A year later and just as young and beautiful as the night I left him in that bathroom. He looks exactly the same in fact. Same stretch of long, dirty blond hair resting against his chest, similar rock star outfit of deliberately tattered black and grays layers, and most noticeably, the same look of youthful innocence.
It had been that fresh face that caught my eye that night. His friend and he walked into the party and, like a bloodhound, I’d smelled the juvenile hormones. He was eighteen, fresh import to the city, and recent high school graduate. I felt dirty talking to him, but after a few drinks it was more like a good dirty like the sidecar for a Martini. Our initial make-out session in the kitchen transformed to being finger banged in the bathroom before the other party guest, livid at our location choice, boo’d us till impromptu departure.
But here we are again, a party in the valley. My party partner is outside playing a version of beer pong that involves multiple teams, each a different country that had a part in World War II, with unique rules for each that reflect the country’s abilities, influence, and strength. Through the window I see her cross her arms in frustration. She’s on the US team and their rule involves sitting out until an Axis country attempts to take their cups. Looks like I have plenty of time to plan my own strategic attack.
I wait by the makeshift bar, my empty Solo cup stained by soda waits for ice, liquor, anything. I rummage through the nearly empty bottles, glancing down at even emptier chaser containers, and try to decide which low-quality alcohol will be manageable without a mixer. I’m killing time. Waiting for my young suitor to make his way over to the only bar that will serve him.
My patience wins and Target and his friend join me at the table just as I pour the last drops of spiced rum in with the last of the soda. His friend picks up two of the better vodka bottles and shakes the leftover fluid into his cup. He takes two more bottles of clear alcohol, tequila and rum, and dumps those inside the cup as well. He tops off the third full cup with an assortment of juices and sodas, putting all the empty containers in the garbage bag next to the table. He looks up at me and says, “Suicide.” He lifts his cup and we cheers.
Target looks at both of us while he pulls a beer can from behind him, “Santè.” His eyes squint and flex as our eyes lock and I wonder if he recognizes me. I don’t plan on giving him any hints.
“How many more do you have back there?” I jest.
“That was the last one, but I have more in the car.”
“You have more in the car! Why the fuck am I drinking this shit?” His friend spews reddish-brown droplets from his lips.
“I,” he stresses, “have beers in the car. You do not.” He looks back at me. “But I’ll be happy to share with you.”
“Thanks.” I retort.
“What the fuck…” His friend walks away, his words trailing. “Can’t help a brother out. Beers in the fucking car.”
“Where did you get the beer?”
“What do you mean?”
“You’re not old enough to buy alcohol. Right?”
His cheeks flush. “Our roommate. Are you 21?”
“Yeah,” I say reluctantly, assuming he means over not exactly.
“Cool. Cool. Yeah, I got a few more months.”
At least I wasn’t the only one lying. “You’re a musician?”
“Yeah! Have you seen me perform?”
“I think so, you look familiar.” I bite my lip, thinking that will be the key that sends his memories back to last year. He just smiles and nods.
We have a very similar conversation to our first one. Though it’s refreshing to hear the difference a year does to someone; from inspiring artist to playing at some of the top venues in the city. He recorded an album, met with record exes, and feels really good about the future. I’d forgotten about the overwhelming positive spirit of a first year import.
Feigning wiping something, I rub my thumb against his chin, desperate to touch him and advance this interaction from speaking to fucking. He takes the bait and pulls me in for a kiss. Just as sweet and satisfying as last time he fell into my trap. This time I am not going to be deterred by time or the full bladders of partygoers.
“Let’s grab one of those beers from your car.”
Outside he takes my hand and holds it as we walk away from the party. I feel young, younger at least. Like we are still high school age, at some party while someone’s parents are away.
“It’s not fancy…”
No, it certainly isn’t a fancy vehicle, but from the watery beer he had and his age I’d assumed as much. A white, very-used looking van opens to a pile of vaguely familiar musical items and empty beer boxes. Target pulls out two beers from the least damaged cardboard case and hands one to me.
“That’s not really why I asked to come to your car.” I press my body against his until I feel him back into the wall of the van. I bite my lower lip again, throwing exaggerated flirtatious eyes at him. He drops both cans to the grass and kisses me hard. We twist and I feel the cool of the vehicle metal on the exposed skin on my back. My arms rest on his shoulders the same way I danced with my prom date.
The surge of desire grows inside, consuming me, and each leg rises to wrap around his waist. He’s strong and supports my weight with his hands under my thighs. I reach between them to unbuckle his belt and pull his erection from his black jeans. He’s average but super hard, a blessing for the young. He moans as I slide my hand around his dick, back and forth.
He kisses my neck and anywhere with bare skin but makes no effort to remove clothes. I stop jerking him off to drag a fingernail across the crotch of my gray pantyhose, ripping the nylon stitching with an audible roar. With my hand back on his cock, I slid my panties over to place the head of his dick at the precipice of my cunt. He slips in with a heavy grunt, releasing one of my thighs to support himself against the van.
“What?” he looks at me startled.
“Fuck me like you’ve always wanted to fuck a woman.”
“Oh my god,” he shakes his face. “I know you. You’re…”
I hush him. “Yeah, I am. I know. Welcome to the party.”
He repositions my legs so my calves rest against his shoulders. “Let’s finish what we started.” He pounds into me and I remember him finger fucking me hard in the bathroom. The van rocks with each hump, unable to keep up with his tempo. He thrusts into me over and over with a look of determination in his eyes. Boys of a certain age will fuck in the same position until someone cums.
The consistency feels so good that the satisfaction of built up anticipation erupts from me and I can feel him splash my wetness back onto me with each thrust. I fake an orgasm after my real one since, I assume, his only point of reference for a female orgasm is from porn. His eyes shut and his peach colored lips stretch into an ‘O.’
“Same time next year?”