Amateur Insanity

The Revenge of “Hands”

If a cat and a chick were on speaking terms and mutually attracted, there was no reason not to have sex.  And if they did, their acquaintanceship might continue cordially or they might move-in together, with either one or both covering expenses.

It was testament to the randiness of the Haight that Tim and I, handicapped though we were, had our randiest expectations met that summer. After the speed crackup, I did the same things, saw the same friends, and Tim said he couldn’t see any change in me. I was functional enough anyway to be introduced to oral sex by a chick who was the first I had ever seen on Haight Street braless in a transparent blouse And that spring I had sex on acid (with Ruth) for the first time. There was an array of teenyboppers as well. But the most emotionally-charged sexual encounter of that summer was a girl from my hometown.

I bumped into her on Haight Street on a Saturday at the height of the summer. The sidewalk was nearly impassable. She saw me first and turned and tried to disappear into the crowd.   

“Sheryl Lee!” I called and touched her shoulder.

She turned around and broke into a big grin.

“Hi!” she cawed, forgetting a pause for surprise.

We hugged. Then, as if delivering a government secret, she leaned into my shoulder and confided, “Man, I’m goin’ all the way with this hippy thing.”

She was embarrassed, as if caught in an impersonation. I was taken aback by such a spontaneous, sincere eruption of phoniness. She wore faded denim bellbottoms and shirt, her hair was short, and “love beads” clicked on her erect chest. She looked as she apparently felt: in a Halloween costume. Like me, she was from Summerville, but unlike me, she was also of it. And here on Haight Street, I realized with relish, she was the one out of place.

She was just in for the day with her boyfriend from a state college in the Central Valley. I discovered this as we walked toward my pad. We had to get out of the crowd on Haight Street and we naturally drifted toward the pad. There was no moment when I decided to go there. I realized where we were going when we were halfway there.

Sheryl Lee was loud and theatrical with a braying forced laugh. She also had flawless olive skin and a flawless figure and was near the top of the lust list of most guys in the county. She was the head cheerleader when my sister was a cheerleader so they were very close. Sheryl Lee and I never dated because it would have seemed vaguely incestuous, and besides, I didn’t like her. 

Eventually we were sitting on the couch by the view. I got out some grass and we got some titillation from the outrage we would be causing back home. Usually I could summon the tenderness needed for a seduction but somehow I didn’t care enough with Sheryl Lee. I dispensed with the preliminaries because I knew that she wouldn’t turn me down, not now, not after such a gross faux pas at our meeting. So within seconds of our lips touching, my hands were under her blouse. I caught my breath as I touched them.      

“‘Hands’,” she whispered as she pulled away, lobbing at me her only weapon.

The most painful confirmation of my high school pariah-hood and further evidence that there was something unnamable wrong with me was my inability to get a girlfriend. While friends changed steadies almost seasonally, I was aloof, proud, and wondering what it was like, that shared solitude and total openness with a girl. I had no problem finding a make-out partner for Saturday night, and some let me slip a hand under their clothes, but they all scrupulously and pointedly avoided being seen anywhere near me Monday at school. I couldn’t lower standards far enough. And this, inspite of having my pick of the prettiest city girls in the tourist resorts out on the main highway.  After I gave up trying, my dates became wrestling matches. Among the girls, I got the locker room nickname “Hands.”

Sheryl Lee stunned me but she didn’t stop me. I lifted her shirt and stared. I had studied their jiggle for years, like an astronomer. And now I bent and kissed them. Then I suggested we go to Tim’s bed across the room. She got up and followed me over. As we undressed, we avoided each other’s eyes. Neither spoke. But when we were naked, I unabashedly stared at the parts of her I had always wanted to stare at, my cock almost bursting its skin.

I entered her immediately. She turned her face away. With each thrust, her breasts rippled and her brown nipples rode the swell.

Then there was a knock at the door. We froze in the fucking pose, staring at the door. A couple more knocks, then departing footsteps. She started laughing, put her arms around my neck, cocked her head, and looked into my eyes to share the amusement. I leered back, uninterested in anything but fucking. Her delight shriveled and I scanned her body down to the bush then ground against it.

I didn’t make her come because I didn’t know how and wouldn’t have bothered if I had. Later, I felt guilty about this consensual rape and let she and her boyfriend stay at the pad, even gave them money. Their weekend in the Haight became permanent and within days they only came around for showers. They were sleeping in the park, on the street, wherever.