Maybe that’s why she paused again long enough pop the steering column up and slide her seat back and then clamber over the hump to straddle me in the passenger seat where her hand found the handle on the side to cause my seat to fall back.
“Wendy?”
“Shh.” She said. “Please. Just let me kiss you, Kevin. Really kiss you. It feels so good to finally just do it.”
Having her straddling me and the words she said, particularly the final sentence, sent alarm bells jangling, but they were muted as her lips found mine once more.
Almost of their own accord, my arms wrapped around Wendy as she leaned into me, our lips and tongues dancing like flames. There was no way she could put her arms, slender as they were, between my back and the seat, and her hands clutched at my shoulders instead.
Stopping her never entered my mind. I could have blissfully sat there and basked in my first “real” kiss as it stoked the fires of passion between us with absolutely no complaint.
Wendy’s hands slid from my shoulders to my pecs.
That was new.
My previous “girlfriends” had either kept their arms around my neck or their hands on my shoulders when we exchanged much more chaste kisses. No one had ever touched my chest before and it sent a totally unexpected thrill shivering through me. Who knew that guys could enjoy getting their chest felt up too? Not me!
Wendy’s lips left mine and drifted across my cheek and over my jaw to my neck. I was so distracted by this incredible new sensation I didn’t notice her fingers working the buttons of my shirt until it was open to my belt and her cool hands slipped beneath it.
I was a little startled and figured she would pull away.
Time out.
I know I mentioned earlier that I am hirsute. But, I think I should probably flesh out just how that affected me.
In the seventies, it wasn’t unusual to see guys with their shirts unbuttoned to the waist displaying a hairy chest behind gold chains. Hollywood showed us a bunch of guys like that. Tom Selleck comes to mind. Or Ron Jeremy. I had more hair than them when I was fourteen. About the only guy I saw that came close by the time I was eighteen was Robin Williams.
You could still see skin through it. I wasn’t like dog furry or anything. But, it was pretty thick.
And apparently gross.
From the time I was eleven and it started sprouting until I was fourteen, I absolutely loved chasing my little sister around without a shirt on trying to give her a hug.
But, think it through. My sister was grossed out. My mother was constantly telling me to put a shirt on. The only females who ever saw me shirtless were obviously put off by it. I never saw Dad without a freaking tie knotted right next to his Adam’s apple, much less shirtless.
And billboards and magazine ads in the 80s transitioned away from hairy chested males of the 70s to Calvin Klein smooth chested androgynous male models.
Okay, maybe that’s not completely fair. They weren’t really androgynous, I don’t guess. But, they weren’t layered with slabs of working muscle like me. And if they had any hair other than what was on their heads and faces, you couldn’t prove it to me using those pictures.