo Mark

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