While sitting on my countertop last summer, legs wide open, carrot peels flung everywhere and an 18-year-old boy’s head between my legs, I had to ask myself, “Whose life is this anyway?”
It’s a blonde head of a tall, strong boy I surf with, named Kevin. He looks so all-American, you feel like you could bake an apple pie and then eat it off of his face. I’d always catch him staring at me while we were in the water but I attributed it to admiration, surfing with a woman considerably older who could surf as well as he did.
But when my handsome gay friend Kenneth came to visit my house at the Jersey shore last June, he had a different take.
“Behhth,” (that’s Kenneth’s sleepy southern accent) “That boy lahks you!”
“What are you talking about? He has a gaggle of young girls following him around. I highly doubt…”
“Oh shut up. He lahks you.”
“Well, that’s his problem. I’m not going near a 17-year old boy. I do have some standards, Kenneth. 24 is as young as I go. And besides, I’m not even attracted…no!”
One night during Kenneth’s visit, Kevin came over to fix a ding in my surfboard. Kenneth insisted on Kevin staying for dinner. Kenneth was up to something.
As Kenneth and I started chopping vegetables at the counter, Kevin sat at the kitchen table and small talk ensued. Usually Kenneth and I would talk about any old raunchy thing but I didn’t want to hurt Kevin’s delicate young ears, so I kept it safe.
“Kevin, that girl you were surfing with today. Boy, she’s cute. She looks just like Alyssa Milano.” I say, with my back to him.
“Yeah, she’s alright. I’ve known her since I was a kid.”
Which you still are, I think. I turn around and his eyes are decidedly fixed on me. On my ass, I think, specifically at that point. I quickly face the counter and go back to peeling carrots.
Kenneth begins to dig for facts, as he marinates next to me:
“So how old are you, Kehvin?”
“18.”
“Oh, really! That’s nice. 18. Behth thought you were only 17. I told her you looked older than that. Didn’t I, Beth?”
I sneak a look over and Kenneth starts smiling. I’m afraid I’m going to erupt in awkward laughter and shove some celery in my mouth to stop it.
“Hey, Behth. I’m think I’m gonna go pick up some more wine at the store. You want anything, Sug?”
“We don’t need anymore wine, Kenneth.”
Now I know what he’s up to.
“Really, Kenneth - a bottle is fine for us. And Kevin can’t drink. He’s not legal…if you get my drift!”
“Well, I want some white wine. I don’t lahk red. I’ll be back in a bit.”
Damn him. I continue to peel carrots furiously, with my back to Kevin.
“Kevin, you don’t have to stay. I mean, your friends are going out surfing again, aren’t they?”
“I want to stay. I wanted to see you.”
“Oh. I’m not meaning, um…you should leave but…”
He gets up from the table and starts walking towards me. Shit. Shit. My carrots are getting pointy from over peeling.
“Do you need some help?” he says, as he stands directly behind me, breathing near my ear.
“Absolutely not. I’m fine. I’m really good at carrots.”
He pulls my hair away from my neck and starts kissing it. Oh such a weak point. I’ve always loved Dracula for this very reason. He cuts right to the sensual chase. Except Dracula is like 2 thousand years old and this guy’s 18!
“Kevin…really. This…we shouldn’t…” The peeler drops from my hand. Shit!
In no time flat, his hands are all over and under me. Wearing a little sun dress proved to be my undoing. Sometimes a girl needs to be wearing tight-fitting, hard-to-get-off jeans.
The next thing I know, he picks me up in his arms and flips me onto the counter, in a sitting position. He spreads my legs, pulls me forward and proceeds to go down on me.
While sitting on my countertop, legs wide open, carrot peels flung everywhere and an 18-year-old boy’s head between my legs, I have to ask myself, “Whose life is this anyway?” But then bit, by bit, I stop caring.
It’s a very special moment indeed, when your body and mind let go, when you stop worrying about who might walk in on you or how carrot peels look when stuck to your inner thighs or why you’re with a 18-year-old boy in the first place. When you just stop caring. When you feel good and dangerous and a little dirty and embrace it like a woman should. That precious little moment when life crashes right over you, through you.
Afterwards, he lifts me off of the counter and on to my feet. My knees feel weak and I’m shaking slightly. He tells me he needs to go. I don’t dare ask him if his mother is expecting him for dinner, though I have a feeling that’s why. I feel relieved. I kiss him one last time and make a parting joke, as I walk him to the door:
“Well, it’s a good thing you’re 18, huh?”
“It is good I’m 18.” he says, walking out.
He turns around one last time:
“Tomorrow.”
