by David Bulley
(07/03/02)

Quiet morning and nothing, nothing is going on, except I'm pounding on the glass and forcing the ice cream truck guy to open up early. "Early?" he says. "Try way too fucking early, you goddamn weirdo!" But he says it with affection.

I buy one extra-large and race back to my truck. Oh, boy, oh boy! I can't believe this girl in my truck said yes! But she did. We've been dating for two weeks, just long enough for me to get comfortable with her name, Jill, it is -- nice and short and easy to say, and she is kind of a sweetie, I suppose.

We had sex the first night we met, but this will be different. This will be special. The first night we were thrown together because we dated mutual friends. We all four went to a baseball game. Jill was nice, but only nice, and so was I, and I don't know who won but I remember every second of the train ride home!

At first we stood on the crowded train, arms on the rails above our heads and the growing heat of our bodies rubbing together with the sway of the train. I felt the rising of it, and saw in Jill's face that she felt it. When the crowd and the train conspired to push us apart, I couldn't stand the loss and threw myself, still hanging from the overhead rail, belly first into her breasts. I breathed out like a hungry man, eating. Jill leaned into me.

Her breasts on my stomach tasted like freedom. My next breath out was slow enough so that, conversely, my penis filled with blood and pressed against her belly and she felt it and leaned into it, and rubbed herself sideways, back and forth, slow, to savor and gentle and tease for the whole ride.

We ran home.

Two weeks later -- now, in the car -- I look at her with the ice cream in my hand and try to smile enough to ease her fear.

"You have to say the whole story," she says.

"Okay," I say. I point my eyes out the windshield at the horizon, and let my voice slip into a chanting joyous storytelling voice. I drift away and back and tell...

Sixteen and not every boy is lucky enough to date a girl with a snake tattooed around her belly, the head pointed down and the tongue licking her privates. Not every boy is lucky enough to know Rita and experiment with her until we think we know everything about sex. Rita takes me up to the Tastee Freeze, with the woods behind and a long bare tar road racing in front. She orders an extra-large soft serve and then holds it in a sexy way and says, "Can you do this?" She points those eight inches of soft serve chocolate into her mouth and sucks until it's gone.

She falls back, one hand across her forehead, smiling but in pain. "Can you do that?"

"I could, but why?"

"I'll tell you why," she says, and she buys another with her own money and grabs my hand and hauls me into the woods. She gives me the ice cream and tells me what to do. Sweet Rita snakebelly kneels down and pulls out my penis and starts in. We play all the time, but I'm sixteen, getting a blow job in the woods where we could be discovered any second. In three minutes, maybe less, I say, "Okay, okay, now."

Rita keeps bobbing her head, but goes, "Kmm, Kmm!" with urgency. I do what she told me to do. I stick the melting chocolate soft serve in my mouth and suck just as hard as I can.

POW! Holy sweet motherfucker bammo. The pain in my head is as sharp as laser light and twice as bright. It's cold as an iceberg. It's beautiful, and I orgasm at the height of intensity. My poor body can hardly handle the whole of the sensation, so some leaks out in the form of spasms and twists and grimaces. Rita sits on her heels, jism on her forehead, laughing, with both hands holding her belly-snake.

I fall on my ass and laugh with her.

Jill looks at my face. "You loved her, didn't you?"

"Well, of course I did." I say, "But she's gone, and has been for a long time, and I'm holding an ice cream cone." I say that last part with a silly leer and raise my eyebrows to take any sting out of my urgency. The ice cream is melting and I want to show my trick.

I hand her the cone and pull her legs over in the truck so I can pull her skirt up and her panties off. She says yes in the form of letting me pull. "Right before, right?"

"Yes, the closer the better."

"Okay," she says. I ignore the tiny question at the end of "okay," the hint of not sure and the request for reassurance. I know it's more fun if you're scared.

She's all closed up and nervous, dry when I start -- but soon she's bucking and grinding onto my nose, and soon after that I hear her do the ice cream.

She yanks my head away by the hair and closes her legs and just lets her head rock, all of its own accord, until it's done. I sit back and laugh.

A half hour later Jill tries to describe it, but just babbles for a minute until I tell her I know.

"Your turn," she says.

"Nahhh," I say. "That was a special surprise just for you."

She turns her lip down and looks out the window. "What's the matter, you think I couldn't do it as well as Rita?"

I know I should answer. I know the script. I reach onto the dash for a smoke.

"Well, why aren't you with her then?" There's less accusation in her breath now. She gets it that she might be onto something and she's scared. Accusation is for solid ground only.

"She's dead," I say.

"I won't compete with a dead woman," she says. Then she says, "How'd she die?"

"Don't compete," I say. Then I say, "One day she just died. Nobody knows why."

"Is this some sick ritual?" she says.

"It's a gift," I say, "from a lovely dead girl to you. It is a gift of love and laughter and outright screaming pleasure."

Jill lights a smoke of her own, and unrolls the window to blow the smoke out.

"Are you mature enough to accept a gift?" I ask.

"Let me guess," she says, "I'm not the first to get the gift, but so far no others could keep it, right?"

"Not very elegantly put, but yes."

Jill really, really looks at me. She measures me up. She calculates and takes stock. "Okay," she says.

I smile wide and put my hand on her thigh as she starts up the truck. We pull out onto the highway.

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