Sweet sixteen, or was it seventeen? They huddle, because life depends upon it, on the cold slats of the park bench – a public refuge from the cruel vaguaries of late-adolescent life, an open book for those without respect for their free modesty.
She sits on his knees, her long virgin hair cascading down his protective arm, and allows his tender fondling, his benign embracure, of her curves – both inner and outer. They pretend to talk, but each squirming move she makes awakens further his raging, each squeeze of his hands drives her wild with a tremble-legged desire. They coil together; their underwear wetter by the minute, their tongues never far from each other, their focus only on the amazing stimulation each now receives from the other. He holds her firm like a man – she is his eternal soft woman.
The grip tightens as his height ascends in the clouds. She is the urban meadow within which they are camped. As the dinnertime deadline passes, and night falls, they are once more in the red with parents. Another doorstep talking-to will wash over them. All they want is their freedom. She longs to care, he longs to be near her. They will text all night and into the next day. They will see each other on random buses, on TV, talking to strangers, until the truth is verified. A jealous god guards their powerful attentions.
And then one day the bench will be empty: a callous act, some quick words untrimmed, the heat turned down. It will finish on a misery – wet faces in pillows and hearts stopped: how could breath be drawn when such pains enwrap the very soul? But then the sun will shine, and movie laughter will return with a pal. The streets will be full, and the past will become history. As weeing dogs and vagrant sleeps take turns on the private seat, so the world will turn a few more times. That is, until the next couple make it their own.
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