Mentoring

Mentoring

I shuddered and froze as she parted my lips
with hers, exploring me with her tongue. I had
never known a kiss like that; at first blush, it
felt like writing cursive with my off-hand, and
I willed myself not to pull away because
I liked her after all, and after all, it
was my idea for her to use me like this.

Bracing my hands on her shoulders, soon I had
enveloped her enveloping of me as
her tongue, no longer foreign, became the white-
hot center of all that mattered; a slickened
conduit to all things I wanted to feel
and know about my mentor Sharice Parkman.

Through our entwined taste buds, I observed she was
one of those cool kids, gum masking her smoking.
Through the vibrations of her minty moaning,
I felt her muttering a name I knew well,
but wasn’t mine, and that was fine after all
because I liked her, and after all, it was
my idea to pretend being him for her.

I knew she didn’t see me as an equal,
though my hands roamed her body religiously,
massaging her, desperate to prove my case
as someone more than just a volunteer test-
dummy. So I was okay with being her
practice canvas as she painted herself pink
onto me, molding my clay in her sandbox
with her shaking hands, but as I felt her bold
tongue begin to withdraw, I suckled at it,
gently protesting, beckoning her to stay
a while longer as our dynamic shifted,
mutating as the rules were reinvented
by each second of necking, writhing, knotting.

I felt that as she poured herself onto me,
my best-kept secrets were seeping into her
from below; perhaps my loneliness would rise
to meet with her on her level of longing.
Sometimes it’s fun to pretend that she sees me.

Sharice wasn’t my babysitter, per se;
just a mentor hired to keep me in the light,
an elder, twee guide along a righteous path
while momma was away evenings at night school.
I was a quiet loner, and momma feared
I would never make friends on my own, so she
hired the nice older girl from down the block
to keep me company, like a paid friendship
though I doubt she envisioned paying Sharice
for sucking my face, pushing me on the couch,
grinding her bluejeaned crotch on mine with a wild,
urgent, wonderful friction that could be close
to how real, live, skin-on-skin sex must’ve felt.
Surely the well-worn path to higher learning
didn’t include heavy-petting and grinding,
but Sharice and I were learning the way through.

Withdrawing her delicious minty-smoke and
hint of ash from my mouth, she then straddled me,
grinding our denim with eyes closed, rising in
pitch, yaw and ferocity, moaning his name
while scrawling love onto me with crayon nub
until I struggled to breathe, overheating,
but that was fine because I could tell by her
ragged breath, her immediate urgency
required collective sacrifice of air.

Shuddering from what I only imagined;
deliciously disquieting pleasure-pain,
she collapsed upon me in a collection
of wheezing, gasping, moaning… and soon sobbing.
Perplexed by her tears, desperate to salvage us,
I told her my name as if she didn’t know,
confessing that I wasn’t pretending and
that, true story, I like-liked her a whole lot.

If I knew that would be our first and last time
pretending at an adult conversation,
and that I would never see her after that,
I would have come up with something more clever.

Instead, I settled on taking up smoking.

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Barry Dawson Jr. IV

Barry Dawson Jr. IV

Medium Top Procrastinator. Guilty of writing under the influence. No, I’m not upset. My face always looks this way. INTP https://cosmicrubble.com/