The following excerpt is from my “novel” (memoir, really, with names changed to protect the not-so-innocent) PUTA. This is the first chapter, based on my real life experience with a boy named Sean. I’m really proud of this book, and have been getting phenomenal feedback on it. It is available in e-book, and newly released it in mass market paperback as well. I hope you enjoy! Hope it brings back memories of your own! If you like the book, please click here to order it! I will post more of the book in coming days, as I’m hard at work finishing up a new erotic ebook novelita for release March 1. Besitos!
KYLE McDERMOTT: I want Candy
From the start, I’ve been drawn to boys who were every bit as pretty as they were rebelliously intelligent. The first time I saw Kyle McDermott it was 1983 and I was a freshman at Z High School in City X. I had been placed in sophomore A.P. biology because of my “gifted” test scores, and he, a sophomore, was in that class.
I remember walking into Mr. Biology’s classroom in my pink canvas Keds sneakers and Ocean Pacific shorts with a tight pink sweater, feeling nervous but also excited to be at a new school in a district far from the one where I’d gone to elementary and middle school. Mr. Biology’s black-topped desk and adjacent laboratory with its deep steel sink and magical potions was to my right, in the front of the room, with the blackboard behind them. The large two-seat desks, which forced students to pair up, were arranged in three rows to the left.
I was one of the last students to enter the room. It was a hot, dry, early autumn afternoon in MyState. Cicadas droned in the poplar trees outside the classroom, and a thunderstorm loomed on the northern horizon, somewhere near ArtTown. The bright sun burned yellow-white through the slatted blinds in the West-facing windows, eerily illuminating the coiled, bloated tapeworm in its murky pinkish jar of formaldehyde. Mr. Biology kept the preserved intestinal parasite on a shelf next to various other horrifying creatures floating in similar solutions, all of which gave the room an unforgettable smell of death and learning.
I scanned the room for an empty chair. Being new to the area, I knew no one. I immediately noticed the two very pretty, very well dressed girls, one blonde and one brunette, sitting together at the front of the room, smacking their chewing gum. The brunette was talking a lot; the blonde was looking at her reflection in the glass of a cabinet on the side of the room. A group of four popular-looking boys had surrounded them and were vying for their attention. They all joked with one another with that certain confidence and sense of entitlement that rich, popular kids always have. Having never been rich, and not being well known enough to be popular here, I watched in envy.
Kyle sat apart from this group, watching them like everyone else was, but unlike everyone else, he sat on top of the desk rather than in his seat, with his legs crossed. He seemed more amused than impressed by the popular kids, and appeared fearless. I liked him instantly, both because he was beautiful to look at and because the cock of his brow and the smirk upon his face told me he was tough, and smart, and did not care what anyone thought. Given his good looks and the way the popular kids smiled at him, he could easily have been part of their clique, but it did not seem that this interested him at all. He preferred to be on the outside.
I took an empty seat near the back of the room, and kept watching the other students, trying to figure out the pecking order, waiting for the bell to ring, hoping to be noticed but praying not to be noticed for the wrong reasons or by the wrong people. My eyes kept snapping back to Kyle. Perfect, beautiful Kyle. I could not stop staring at him.
He was sixteen then, about five-foot-nine, maybe five-foot-ten, lean and muscular. His brown hair was bleached blonde and red on the tips, and cut short but a bit shaggy, coaxed with hair gel to stick up around his head, as was the style in those days. He was tan, with a few freckles scattered across his face and arms. His eyes were a warm brown, with long lashes, and his nose sort of fine and maybe even pretty. He had full lips, naturally pink and quick to smile their straight white teeth. He had an angular, attractive shape to his face, and wore a plain white t-shirt with madras plaid shorts and black-and-white checkered Vans skate sneakers. His legs had brown hair on them, blonde in some areas because of having been in the sun. There was something slightly effeminate and Adam Ant-ish to him, something punk-ish, too, like the lead singer for The Clash. At the time, boys were prized for this look, and he worked it.
I watched, amazed, as he mocked the popular girls to their faces, in a sort of teasing way that managed to make them laugh at themselves, even as everyone else laughed at them, too. All the other boys wanted to impress those two girls. Not Kyle. Kyle found them ridiculous. Kyle was a beautiful outsider who thought for himself. These qualities were as intoxicating to me at fifteen as they still are today, at 41.
I watched Kyle bask a bit in the attention, enjoying the way he’d made people laugh. His beautiful eyes roved across the room, soaking in his own ability to control a crowd, and then, they locked with mine. My heart rate sped up, and I could feel my cheeks reddening as he simply refused to look away. A slow, small smile crept across his confident face, and his left brow lifted ever so slightly. To my horror, he got up and started walking toward me.
“Hello,” he said, playfully planting himself in front of my table. All eyes in the room went to me now, because he had singled me out. I looked up at him, and hoped he was not about to subject me to the same treatment he’d given the two popular girls. His voice was still changing, and had a certain man-in-training charm to it.
“Hi,” I answered, doing my best to keep looking him in the eye, to not seem afraid. Back then, I was five-six, weighed 118 pounds, and had very long, curly brown hair. I rode my bike to school and home every day, a round-trip total of about 12 miles. I was on the track and swim teams, and in band. I would have been a cheerleader except that my single father, born and raised in LatinCountry, forbid it, saying that only “loose” girls who didn’t want to be taken seriously became cheerleaders.
“You’re new,” Kyle said.
“Yeah.” I felt terribly embarrassed.
“You’re very cute.”
“Thank you.” Even more embarrassed after that.
“I’m Kyle.” He held his hand out to me, the way a grownup might, with a bit of a dangerous joke in his eyes. I looked around, trying to figure out what to do. Kyle leaned across the table and took my hand, placing it in his own and shaking it.
“There,” he said, a wiseass but a kind wiseass. “That’s how we earthlings usually do it.”
I blushed, not knowing what to say, completely overwhelmed by his touch. I’d had a first kiss in the eighth grade, one year before, and that was about it; I was not greatly experienced with boys, and the warmth of his skin, the large, strong maleness of his hand, made me ache, right through the center of my body.
“What’s your name, new girl?”
“Pretty name,” he said with a dazzling smile, still holding my hand. “I like it.”
I wanted to say thank you, or anything really. But I was mute. I had never been so boldly approached by a boy, much less such a confident boy. The boys in middle school had still seemed to think the way to get a girl’s attention was by spitting on her or knocking her books to the ground. Kyle was only a sophomore in high school, but by every measure I had in my meager possession, he was less boy than man.
The bell rang then, and Mr. Biology appeared before us, sort of a grumpy cross between Leonard Nemoy and a Muppet, with greasy hair, brilliant eyes, and strangely curvy eyebrows.
“Kyle,” the teacher griped. “Sit.”
Kyle responded by curling his hands in front of his chest like paws, hanging his tongue out of his mouth and panting like a dog, sitting – plop – right on the floor in front of me. Everyone laughed, except the teacher, who was wearily commanding Kyle back to his desk.
Kyle stood, looked at my empty table, and raised his hand, wagging it back and forth obnoxiously, looking at Mr. Biology with a mocking look on his face. Mr. Biology pursed his lips, not wanting to react, but having no choice.
“Yes, Kyle? What is it?”
Kyle’s eyes strayed to the empty seat next to me for a moment, and he said, “I’d like to switch desks, if that’s okay with you, teacher.”
“Fine,” said the teacher, not noticing the intent in Kyle’s eyes that I saw, an intent that made me swirly and fluttery inside. “Just sit down somewhere.”
Kyle hopped with grace across the room, grabbed his backpack, skateboard and papers, and came bounding back, to take the seat next to mine. Everyone stared at me now, knowing I had been chosen for some reason by this very powerful, very handsome boy. I sat up straighter, and tried to pay attention to the teacher. It wasn’t easy, though, with Kyle staring at me with a grin on his face.
Kyle continued to stare, and to joke around with me, for another year. We were lab partners through the year in biology, and then on into chemistry the following year. He flirted a lot with me, and I demurred, not because I thought that’s what girls ought to do, but, rather, because he was older than I was, and he scared the crap out of me. Kyle was an older boy who knew things. Sex kinds of things. You could see it in his eyes, and in the way he held his body in space, or licked his lips. Meanwhile, I was a girl who knew nothing, and was the daughter of a traditional-minded single LatinCountryn immigrant father who had made it quite clear quite early on that decent girls who wanted their father’s respect simply didn’t do things like wear makeup or go on dates with boys or have sex. Ever. Though he was an atheist, I was sure my father would have liked for me to be a nun. To say I was well informed about my own body, much less anyone else’s, would be a stretch. Sure, I’d had a couple of non-serious boyfriends, boys I made out with, and that had been enough to cripple with guilt. I was torn, early on, between the good, chaste girl I wanted the world to think I was, and the animalistic sexual person who was coming to life inside of me with incredibly scary, powerful urges. I did what any good girl would do, and repressed the latter for as long as I could. It wasn’t easy.
Kyle and I became very good friends, in that high-school sort of way, and I was somewhat obsessed with him. My best friend, a pudgy, bubbly blonde girl named Jane, lived near Kyle, and I’d spend the night at her house. Jane and I would walk past his house, ring the doorbell, and run away giggling when he answered. He’d spy us hiding badly in the bushes across the street or something, and call out, “Real mature, girls. Nice job. Way to go.”
We’d call Kyle on the phone, only to hang up when he came on. Meanwhile, I had a couple of harmless boyfriends, boys from marching band who were virgins like I was and who would never do more than kiss me on the band bus on our way to competitions. Mostly, though, I thought about Kyle. I was too shy to return his advances, and felt better suited for the other boys. Kyle watched these little relationships with a wry grin, and never stopped suggesting that when I was ready for a real man, I call him. I continued not to respond, because I had no idea what to say.
One spring day, Kyle was moved to the back of chemistry class because he and I kept talking and laughing. He’d gotten taller, and cuter, and his voice was lower. He’d begun to shave his face. His neck had widened in a muscular and appealing way. And then, exiled to the back of the room, he sat with his hands clasped confidently behind his head, his knees wide apart, staring at me. I could see the brown hair in his armpits. He was not a boy anymore. I looked back, used to the easy humor and friendship we’d come to share, and saw something new in him. A new determination. A hunger. I was sixteen now, still fit but quite curvy by then, already up to a C cup bra, and I felt something incredibly powerful stirring in my body. I’d always had a crush on him, and I’d always wondered about him, but I had not, until that moment, had the guts to do anything about it. In short, I wanted Kyle. I wanted him inside of me, where no man or boy had ever been. I wanted to know what it felt like. Kissing little boys from band was no longer enough.
I wanted to have sex with a man.
In a fit of courage, I ripped a corner off a piece of lined paper, and wrote a short note, something about how I thought he should be the boy to relieve me of my virginity, if he was willing. I folded it up small and tight, and passed it to the person next to me. Within moments, it had been passed to Kyle. My cheeks burned with excitement and embarrassment as he unfolded it and read it. I heard him chuckle and whisper “whoa”. I pretended to be paying attention to whatever the teacher was saying. I could not bring myself to look at Kyle again the rest of the class. And then, the bell rang.
Afraid I’d done and said something incredibly stupid that might ruin my reputation and get me disowned by my father, I tried to hurry out of the room, but Kyle was upon me in an instant, a smile as wide as the sky on his almost intolerably handsome face. I tried to dodge past him, my cheeks on fire.
“Really?” he asked, standing in front of me to block my path. “You mean it?”
“What?” I asked, shyly.
Kyle laughed at me. “Excuse me? You sent me a note asking me to take your virginity and now you’re running away? Not cool.”
“Please,” I said, completely discombobulated. “I’m going to be late.”
“I had no idea you had such normal feelings,” he said, still blocking my way, enjoying this game of cat and mouse. “You act like an ice queen most of the time.”
“You’re very cute,” I whispered, ashamed.
“I’d love to, by the way,” he said. “Just so you know.”
I couldn’t bring myself to look at him, so he put his fingers beneath my chin, and lifted my face to his in the middle of the hallway as a herd of kids flowed past. I only saw him then – his eyes, and his mouth. The sarcasm that was usually present in his eyes was gone, replaced by a sexual hunger. He leaned in, and kissed me, gently, with closed lips, one time on the lips. In front of everyone. Tenderly.
“Carmen Noa, I’d be honored to deflower you,” he said, with a smart-ass grin.
Trembling, thrilled, and melting everywhere, I groped for his hand, and squeezed it. “You’re one of my best friends,” I told him. “That’s why I asked you.”
He looked surprised for a moment before saying, “Okay. And now I’ll be your best friend who fucks you.” He had that Kyle humor in his eyes, but I could tell he was nervous, too. He didn’t want to show it, but I knew him well enough by then to see it.
Who fucks you.
It was such strong language. I didn’t know what to make of it. I knew it thrilled me, but I knew that it was wrong to feel thrilled about this. I was bad. Dirty. Horrible. More than anything, I was afraid.
“I have to go,” I said.
“We’ll talk,” he said, watching me trip and stumble down the hall, away from him, wondering what I’d gotten myself into now.
It was a warm spring day when Kyle finally came for me. My father was on his side of the house, reading or talking on the phone or whatever it was he did. I took the pink comforter from my bed, and the boom box, and snuck out through the back yard, handing them over the cinderblock wall to Kyle in the alley behind my house. I was extremely nervous, shaking, and couldn’t think of anything to say as I got into the passenger’s seat of Kyle’s family sedan, and away we drove, toward the enormous purple WaterMelon mountains that flank the city of City X on the east.
I cannot recall what we talked about. I probably tried to make small talk, and Kyle probably made fun of me. That was how our friendship usually went. We did not hug or kiss, or do anything remotely boyfriendy-girlfriendy. We were two friends, one older and experienced (in high school, one year makes all the difference) and the other young and naive. He was phenomenally handsome, and I remember watching him drive and feeling a shivering thrill rip through me at the thought that he was going to be mine, and my first. I truly thought I loved him, though I lacked the emotional courage or language to tell him so.
Eventually, Kyle parked in a remote camping area, and we trekked off on a hiking trail in search of an isolated spot. It was quite matter-of-fact, and my heart was about to beat itself right up my throat and out of my mouth. Kyle seemed relaxed, joking around.
Then, finally, he found a spot. It was in the middle of the forest, a clear bit of earth beneath the boughs of an enormous pine tree. The other trees were close enough to give it the feeling of a small room. No one would see us here. I spread the pink comforter, and put the stereo on softly. Then, Kyle and I sat on the surprisingly hard ground, facing each other, and I saw something in his eyes I’d never seen there before. It was worry. I realized, with a shock, that for all his big talk, this guy was maybe almost as unsure what to do as I was.
“Okay,” he said.
“Okay,” I replied.
We began to kiss. Kyle was a very good kisser. Our mouths and tongues explored each other, and he kissed my neck. As he nuzzled me, Kyle seemed to be overtaken with confidence, because he groaned a bit, and pushed me down on my back, and climbed on top of me. I fought back, in jest. We rolled around a bit on the blanket. The electricity I felt in every pore was the most powerful thing I’d ever felt. I was ready. I wanted him. To this day I can remember the sweet scent of his breath, the warmth of his brown skin. We wrestled a little. I pretended I didn’t want him to pin me, but I did. I wanted him to control the situation, to take me.
Kyle held me down, grinning playfully.
“I want you inside me,” I said, because it was true and I knew nothing about foreplay.
“Not yet,” he said, lifting my shirt and unhooking my white cotton bra. Slowly, deliciously, he kissed my breasts, first the left, then the right, every inch of them. I’d never felt anything that good. I moaned a bit, and felt my back arch up on its own. This body, I realized, carried knowledge, handed down to me from my ancestors, of what to do. My hips began to rock on their own. I looked up at the trees, and the sky, and I felt incredibly free, and alive. And scared. People said it would hurt. I didn’t want it to hurt. They said you might bleed, and that scared me, too. What if I bled so much I needed a doctor? So many questions.
Kyle brought his lips to mine, and kissed me again. I could taste my own skin and sweat on them, and it excited me. He took my hand and pressed it against his crotch. His penis was very hard, and felt to me like a tube of toothpaste in his pants. He groaned when I touched him, and with one hand, he undid the zipper and button on his shorts. He peeled them down his sides, and revealed himself to me. It was the first time I had ever seen a penis up close and in person before, and I was struck by how pink and purple it looked, engorged with blood. It sort of bobbed there in space over me, with one wide-open eye at the top.
“He’s so hopeful-looking,” I remember saying.
“He’s very hopeful right now,” I recall Kyle answering. We laughed then, and it helped ease the awkwardness of the moment.
I was clueless, of course, about what to do with it. And Kyle, in retrospect, was pretty clueless about what to do with me. So there was no more foreplay. We both simply removed our shorts, and in missionary position, as I held my breath and squeezed my eyes shut in anticipation of pain, Kyle carefully slid himself into my body. It did not hurt as people had warned me it would. It did not feel particularly good, either. It felt bulky, and intrusive, and scary. I was too nervous, suddenly, with the idea of a penis inside of me, and the possibility that I might get pregnant, to do anything but scream.
“Get it out! Get it out! Now!”
Kyle had only been inside of me for a couple of seconds. There had been no motion, beyond him pushing in.
“What?” he asked, pulling out in shock. “Did I hurt you?”
“I don’t want to get pregnant!” I shrieked.
“Aren’t you on anything?” he asked. “The pill or something?”
“No! I’m sixteen and a virgin!”
“Well, I’d say you’re still sixteen. But, you know. Technically.”
“I know,” I sobbed. “What have I done?”
Kyle frowned down at his penis. I watched as the purple thing began to shrink. Kyle was angry with me now.
“Oh, my God,” he said bitterly. “I can’t believe you’re doing this.”
“What?” I asked.
“Oh, nothing,” he said sarcastically. “Best sex ever. C’mon, Carmen. That was fairly anticlimactic, don’t you think?” he asked. “World’s fastest deflowering. Ever. Jesus Christ.”
“I’m sorry, I just don’t want to get pregnant! I thought you’d bring a rubber or something.”
“Nah,” he said. “That would hurt your first time. I can control it. If you’d give me a chance before flipping out.”
I began to cry, afraid that I might already be pregnant, because back then I did not even really understand ejaculation, or how any of it worked.
“Why are you crying?” snapped Kyle, putting his clothes back on, confusion on his face.
“I don’t want to be pregnant!”
“You’re not pregnant, okay?” he shouted, annoyed. “We barely did anything! My God. Just stop it.”
I was filled with regret, and fear, and hadn’t even enjoyed what I thought was “sex” at all. I was a filthy, horrible girl. I had let a boy put his penis in me and I wasn’t even married. My father would disown me if he knew! It didn’t even feel that great. I was so disappointed, so afraid. So embarrassed. I got dressed, and then Kyle drove me all the way back to my house without speaking to me, other than to say goodbye and to joke about “thanks for the awesome picnic”.
So went my first time. I did not get pregnant. It would be more than twenty years before Kyle and I ever spoke as friends again.
Long after I’d assumed he’d forgotten about me, in our late 30s, he would find me through my website. We would agree that neither of us had known what the hell we were doing that day in the mountains, but that we had always been terribly attracted to the other. He would tell me he’d come from a troubled home, and was a sad and lonely kid. When I told him how he’d come across to me, as this wise and funny, mature boy, he’d seem surprised. I would tell him that I had been abandoned by my mother at 11, and could not back then reconcile being a sexual person with being a good person, because my troubled mom had a mental breakdown and actually went to work for an escort service when I was a teenager. He’d had no idea, because I had gone on to become class president and a straight-A student, trying to hide the circumstances from which I’d come by being a shiny, pretty overachiever who pretended to be like everyone else.
“I thought you were just this regular, nerdy, middle-class girl,” he said.
“Far from it. Wrong on all counts.”
“We were just two fucked up, sad kids,” he’d concluded with a sigh. “I wish I’d known. I would have been a lot nicer to you. Shit, no one ever knows what’s really going on with anyone they know in high school, right?”
Turned out that approaching 40, we were both in unhappy relationships and had never really found healthy love. We still wanted each other, as much at nearly 40 as we had in high school. We even planned an affair, at a hotel outside of a ski resort in HippieTown, but never followed through, feeling too guilty, in the end. We agreed that because of the strong feelings we still had for each other — feelings that threatened to get in the way of any sort of friendship we might cultivate now — it would be best for the health of our relationships with other people that we stop talking again.
And so it was that I lost bright, funny, cute, cocky Kyle McDermott, one of the best friends I’d ever had, again.