This entry is a continuation of Mr. Goldberg, Part II.
To repeat what I said at the beginning of that essay: I'm applying some basic ground rules for this series of memoirs. You may not agree with what happens in them. That's fine. I don't agree with everything that happens in them, either. Expressing that sentiment in a rational and adult manner is okay.What's not acceptable is over-reacting to events that happened thirty-six years ago with fear, alarm, name-calling, and cries for someone to be lynched or castrated or prison raped. These are sentiments that have been expressed in my comments section before, and this time around, I won't tolerate them.
The afternoon we’d awkwardly kissed in his classroom, Mr. Goldberg drove me home and parked his hatchback in the alley behind my parents’ house. Most of the houses in the neighborhood had had shrubbery dividing their back yards from the alley. We could sit there for a long period of time without being observed. My parents weren’t due home for a couple of hours.
We’d ridden without a word between us. Once he’d pulled out of the faculty parking lot, he’d driven for a quarter-mile before he reached over and tousled my hair. Then he rested his hand on my knee. Not my thigh. My knee. And he left it there, like it had been super-glued. I wanted that meaty hand to travel up my thigh, to prod at my hard and raging dick. I wanted it down my shirt and touching me all over my skin. But not while he’s driving, I reasoned. Once we were in the alley behind my house. That’s when we could do stuff.
Once he’d turned off the motor, he coughed nervously. “I don’t want to rush this,” he told me, once he’d turned off the motor. “I know you’ve got to be feeling overwhelmed.”
Perhaps I was, but it wasn’t stopping me. I pulled myself closer to him. Ever since he’d kissed me, all I’d wanted to do was taste those lips again. He smelled like Old Spice and spray starch. The three o’clock shadow on his face had turned his skin into sandpaper. He could’ve left me raw and burned from that stubble for all I cared. I just loved the feel of his lips surrounding mine, of his tongue slipping between them. I had no practical training in kissing and I knew that this open-mouthed avec tongue method was the exotic, French kissing I'd heard so much about, but it came so naturally and felt so very good that it could’ve been Scandinavian or Yugoslavian kissing or something all the way from Easter god-damned Island and I would’ve been okay with it.
I don’t know how long we made out, in the overgrown shade of the alley. It seemed like an afternoon, or a year. It wasn’t long enough. His arms surrounded me and his mouth seemed fixed on mine, immovable, unshakable. Then, like the little would-be slut I was, my hands wrestled themselves out from his clasp and tried to undo his zipper.
Instantly I found him pushing me away. He pressed himself against the driver’s side door almost as if he were contemplating escape. “Hey, hey, sport!” he protested. He raised his hands and patted the air with them. “Cool it, now! You don’t know what you’re doing.”
I knew exactly what I was doing. “I know how to do stuff,” I said, thinking all the sexual activity I’d witnessed on one side of the campus glory hole.
“How?” he sounded alarmed. “Did someone else—? Have you—?” I knew what he was asking me. I shook my head. “Are you still a virgin?” He spoke the last word with a certain hush, as if it might shock my tender sensibilities, and as if we hadn’t been macking on each other like madmen not thirty seconds before. I told him I was. “Then how do you know?”
“I just do,” I assured him. My inner observer, in its infancy as it was, somehow intuited that he didn’t want to hear about my voyeuristic public sex adventures.
I’d shocked him, though. He remained plastered against the door as he readjusted his zipper. I wanted more of him, though. He’d lit the flames. It seemed only fair he dealt with the wildfire he’d started. Even if it was just kissing, I wanted more. I was hot, and greedy, and my youth had me moving like the cartoon Tasmanian Devil—all purpose and motion and fury.
Mr. Goldberg was astonished at how hard he had to work to fend me off. It was for all the world as if he were the virginal young thing and I was the dirty old man. “Gosh, sport,” he said. “Slow down. Let’s both enjoy this. Okay?”
I thought we both had been enjoying it. With reluctance, and a haze of sex-clouded confusion, I agreed.
“Now, let’s cool off,” he suggested. His shirt was rumpled; the hot car and the passion had given him sweat stains at the pits. He tried smoothing things down, but it wasn’t really any use. His voice became more gentle as he reached out and stroked my face. His fingers trailed down my cheeks, as he looked me in the eye. “I want it to be special. A first time’s supposed to be special. Will you let me do that for you?”
It took me a moment to answer. My heart pounded hard. In my head, it sounded like a herd of rhinos had invaded the alley. I was afraid if I opened my mouth, the tell-tale thudding would betray how very badly I wanted him, and how desperately I was thinking about what he’d said, just then.
He wanted to give me my first time. Mr. Goldberg wanted to take my virginity, and he wanted to make it special.
More than anything in the world, I wanted him to have it. And soon.
(To be continued next week.)