Fair Maiden

Fair Maiden

Summer had come and gone, and now Julie found herself on an away game trip, as a senior classman in charge of the Varsity Cheer Leading squad. Natalie Walker had graduated, leaving it up for grabs, and the new coach had selected Julie with a 'tap on the shoulder.'

The Badgers were only a triple-A team, but the season was starting out better than expected. Her boyfriend, Chad, was not on the basketball team, so his friend Eugene always sat next to her, and ran interference for her as needed. Eugene didn't use ebonics; instead, he spoke properly, and she liked that about him. He was a first string forward, so the team (and her squad,) all respected him.

On this day it was unseasonably cold. The compromise was between fresh air and the frozen tundra outside. The kids had decided as a group to have one window cracked at the front of the bus, and another window cracked at the back of the bus, to create a flow of fresh air. All the other windows were closed as tight as the drafty bus would allow. Since it was so cold, most had brought quilts, and they huddled three to a bench, for warmth. Julie and Eugene were joined on their bench by Jamar. He was a point guard, and a good one. He was first string too, but as a Senior, he would be going away to college next year. In the mean time, he had more playing experience than the average team member.

They had been underway for about an hour, and time was beginning to drag a little, when Eugene put his left hand on Julie's right knee, hidden by the quilt. Julie was scandalized, but she didn't want to get Eugene in the kind of trouble that exposing such an action might bring in Alabama. For a gag, she aped his action, by putting her own hand on Jamar's right knee. It would make for a good joke when he was found out by the crowd, and she then could laugh it off without hurting Eugene. She didn't really respect the action at all. You shouldn't put the moves on your best friend's girl; Chad was going to kill him. But that was for later.

Once the initial shock wore off, and she had developed a plan to deal with the situation, Julie had time to savor the experience. She was flanked by two excellent specimens, each of them large, warm and slightly aroused. She cast a glance over at Jamar. He was looking around, with a hunted bearing.

After a while, she spoke to him in order to catch his eye. “I'm so sick of radio music,” she said. “Jamar, if YOU were a DJ, what would YOU be playing?” He turned his attention on her with a searching look, but made no reply.

Eugene's hand had passed the half-way mark, and she was beginning to experience haptic feedback. She could tell, by the extent of her own arousal, just how Jamar might be feeling. It was like riding a roller-coaster: you knew you were safe, but it was still intoxicating. The worst case scenario involved Eugene exceeding his limits, only to be foiled by her Cheer Leading outfit; it was a one piece, and she was wearing hose underneath.

“Yeah Jamar, what do YOU think is good on the radio?” Eugene chimed in, cooperatively taking her direction.

Jamar seemed a little disgusted, but gave it a moment's thought. “I don't like nothin' new; I prefer old music, like 'Ice Ice Baby!' ...and that Def Leppard song, wit' Reagan on it... You know, the one where he say's 'They counted on America to be passive. They counted wrong!'”

Julie knew not only the song, but the whole album. “'Armageddon It,'” she exclaimed confidently. “I love that album!”

She experimented by moving her hand a little bit forward toward his knee, and then returning farther than her starting point. She wasn't rubbing down a horse, but it wasn't a light stroke either. Mischief entered her. “...and do you know that song 'Pour Some Sugar On Me?' I like that one too.” She held his gaze while she delivered this provocation, and let her hand wander from the top of his thigh, more to the inside. He finally seemed to trust her.

Shortly thereafter, Eugene gave up on his efforts. Problem solved, Julie thought, and removed her own hand from Jamar's inner thigh. In 20 more minutes, the driver pulled over for a rest break, and within the hour they arrived at the game.

The Badgers played well; it was high scoring (if only on a triple-A level,) and they led by 7 in the last four minutes. There was no buzzer beater, and even though the Appaloosas were “in it,” all the way to the end, the Badgers prevailed; they would return victorious.

Julie had found the time to speak to Michelle, about Eugene. Michelle was black, like Eugene, so she wouldn't rat him out. They stumbled into some sort of agreement for Michelle to sit next to Eugene, and help him vent the pressure.

Julie believed that the physical exertions of cheering the game left her in complete control of her own arousal; she felt no urgent need to scratch her own itch. Upon boarding the bus, she chose a position on the back row, so as to be near the fresh air. The ground had never frozen, and the dip in temperature had moderated to just below freezing. She had donned a sweat suit, and it felt good to be out of the Cheer Leader outfit. It was Jamar who chose to join her on the very last seat of the bus. She was prepared to explain her actions, but he didn't ask.

“Hey, I got that 'Hysteria' album here,” he said. “And it's not 'Armageddon It.' It's 'Gods of War .'”

She took the proffered disc, and looked over the track listing. Her fickle memory told her he was wrong. “You sure it's not 'Rocket,' or 'Run Riot?'” she replied.

He shook his head as if to say, “There's too much you don't understand, white girl.”

Instead of taking the argument further, he changed the subject. “You like break dancing?” he asked. She didn't give a damn about break dancing, but there was nothing much else to do.

Soon he was showing her how to pass a wave from one hand to the other. She wasn't very good at it, and he had to hold her arm to show her when to move it. It was well past dark, and no one was paying any attention to them. Her chosen solution to Eugene's earlier action had removed a boundary between them. Whereas before, she would have been cold to him, she had already savored a physical moment of his nearness, and she found herself doing it again. She did not know she was a child of privilege. It didn't matter to her that, two days from now, she would ignore him in the hall. For the moment, she related one on one, because there was no one around to disapprove.

As the minutes ticked away, the fresh air she had craved chilled her once again. The quilt was in the overhead somewhere, but she solved the problem pragmatically; she asked Jamar to put his arm around her.

His experience was worlds removed from hers. First, this chick comes on to him under the blanket. Then, she asks him to “Pour some sugar on me.” When he follows up, she asks him to put his arm around her. He knew that “Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned,” so his followup had been somewhat obligatory, but now here she was, laying her head on his shoulder. As a Senior, his experience was not limited to basketball. He knew what to do.

His pretext was to brush her hair back, but his fingers stroked her neck on their return journey, soon followed by tracing her neckline. Chad had done this hundreds of times. In fact, she often wished Chad would be more daring. She wasn't a slut, but she enjoyed carnal desires enough to know she wasn't a prude. As Jamar explored the slippery slope, her thoughts went back to her first kiss, and it was not with Chad! Here in the dark, Jamar's color was no part of her thoughts. She did not know that she would yield to racist peer pressure without a second thought in the morning. To an inconsistent person it was natural to ignore her own inconsistencies. For now, he was a man, and she was a woman.

He soon discovered what she already knew – she wasn't wearing a brassier. His touch was a new experience because he didn't limit his attentions to stroking her like a kitten. Instead, he massaged her, not neglecting her nipples. The experience that led to this behavior led to other developments, too. She no longer had the one-piece to limit his attentions.

While not sophisticated in her approach to social equality, some primitive form of justice still held sway over her. When his hand reached upward from her knee, she had no fair way of declining him; after all, just hours earlier she had done the same to thing to him. By the time his hand went inside her waistband, he had already started her engines. She was in no frame of mind to refuse him.

He found Brazil, warm and exotic, but soon moved on to Panama. He didn't really care that it was the Suez Canal that made Panama important. He just knew that it was important, and the “locks” of her canal filled as naturally as breathing. Nothing she hadn't done herself.

She sank down in her seat so as not to be observed. His response was as logical as it was unexpected. He started using his middle finger, which was something she did NOT do very often. When the surprise wore off, she tried to evaluate the sensation. It was really more like adding garlic to butter, than adding mustard to a ham: pleasant, but not overwhelming, she decided in disappointment.

He was getting a measured but favorable response, and added his index finger to his efforts. He knew his destination, but she was surprised again. She had never investigated her own G-spot, and certainly no boyfriend had ever been so bold before. In fact she had never heard of the term, much less Dr. Grafenberg and his research. Ignorance, however, presented no obstacle to her physical enjoyment. “Shhh...” he whispered. He didn't stop. Noticeable? I would say SO! As the minutes passed, she felt like he was kneading a lump of raw dough down there. She had seen it done in Pizza parlors, and this had to be what it felt like. She would never look at sourdough in the same light again. In moments, all thoughts of bread were gone, as waves of pleasure surged through her being. He had included her clitoris with his thumb, and it's effectiveness would not be easily overstated.

From some idea of fairness, she sought him out, and tried to return the favor. His dick responded, but she was left handed, and he was to her right. She turned herself so she could reach with her dominant hand, and in so doing sacrificed her own pleasure. She was disappointed, but continued in her task.

Soon, she was masturbating him, but it didn't seem to satisfy him... or her. He paused. “Kiss it,” he whispered in her ear.

She felt a wave of embarrassment roll over her. While she didn't know the Latin for masturbation, fellatio, or cunnilingus, she knew people did such things; she had overheard comments in the hall. But she had never done so herself. However, if it was normal, it obviously didn't hurt anything.

She scooted over so she could reach him with her mouth. Just as she was “addressing the ball,” (to use a golf term,) the bus passed by a weigh station. She didn't know it was a weigh station, but the sodium vapor lights illuminated the object of her attentions.

While she had long known it was there, she couldn't remember ever actually seeing a live penis. This was certainly the first one to which she had been accorded access. The image was one of a chipmunk struggling to pull a turtle-neck sweater over a small, dark, bald head. Somewhere in her mind, she found time to observe that all the diagrams she had ever seen depicted only circumcision – more like a mushroom on a long, thick stem.

She wasn't afraid of new things, and soon she was learning how to get him off. He helped her, and she was as persistent as he was patient.

He finally came. She did not know it at the time, but she would remember the result for the rest of her life. She had no way of knowing that he had been saving it; only that there was a lot of issue. For now, this was the only anecdote – the empirical norm. In time, she would realize that such bounty was not commonplace. She also made a long term decision without giving it any special thought. There was no handy place to spit, so she swallowed. It might have been like swallowing a raw egg; she wasn't sure, because she had never tried the egg. But she would always swallow.

The trip eventually ended, and the weeks passed. She fobbed Jamar off on Michelle, if you could call it that. She felt bad about telling Chad to punish Eugene, after what Jamar had done, so she never said anything. It was characteristic that she attributed responsibility to another. She knew the pejorative term for a person who loved the slave race, and she wouldn't risk it.

For his part, Jamar knew that girls were mercurial. In his experience, white people had their own code, and he knew that young girls, especially, had no idea how serious some invitations were. He even helped her out with Algebra one time in the library.

The world is equitable, if not fair, he thought. The rich people get their ice in the summer, and the poor people get it in the winter – so everybody gets their ice! He would make his own way.