Lucky Jim and the Virgin

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Until now, I have kept my Lady Luck secret from the world. I will hide her no more. I am coming clean and declaring, loudly and publicly, that all the good things in my life came to me because of my luck, not hard work. I know my confession is inflaming the hemorrhoids of all the people who continuously preach the virtues of hard work. Hard work, they tell you, is the only way to succeed, the only thing that will get you ahead. Yea, right, ahead in the line of the dying. What about those born rich? Hard work didn’t get them there, luck did.

In my mind’s eye, I see my Lady Luck a as red-haired Amazon; her breasts, two mountains oozing rivers of milk; her belly, a Sahara of rolling sand dunes; her bush, a flaming-red New England forest in Autumn. Don’t ask me about her ass; I don’t ever want to imagine her turn her back on me. You can imagine your own luck according to your own fancy. She is, after all, a goddess with a thousand faces and more moods than an adolescent girl. This much, however, you can take to the bank: if she chooses you; she will be what you want her to be and will give you what you need.

She gave me intelligence and made me a natural athlete, two discreet but incredible gifts, one tucked under my cranium and the other woven in my sinews. Even as a kid, I knew what she gave me. I was an all around firecracker on the playground and could have played any sport. Only reason I chose baseball was because football is too damn dirty, all that mud and mess; basketball is mostly shoving, elbowing and, from my point of view, too much body contact. Even as a kid, the only body contact I wanted was with the opposite sex. (Notice I used the word sex, it even sounds slippery and wet; gender sounds like a dry tree branch splitting in two).

Until high school, cheers from the sidelines: of my parents, out of job uncles, spinster aunts and assorted sports nuts of the town; supplemented with kudos from the coach, was the only reward I got for all my kick-ass athletics. It was in high school that I reaped my first real ‘reward’ and her name was Regina. She was a saucy senior with a reputation of being stuck up and a body that could give a dead man an erection. I know there are more accurate words than ‘reaped’ when talking about sex, but this story is about high school; let’s keep it clean as long as we can. Besides, I am quite confident that you can provide just the right word when I tell you that she was eighteen, stacked to the rafters, bubbling with hormones and (drum roll, please!) she was a virgin.

It was after one of those home games played against a traditional foe from a nearby town when Regina became my ‘reward’. We had not only won the game, we had trounced our opponents. Testosterone ran like rainwater in the streets that night and there were rug-burns on the backside of half the wives in town next morning. Even the neglected mistresses got a chance to blow some steam after blowing the necessary. Why else do you think sports are so popular? Victory of your own team and humiliation of the opposition triggers a huge rush of testosterone production. If you don’t believe me, check out what happens to birthrates when the local team keeps winning.

Since the death of my mom and dad in a car crash, for me the thrill had become hollow. When my parents were alive, I could always enjoy myself in the reflected glow of their happiness. People praise me for my modesty, for not doing the silly stuttering chicken dance but they don’t know the half of it. Every time I play too well and we win too big, a sense of sadness invades me and I tend to slink away. I did the same thing that evening and was walking home through the empty parking lot; my head hung low, my eyes to the ground.

“Hey!” Someone called. I looked up. She was standing under a tree, leaning against its trunk. She had an armful of books held against her chest.

“Hey yourself!” I said.

“You are Jim, aren’t you? I am Regina.”

“Yes, I know.”

“You know me?” She sounded surprised.

“Practically every one in school knows you. I have just heard about you, your name and stuff.”

“What have you heard about me, Jim?” Even in the fading light, I could see her face redden and eyes fill with suspicion.

What do I tell her? Do I tell her that boys drool when she walks by? Should I repeat the crude language of their hunger? “Take my word; I am going to jump her bones one of these days”. Says one pimply faced kid “I am going to ram her from behind and give it to her good; give it to her until she begs for mercy,” promises another. Do I tell her that she is the school’s walking wet dream? Do I also tell her that most of those boys would become stuttering fools with fright if she went and said hello?

“Good things, Regina, I have only heard good things about you.” Right away, I realized that my answer was too flippant for casino şirketleri her liking.

“I want to know what you have heard about me, Jim. I want to know.”

“Let me carry your books.” I extended my arms towards her. She shook her head in a determined refusal and clutched her books tighter to her chest.

“What have you heard about me? Tell me, PLEASE!”

“Well, I just heard guys talking about you. Guys saying things like how attractive you are, that you are a senior. Some guys saying that you are the most beautiful chick, I mean girl on campus. Stuff like that. Of course, I heard your name.”

Obviously, I said the right things. She seems to have visibly relaxed and her eyes were not shooting daggers any more.

“Will you carry my books now, Jim? Darn things weigh a ton.”

She extended her books towards me. There was a whole stack of them and trying to get them to my arms she came touching close and her girl-smell made me feel kind of drunk. We stood like that for a while, silenced by shyness until she took a small step back. She was nearly as tall as I was. She looked at my face with a candid and unabashed appraisal.

“My car is parked over there.” She pointed to the other end of the parking lot.

“I’ll walk you to it.”

“That will be nice. Sometimes I feel like a damn donkey carrying…here, let me carry some of the books too.”

“No, please, let me! I need the practice. I am going to be a senior soon.”

“You would think lugging around all those books would make a person smart but I swear, Jim, they haven’t done a thing for me.”

“I am sure you are making good grades.” I had no reason to be sure of any such thing. Why was I sucking up to her? The answer was right in front of me with more curves than a question mark.

“I am not talking about my grades. My grades are OK, in fact, better than OK. I am talking about life. About life, I know nothing, nada, zilch. I think some ten year old girls know more about life than I do.”

I was spared from making some silly-ass remark on her self-appraisal when she pointed to a Lincoln Continental Town car.

“It is my dad’s. Before he left for Sicily, he made me promise to drive it once in a while so I have been bringing it to school.”

She opened the trunk and I unloaded the books in it. She took her keys from her purse and leaned against the car and said, “I am sorry I got upset earlier, Jim. There is so much vicious gossip going around here. I don’t understand why people are so mean. Sometime I feel sick of this place and want to drop out. Thank God, in a few months I will graduate and be rid of this dump for good. Don’t people have anything better to do than spreading lies about a person?”

“It is probably just jealousy, Regina.” I said, trying to sound wise.

“Why would any one be jealous of me? I haven’t done anything to anybody.” She sounded genuinely perplexed.

“You don’t have to do anything to any one. You are good looking, that’s enough to make some people jealous.”

“Do you think I am good looking, Jim?” Her voice was suddenly an octave lower.

“Hell yes! You are more than good looking, Regina. You are drop-dead gorgeous.” The words were barely out of mouth when she had her arms around me and her face buried somewhere in my neck.

“I was hoping for that. Oh God, I was hoping…” Then she let go off me just as fast as she had embraced me. Her back was against the car again, her hand that was holding the bunch of keys was half way stuffed in her mouth and her big brown eyes were full of panic. I believe if the car wasn’t behind her, she would have turned around and taken of running. Luckily for me (and for her, as I was to later learn) the car was behind her. I took her hand away from her mouth, put my lips on hers, and pulled her to me. We stood there a long time, entwined and kissing; she giggled and she cried. I could taste her tears, which she said were all from happiness. Then she took me home with her and we both missed a few days of school. Big deal! I would happily do it again if given a chance but a chance like that comes only once, even to the lucky.

My meeting Regina was not a chance meeting as far as she was concerned. She had picked me for this. I did not ask why me. Why should I question her taste and may be even insult my Lady Luck? Let me just say, I am eternally grateful to both. Regina knew her mind and knew exactly what she wanted.

“If it hadn’t worked out with you, Jim, I would have gone to Sicily still a virgin.” She told me later.

She had been betrothed to her intended when they were both only two years old. To us here in America, it may sound strange, (honestly, even the phrase ‘betrothed to her intended’ is quaint to my ears with a ‘long time ago’ ring to it) but for some Sicilians, it is still their custom. Regina said that casino firmaları if either side were to break this promise, much blood would be spilt and the vendetta will last a hundred years. Besides, she wasn’t being bundled off kicking and screaming and shipped to Sicily against her will; she was quite happy with the arrangement. She had seen her intended few times over the years. He was handsome, an only son of an old aristocratic Sicilian family. (She refused to tell me his name; that was family business) She was looking forward to becoming a Dona of large estates with castles in the Sicilian Mountains and palaces in Palermo. Somewhere in her growing up, (Oh, the unfathomable mystery of the female psyche) she had made up her mind that she would not go to Sicily a virgin. May be she just wanted to leave something of her back in the good old U.S.A.

“I was beginning to despair, Jim. This whole damn school is full of dorks. I was ready to give up; and then I saw you come out of the dugout with your bat trailing behind you. I knew right then that you were the one. I watched you standing there with your feet spread apart, rocking left to right, bat at the ready. My heart was in my mouth. The pitcher threw and you swung. As God is my witness, Jim, I heard the thwack of the bat striking the ball as if the sound came from inside my belly. It was a homerun hit. I sprang to my feet, screaming at the top of my lungs, tears were running down my face and I was jumping up and down like a mad woman, screaming and screaming. I was hoarse for two days after that. Melinda, my girl friend who had practically dragged me to the game became worried about me. She thought I had gone crazy; she knows I am not much of a sports fan. I am inviting her to my wedding in Sicily. My father is paying for her expenses. I owe that girl, big-time. I wish I could tell her all this, but I can’t.”

By now, some of you are thinking, come on already! It is a porn story; ok, an erotic story, if you insist on splitting hair. There should have been at least one sex scene by now. We have read pages of kiddy conversations and you are still talking about ‘reaped’. Get on with it, friend! She is not a fucking wheat field; she is a cunt, a twat. It is about time you shove the whole ten-inches in her.

May be you are right about the ‘reaped’ part and I can easily fix it. This is, after all, English, the mother tongue of porn. From the word ‘reaped’ just remove the letter p, (which by the way, by its own lonesome self could shower meanings on a story) and insert the letter m, and you got yourself ‘reamed’, a word that could stand tall and hard in any story, porn or erotic.

“She bent over to pick up the hanky from the floor and I reamed her from behind, my member assaulting the inner sanctum of her parliament.”

I am happy to upgrade my vocabulary to your liking but I want to be clear about one thing: I am not going to shove, ream, ram, thrust or in any other way introduce a ten-inch cock into my Sicilian Mafia virgin. Six inches is the maximum I would consider. It is already generous; I have added half an inch to the standard model. I know it is only a story and people make things up, just as I made up the Mafia part there. But please, let us not be ridiculous! There is no need for such silliness as a ten-inch or twelve-inch cock for Regina. Remember, she is a virgin and the situation calls for delicacy; and yes, even for gentleness, at least initially. Be patient and let me proceed with Regina in my own sentimental way. I promise to spice it up if the story calls for it.

Regina’s bedroom was all lace and lingerie. There were no pictures of rock stars or collages made from cut up Cosmopolitans. This was a room of pink and mauve colors, with fresh flowers in the vases, a canopy on her big four-poster bed and pillows with fringes. “All Sicilian Modern.” She said, pointing around the room; and then threw herself on the bed, pulling me on top of her. Her eyes were closed and her mouth open to let my tongue go exploring. The bulge in my pants was hard and getting harder. (See, as promised, I am starting to heat things up) I pushed down on her body, dry humping her as if my life depended on it.

“Wait, Jim! I have to tell you something.” She pushed me off her, or tried.

“What?” I was already panting with passion.

“Do you remember when I was telling you back there in the parking lot that I don’t know anything about life? I wasn’t kidding. I really don’t!” What was she talking about? Is this going to be a ‘meaning of life’ discussion in bed?

“Well, Regina, no one knows everything about life. It is supposed to be an ongoing project, you know.”

“Oh, don’t be so damn obtuse, Jim.” This time she pushed harder and succeeded in dislodging me. Her eyes were flashing with frustration.

“I am trying to tell you…Oh damn…! What I am trying to tell güvenilir casino you…I am a virgin, Jim. I am a fucking VIRGIN!”

I was so surprised by her declaration that I sat up. In my short life, I had come to suspect that virginity is a myth, a sort of belief system, like the story of the Virgin Mary.

She grabbed my arm with both her hands and pulled me back down.

“You are not going to leave? You can’t leave! Don’t leave, Jim, please don’t!” There was panic in her voice and her eyes were filling up with tears. She was the most excitable female I had ever seen.

“I am not leaving, Regina. It’s just that you surprised me.” She relaxed but hung on tightly to my arm.

“Jim, I want you to make me a not-virgin.” Her voice was a trembling whisper.

There you have it. I have heard of busting the cherry, of de-flowering, of tearing the curtain. Making a not-virgin was a new one on me.

“Will you, Jim? Please, Jim, please!” Then with a new panic in her voice, “Do you know how? Have you done it before?”

“No. I mean yes. I mean I have never done it with a virgin but I have done it with a woman, many times, I have done it many times.” The situation was begging for bragging and I was glad I could without telling a whole lot of lies.

“Oh thank you, dear Mother of God, thank you!” Regina actually crossed herself. I would never understand the Catholics.

I made her a not-virgin. She was ecstatic to see the red blood spots on her white sheets. “How I wish I could frame that sheet.” She said.

I made her a not-virgin many more times during the week. Forgive me if I do not go into graphic details and refrain myself from using such words as suck, fuck, lick, cum. cunt, cock, clit, pussy, slut, ram, thrust, Oh God more, more, whore…As I said earlier, there is need for delicacy in this situation. I can tell you this much, however, that she was excitable, quick to laugh, quicker to cry and constantly wet. Oh, one more thing, no woman will ever have the same skin and smell that she had when she was an eighteen year old virgin. Not ever!

The very last time I made her a not-virgin, she was lying beside me in her four-poster bed, talking away mile a minute. In her world, every thing was right and God was in Her Heaven.

“You were the most slippery, exasperating boy to pin down, Jim. Wait… you are not a boy, you are a man and thanks to you, I am a woman. Let me rephrase… You were the most slippery, difficult and exasperating man to pin down. I could never get you alone. You never went to school dances, you didn’t hang around the Cafeteria, I never saw you in the library, and you didn’t show up for baseball practice sessions, you didn’t stay after games even when we won. Then, one day, I saw you leave after the game and ran after you but you were too fast. God, I could have strangled you, I was so frustrated; but I had to catch you first. At least, then I knew the way you went home. I took to lurking under the trees and my patience paid off. When you offered to carry my books, I knew that everything was going to be fine, and when you said I was drop-dead gorgeous… Oh damn…just talking about it have got me all hot and bothered again…You have to do something about this, Jim… Look, I am all dripping wet.”

She took my hand and put it between her thighs. She was right; she was wet. As I said, that was the last time; I made her a not-virgin.

It was a month of so after ‘the week that was’ when Regina stopped me in a quiet corner of the school hallway.

“I am leaving for Sicily a week after graduation. I probably won’t see you again but I want to thank you, Jim.”

“Thank me for what, Regina?”

“Thank you for permanently curling my toes, fool.”

Then she giggled; a sound so achingly innocent, it went through my heart.

“And there is something else too, Jim, may be not so important to you but very important to me. I want to thank you for not blabbering all over the school about us.”

Those of you who can still remember high school, for boys that age, only ten percent of the pleasure lies in the act, the rest ninety percent is in the bragging. To keep my Lady Luck a secret, discretion was my second nature. The thought of telling anyone had never entered my mind.

“You be good now.” I gave her a little peck on the cheek.

“I thought I was.” Her big brown eyes twinkled with mischief.

“Yes, you were, Regina. You were great.”

“So were you, Jim! So were you. Oh Jim, that week we were…”

She did not complete her sentence. Were there tears in her eyes or was it just my imagination? She turned and walked away, a tall girl with her head held high, her long legs taking powerful strides, her hips swinging to the rhythm of… Fuck me…Fuck me…I stood there leaning against the wall and watched her until she was out of sight. I never saw her again. She is probably a grandmother now, may be many times over; thickened with middle age, grey hair tied in a sever bun, supervising a flock of Sicilian cooks in the kitchen. It is the way of all flesh.

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