I WANT TO have sex,” she announced politely but firmly, like a little girl demanding a new doll. “Where can we go to do that?” Not anywhere around here, I thought as I looked around the barren park where we were lunching. There was a devastating lack of shrubbery; surely we would be spotted fornicating like the wild dogs we were from every conceivable spot in this obstruction-free landscape.
The afternoon in question was the first Veronica and I had spent together since her parents dramatically forbade me from seeing her a few weeks earlier. Naturally, this proclamation was the result of Veronica’s mom catching us in the very act that currently consumed both our frenzied teenage minds.That had been a glorious late afternoon sexcapade, punctuated by a flash downpour, our limitless lust for one another and the kitschy wood paneling of a relative’s house we thought would be vacant for hours. How I escaped to my car without being stabbed in the face is still a mystery to me.
Now, here we were again, full of amorous intentions on a late Florida afternoon with no venue to host our triumphant return to frenzied, passionate boning (the kind you can only really experience when you first start having sex). Her family was home, and my family never left home—Dad ran his mortgage business mere yards from the coffin-like bed I rarely had the opportunity to share with anyone. Despite being in the midst of winter, the Sunshine State was earning its name that day with a typical shadow eliminator. It’s amazing how much difference a shroud of darkness makes sometimes; Veronica and I never had a problem rubbing each other’s rhubarbs in the various strip mall parking lots that dotted our fair city once the moon came out to play. I’ll never forget trying to go at it for the first time in the back seat of her Topaz in one of the handicapped spaces outside the Perkins where I worked.We collapsed laughing once we realized the space limitations. The old people shuffling in and out paid us no mind.
But this sun! This infernal sun! It would illuminate every inch and curve of Veronica’s comely, olive-skinned body as it gyrated wildly in whatever empty outdoor space we could find. My pale visage would also be visible, surely blinding any with the misfortune to spot it. A meandering drive around town proved fruitless. Despite her prurient interests, Veronica had nixed doing it at the abandoned church on the edge of the county line. Everywhere else, people were traipsing about like punchdrunk zombies. Why had we been cursed to live in such a populous area? Why weren’t we on a farm in Nebraska? I didn’t care if cows saw me making the sign of the yellow-breasted tit willow. We had to find something quick. We were raging. This was surely how thrill kills began.
Just as our libidos were reaching painful crescendo, a dirt road suddenly appeared in an otherwise empty area. This magical pathway miraculously led us to one of those unmanned power stations full of generators and antennae and weird buzzing noises. The particular station in question was ensconced in thick forestation; once we drove around the ugly brick façade to the back of the building, you couldn’t even see where we had come in. Veronica and I exchanged firm nods (we were too horny to smile). Here was our unexpected oasis.We wasted no time—there was just no telling if someone would unexpectedly pop up, like her mother or her sisters or the Pope.
Veronica quickly pulled her corduroy pants down and raised her legs into the ready position with a look of innocence about her face. It was almost as ironic as her T-shirt, which bore the “Strawberry Shortcake”character Shy Violet. Rarin’ to go, I did away with my trousers and tore open the one condom I had…a lime flavored cheapy the prophylactic machine at a nearby gas station men’s room had unexpectedly bestowed upon me. I had never messed with one of these flavored deals, and, being a sensitive and caring ’90s guy, I hoped my beautiful, gorgeous Ver would have no objection to this style of baby preventer. Of course, my balls were bluer than Louie Armstrong at that point, so I did not actually start wondering how the flavored condom experience was for Ronnie until after I had been pounding her wildly for 10 minutes. A few seconds later, I was floating past Pluto on a spaceship made of marshmallows and love (later, my beloved complained that the flavoring agent had left her irritated; novelty rubbers were avoided in the future).
I felt rather triumphant driving Veronica home after our power plant bone sesh; with nothing but a Toyota Tercel and my noggin to work with, I had located a secure screwin’ area in under an hour, pleasing both myself and my woman in broad daylight with no interruptions. In an ironic and somewhat sad twist to this story,Veronica and I never again returned to our electrical sex sanctuary.We didn’t really need to, as Ver soon left the nest for a vacated dwelling down the street—the very house we were famously busted in! I don’t recall if her relatives moved or died, but I do remember triumphantly returning to that house and aggressively banging to our hearts’ content.
James Greene Jr. is a narcoleptic attention whore who has contributed his chicken scratch to various publications of ill-repute. To learn more, visit jgtwo.wordpress.com.