it?”
“Because I’m going to make you do something with me.”
I felt a flush of desire. “Then I won’t hate it.”
Happy to be free of Rita’s mother, Rita and I drove recklessly down Highway 59 on our official second date. I felt like a wild puppy. I drove fast, squeezing around tight curves, edging past the baseball field, out and beyond the cemeteries and thick dark forests. I was following Rita’s instructions and she sat relaxed, angled toward me, discussing an idea for her next short story.
Twenty minutes later, she shouted, pointing right. “There! Turn right!”
I hit the brakes and swerved toward a narrow road, mostly hidden by trees. We left the highway, tires screeching, and entered the forest, skidding onto a dirt road, fishtailing, hearing the tires pop across loose stones. I felt the rush of a towering sexual energy: helplessly roguish and delightful. I gunned the engine and we shot off past black trees, the headlights frantically sweeping thick trunks and jutting rocks. We plunged deeper into the forest, ramping and bouncing, the car straining for balance, like a boat in a wild storm. Rita gripped the edge of the bucket seat, at first surprised, then tense.
“What are you doing?”
I ignored her. She locked her eyes ahead, ignoring my frequent glances to see if she was impressed and frightened. I wanted to frighten her. I wanted her subservient and meek. I wanted to show her my courage and power. I wanted her to see that I was as manly as all the others she dated: the high school jocks, the 20’s something tall, dignified attorney from Boston; the local D. J., Jeremy Peels, who dressed in black leather, smoked cigars and talked about Rita on his radio program.
Rita grew noticeably peevish. “I’m not impressed, Alan James,” she said, struggling to steady her voice.
“By what?” I said, innocently.
“You know.”
“I don’t.”
“You do.”
“Don’t think so.”
“Tennis conversation, Alan James. Back and forth. Who will win?”
“I will,” I said.
The radio blasted out John Fogerty’s Rock and Roll Girls .
“Will not.”
“Yep.”
“Nope.”
“Bet?”
“No.”
“I’m gonna win!” I said, forcefully, almost desperate.
“Gonna lose,” Rita said, hands on the dashboard, bracing herself.
“No way.”
“Yes way. Slow down, dammit!”
I punched the accelerator. Our heads whipped backwards. I fought the steering wheel, almost loosing control. The car careened toward a bank of trees.
“Stop! Alan James! Stop!”
I muscled the car into a hard left turn. We grazed low branches. They slapped and scraped the side of the car as we charged ahead.
“Alan!”
“I win!” I said, fighting the twisting road, terrified, but determined.
“Okay! You win. Stop!”
“You mean it?!”
“YES! Stop!”
I punched the brakes. We came to an abrupt stop that pitched us forward, then snapped us back, hard, against the seat. Our hearts raced in the dizzying silence. I slowly exhaled, relaxing my grip on the steering wheel, rolling my tight shoulders, feeling a nervous twitch in my right foot. I felt drunk and wonderfully sexual.
Rita sat rigid, her hands still on the dash, the steady rise and fall of her breasts suddenly prominent in the vague moonlight. She angrily switched off the radio and faced me with scolding eyes. “To be so smart, that was dumb, Alan James! Really fucking dumb!”
I sat with a cold dignity. “I’ll take that as a compliment. I’ve never been called dumb in my entire life.”
Her lips formed a beautiful petulant pout. I nearly reached a finger to touch them. I grinned instead. “You are SOooo serious looking, Rita Fitzgerald.”
“Shut up!” she snapped, composing herself. “You’re a little scary, you know that? I never thought of you as being reckless and scary.”
“So are you.”
“I am not!”
“Here we go again. Tennis conversation.”
She twisted away from me. “What’s with you, Alan James?”
The question
“Because I’m going to make you do something with me.”
I felt a flush of desire. “Then I won’t hate it.”
Happy to be free of Rita’s mother, Rita and I drove recklessly down Highway 59 on our official second date. I felt like a wild puppy. I drove fast, squeezing around tight curves, edging past the baseball field, out and beyond the cemeteries and thick dark forests. I was following Rita’s instructions and she sat relaxed, angled toward me, discussing an idea for her next short story.
Twenty minutes later, she shouted, pointing right. “There! Turn right!”
I hit the brakes and swerved toward a narrow road, mostly hidden by trees. We left the highway, tires screeching, and entered the forest, skidding onto a dirt road, fishtailing, hearing the tires pop across loose stones. I felt the rush of a towering sexual energy: helplessly roguish and delightful. I gunned the engine and we shot off past black trees, the headlights frantically sweeping thick trunks and jutting rocks. We plunged deeper into the forest, ramping and bouncing, the car straining for balance, like a boat in a wild storm. Rita gripped the edge of the bucket seat, at first surprised, then tense.
“What are you doing?”
I ignored her. She locked her eyes ahead, ignoring my frequent glances to see if she was impressed and frightened. I wanted to frighten her. I wanted her subservient and meek. I wanted to show her my courage and power. I wanted her to see that I was as manly as all the others she dated: the high school jocks, the 20’s something tall, dignified attorney from Boston; the local D. J., Jeremy Peels, who dressed in black leather, smoked cigars and talked about Rita on his radio program.
Rita grew noticeably peevish. “I’m not impressed, Alan James,” she said, struggling to steady her voice.
“By what?” I said, innocently.
“You know.”
“I don’t.”
“You do.”
“Don’t think so.”
“Tennis conversation, Alan James. Back and forth. Who will win?”
“I will,” I said.
The radio blasted out John Fogerty’s Rock and Roll Girls .
“Will not.”
“Yep.”
“Nope.”
“Bet?”
“No.”
“I’m gonna win!” I said, forcefully, almost desperate.
“Gonna lose,” Rita said, hands on the dashboard, bracing herself.
“No way.”
“Yes way. Slow down, dammit!”
I punched the accelerator. Our heads whipped backwards. I fought the steering wheel, almost loosing control. The car careened toward a bank of trees.
“Stop! Alan James! Stop!”
I muscled the car into a hard left turn. We grazed low branches. They slapped and scraped the side of the car as we charged ahead.
“Alan!”
“I win!” I said, fighting the twisting road, terrified, but determined.
“Okay! You win. Stop!”
“You mean it?!”
“YES! Stop!”
I punched the brakes. We came to an abrupt stop that pitched us forward, then snapped us back, hard, against the seat. Our hearts raced in the dizzying silence. I slowly exhaled, relaxing my grip on the steering wheel, rolling my tight shoulders, feeling a nervous twitch in my right foot. I felt drunk and wonderfully sexual.
Rita sat rigid, her hands still on the dash, the steady rise and fall of her breasts suddenly prominent in the vague moonlight. She angrily switched off the radio and faced me with scolding eyes. “To be so smart, that was dumb, Alan James! Really fucking dumb!”
I sat with a cold dignity. “I’ll take that as a compliment. I’ve never been called dumb in my entire life.”
Her lips formed a beautiful petulant pout. I nearly reached a finger to touch them. I grinned instead. “You are SOooo serious looking, Rita Fitzgerald.”
“Shut up!” she snapped, composing herself. “You’re a little scary, you know that? I never thought of you as being reckless and scary.”
“So are you.”
“I am not!”
“Here we go again. Tennis conversation.”
She twisted away from me. “What’s with you, Alan James?”
The question
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