My Best Man by Andy Schell (top 10 novels TXT) 📕

tongue and torso. As she slides down my stomach, leaving her waves of hair splashing all over my chest, I grip the pillow in my hands. And when she goes for it, with even more hardihood than the first time, I can’t help but think about those farm team baseball players of my youth. I close my eyes and travel back to those guys in their tight striped pants with their jockstraps showing through and their caps on their sunburned heads. How their hands were rugged sexy instruments of power. And how they constantly pulled on their dicks, while standing around spitting mouthfuls of tobacco or chewing globs of bubble gum. Once, after I caught a pop fly (the greatest moment of my spectator life), the pitcher of the opposing team, from Omaha, came over and signed it after the game. When he finished signing it, he tossed it back at me and gave me the sexiest wink of an eye I’ve ever seen.

He’s winking at me now, as Amity pushes me to the edge,

then pulls me back. Again to the edge. Again back. She’s totally controlling me with her mouth. And as I thrash and strain and moan, I half expect my mother to open the door, snap a picture of us, and say, “Thanks, kids!”

Finally, right before I pop, Amity pulls away from my dick and slides herself up to me, pushing me inside her soaking wet Virginia. I’ve never been inside a woman, and it feels different from any past sexual experience. Softer. Not as tight. But warmer, more slippery, and certainly pleasurable. I was sure this would never happen to me, and to be losing my heterosexual virginity with someone I love makes it more exciting still. Is this it, the moment that I’m a bona fide heterosexual? As the moment comes, and I fill the state of Virginia to its borders, I let go with a low “Ahhhhhh.”

Amity, on the other end of the pendulum, is screaming, “Oh, babe! Oh, yes! Oh… maw… Gawd/” She collapses on top of me and smiles wickedly, satisfied.

I think that last amplified “Oh, my God!” was for Winston’s sake.

The next day, Amity and I are bonded in a way we weren’t before. There’s a connection in our eyes, and my mother sees it, which makes me nervous enough that I decide to squire Amity out of the house and show her the sights of my childhood before my mother sets the wedding date for today.

We drive east, less than an hour, out into the country, where there’s a famous drive-in that’s been serving up burgers and shakes since the beginning of the automobile; it was one of the few places my parents would take us that didn’t require jacket and tie.

Amity and I order two banana milkshakes. They’re the best banana milkshakes in the world made with homemade ice cream, milk straight from the cow, and chunks of banana and we sit in the car, like two teenagers on a date, and drink them while watching the cattle folk of this small Kansas town trod out of the place with greasy bags of burgers and onion rings.

A large gal struggles out of her car, practically tearing the door off with her weight.

Amity giggles. “G’yaw, Harry. She can hardly walk. Were the girls in your high school like that?”

“No, most of them were pretty normal size. It happens two years later. By twenty years of age they’re having babies, and it’s all over. They’re bigger than buses.”

“The babies?”

“The moms. Well, actually, the babies too.”

“I’m never having children,” she says, her voice low, her accent dissipated. It’s a voice I’ve never heard. It’s as if all the cameras and lights have been turned off on the movie set where she’s starring in a film based on her life, and she’s sitting, secluded, in her trailer, after everyone has gone home.

I look over at her. See significant pain of insignificance.

She cranks it back up. “I can’t believe you went to high school here!”

“Well, not here. In Wichita. But me neither,” I stutter, steeped in painful memories of my own. For all of my bravado about attending a public school, once I did it wasn’t so great. Most of the kids in my grade looked down on me and called me Richie Rich. They were either intimidated by my name, ignored me, or thought I was a faggot by virtue of the sports I chose: tennis and golf. It was hard making new friends at a new school in my senior year. And of course I couldn’t let on to my folks that it was a mistake, that I would have probably been better off staying in the academy and graduating there.

My grandmother was the only one I confided in. She’d let me come to her house and drink a beer and pour out my lonely teenage troubles. She never judged me and always made an effort to ask, “Have you met a boy you like?” No one ever asked me questions like that. And it was through her that I slowly realized that it was OK to be who I am.

But now I realize that, if I’d had Amity then, I would have saved myself a great deal of that teenage pain and perhaps Amity’s pain as well. We’d have bonded immediately I know it. And though I was born the way I am, maybe I could have gained some confidence about my sexuality by hanging around her. As much as I wanted one, I certainly never had a boyfriend in those days. Maybe I would have been better off with someone like Amity, and maybe she would have been better off with someone like me.

That night we have the big “coming-out” party. Only, this:. coming out is what my mother has hoped for all along. My has gathered certain relatives Grammie (my father’s mother), my aunt and uncle (my mother’s sister and her husband), and their kids,. my