by Zetta Brown
Cherries Jubilee
Before Eva Met Jared
By Zetta Brown
ISBN: 978-1905091-39-3
Digital version
© 2009 Logical-Lust Publications
Cover design: Zetta Brown © 2009
Cherries Jubilee – Before Eva Met Jared is a work of fiction. The names, characters, and incidents are entirely the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or events, is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be copied, transmitted, or recorded by any means whatsoever, including printing, photocopying, file transfer, or any form of data storage, mechanical or electronic, without the express written consent of the publisher. In addition, no part of this publication may be lent, re-sold, hired, or otherwise circulated or distributed, in any form whatsoever, without the express written consent of the publisher.
Cherries Jubilee
Looking back to my teen years living in Denver, Colorado during the 1980s, losing my virginity was harder than trying to watch a Britney Spears comeback special today. . .
I started having fantasies about sleeping with men when I was very young and at an age where if you tongue-kissed a boy you could get pregnant, but be careful because boys also had cooties.
My parents sheltered me, their little bookworm, to the point where it was hard to talk to them about anything, let alone sex. My father may have owned a bookstore but it’s not like I could buy or even borrow a racy book without them finding out. Thank God for my best friend, Ana-Marie Scarletti. It was the late 1980s and I had a very extensive collection of Barbara Cartland and Harlequin novels but it was down to Ana-Marie who loaned me some of her Jackie Collins novels, otherwise I would have never gotten the nitty gritty on “real” relationships.
Sex Ed in school, while adequate, was very dry. I knew you had to fit Tab A into Slot B and squirt some sticky, oozy stuff so Child C pops out of Twat T, but that was about it.
Nevertheless, Ana and my girlfriends let me know how naïve and out of touch I was for someone my age. But when it came to losing their virginity, their worldly tales all focused on how horrible sex was their first time. Either the situation or their partner made the experience forgettable. But the first time is impossible to forget.
And there was never any mention of romance.
I knew I wasn’t going to lose my virginity in such a lackluster (or even accidental, like my friend Katie) fashion. When I had my chance, I knew what I would do to arouse him. Why? Because I had practiced. I played scenarios in my head and practiced dozens of techniques gleaned from romance novels on pillows and wide-eyed stuffed animals to know better.
Meanwhile, dating remained impossible for me. No one wanted to date a plump, black girl who was always on the honor roll. And it’s bad enough when your mother is a teacher, your father is a respected businessman, and the people that he doesn’t know, your mother does.
It wasn’t like I was even saving myself for marriage or anything, but I had convinced myself that my first time would be perfect; the perfect man, the perfect setting, everything. I had stayed up all night to watch Charles and Diana get married and, years later, I secretly had dreams of a grand romance and fairy tale wedding.
I was 18 and had never been kissed, but one day, my Lord Uppington would come and I’d be ready . . . and willing.
Like any other teenager, there came a time when I began to test my boundaries along with my parents’ patience. As the youngest child, sheltered and protected, I think it was harder for them to let me make my own decisions and my own mistakes. But in the end, a good parent realizes that is exactly what they have to do.
After one particularly vocal disagreement with the parents, I took it upon myself to get a job—and not in my dad’s bookstore.
This was the first time I really took control of my life instead of letting my parents plan it for me. Since my freshman year in high school, my parents had me spend every summer at college-prep summer courses thinly veiled as holiday camps or touring potential colleges.
But I was determined to spend my last summer as a normal kid, not some protected princess. I wanted to meet and hang with people outside of my parent’s sphere of influence. Even my regular circle of friends were starting to make me feel claustrophobic. My girlfriends all had real life experiences, like jobs, so why couldn’t I?
Since this was going to be my first job, I had no clue what to do or whom to ask. Two people I wouldn’t be asking were my parents. I wanted to handle my business myself. So when I saw a want ad for a major grocery store located along West Colfax, I went ahead and applied.
My job application listed the school I attended, and on the strength of that, the management decided to put me in as a cashier. It didn’t take long for them to discover I was crap at math, didn’t know how to make change, and was totally out of my depth. I was quickly busted down to courtesy clerk—or, as it’s more commonly known as, “bag girl.”
It was a humiliating blow. It wasn’t as if I made myself out to be better than anyone, but the assumption that just because I went to a “rich” school I had more ability to handle real life skills crashed and burned that day. As a result, the other courtesy clerks and many of the cashiers treated me like a snob; a Park Hill princess slumming it with the peasants and couldn’t cope. I had to admit—they were right.
West Colfax was a different world compared to my neighborhood. I was working for the first time, by choice, but it wasn’t a choice for the co-workers in my age group. For example, there was Miguel, who was working two jobs to earn money for when he started college in the fall. Then there was Tiquanda, a single mother at the age of seventeen, working to support her baby daughter. I never appreciated how good I had it, but then again I had never appreciated the people who didn’t until I worked in that grocery store. I found myself on my own more often than not. Once again, I was an outsider while everyone else experienced “real life.”
There was one bright point on the horizon, though, and his name was Casey Weller.
Casey was hot. I was drawn to his athletic build, wavy blonde hair, and the way he filled his acid-wash jeans. He also impressed me as a cosmopolitan. Casey was only a year older than me, but at the age of 19 he had his own car (something I still didn’t have despite my “privileged” background) and his own apartment. Although he had, and lived up to, his tough-boy image, he was gentle and chivalrous in manner when he was around me. It was like having my own bodyguard, a champion in my corner who had my back. But it was his sense of humor that clenched the deal.
“Hello, fellow wage slave,” he would greet me with his Louisiana drawl each time we punched in. Then he would put one of his strong arms around my shoulders and squeeze. That simple gesture made the rest of the day worthwhile because, despite other co-workers’ attitude towards me, that store treated us all like shit. Besides, with each hug, my cheek would feel the tiny nugget of his nipple beneath his shirt giving me a cheap thrill.
Casey helped ease the tension between me and the other courtesy clerks by inviting me to sit with him and his friends during our breaks and, considering his popularity, it was just what I needed. Whenever our schedules allowed, a small group of us would sit outside, eating our lunch and bitching and moaning.
“Perhaps a Molotov cocktail,” came one suggestion.
“Or we could put dirty diapers in the ventilation system.”
But none of these creative ideas against management came to pass . . . that is, not until my last day when I finally got fed up.
David Sheen, the head courtesy clerk, was loathed by all of the other clerks. He thought he had done well for a high school dropout and he lorded his title of Number One Bag Boy over us. One day he
decided to humiliate me in front of the customers for my neglecting to spot clean the entryway.
“This is what you are paid for. To sweep and mop. How hard is it? I don’t know what they do over in Park Hill, but we don’t have maids to clean up after us. You can’t cashier and you can’t mop. Do I need to get someone else to do this difficult task?”
I was young and passive back then. The best I could do was stand there on the verge of tears and take it. When David finished obliterating my dignity, I bolted to the staff lounge. It was a refuge, somewhere to escape to, even though I knew it would do nothing to alleviate my mood. The unappetizing stench of stale cigarette smoke, stained walls, gray metal lockers, and furniture 15 years overdue for the dumpster greeted me with less enthusiasm than a drunk met a hangover.
Casey sat reclining on the couch reading a Spiderman comic as I came in. I made no secret of my mood as I banged into the lockers to get my purse.
“Hey, hey, hey, Sugar Pop,” he called. “What is it?”
I was too livid to speak. Then I felt his hands on my waist as he turned me around to face him. Tears dripped off my chin.
“Evadne? . . . Eva, what’s wrong?”
“That asshole, David—”
“Whoa! Say no more.” Casey led me to the couch. Despite our being alone, I was grateful for the secluded area in the corner. He grabbed some napkins off the table.
“Blow.” He held the napkin and I obeyed.
“Thanks.” I lowered my head not wanting him to see my blubbering.
“Tell me what happened.”
I shook my head. “I’m surprised you didn’t hear. You know the mouth that prick has.” He put his arm around me.
“What time do you get off work?” he asked.
“Six.”
“I get off at five, but I’ll wait for you.”
I looked at him, wondering why he should be so concerned, when I suddenly realized how clear his skin was for a teenager, and how the rough, blonde stubble on his chin met the thin mustache over his lips. His gaze gently caressed my face. When he smiled, his blue eyes sparkled.
“What do you have in mind?” I finally asked.
“You’ll just have to wait and find out.”
“No. Tell me now. I may not stay.”
Casey tilted my face up and kissed me. I gasped, not expecting this—my first kiss! Oh, my god!
He took advantage of my shock by inserting his tongue. I had no choice but to accept its filling me. His lips were surprisingly soft and his breath tasted of Bubble Yum. I kissed him back while letting his tongue circle around mine. His tongue advanced even further until I pulled away.
I forgot to breathe.
Casey chuckled and softly pressed his lips onto my eyelids, removing my remaining tears.
“You’ll stay. Now, come on, Sugar Pop. My time is up.”
Never did his nickname for me arouse me like it did at that moment. I got the sudden carnal urge to mount him and ride him like the golden stallion he was. But I quickly cooled my jets—Casey dated at least two girls in the store and there was a line of others (and even a few boys) praying for a vacancy.
For the rest of the day, I couldn’t concentrate on my work and I didn’t care. That grocery store could kiss my black ass good-bye, and although I didn’t see Casey, the sensation of his lips on mine lingered. Something in the look in his eyes while we were in the staff lounge told me that he wanted to do more than just cheer me up.
As promised, when my shift ended, I found Casey waiting for me in the lounge smoking a cigarette. My heart pounded. I had never been out alone with a boy so I had to play it cool. Mature.
“Are you ready?” he asked.
“Yeah. Just let me call my parents.” The words were out of my mouth before I could recall them—so much for being mature—but Casey wasn’t fazed. He told me to spin them a tale about going to a double feature.
He lived in a low-rent apartment complex within walking distance, a few blocks away from the grocery store. I was tired after standing on my feet for nine hours but I followed him and trudged up several flights of stairs behind him and into his home. Yet, with each step, I vacillated between continuing up to meet what could be my initiation into sex, or backing down and running away, too afraid to confront anything or anybody; just like with David Sheen.
In hindsight, Casey’s place didn’t inspire confidence of upward mobility, but to me it was paradise. It represented freedom and independence from parental oppression. His couch and chairs didn’t match and he used crates for tables. The decor consisted of dozens of candles, two lava lamps—one red, one blue, and his walls had posters of The Cure, Ultravox, and The Smiths. My crush turned into lust. I had never guessed Casey’s music preferences matched mine. He didn’t have multi-colored hair spiked with gel or wore black clothes strategically torn with studded chain belts. Then again, neither did I.
“Cop a squat. D’you like beer?”
“Got any wine coolers?”
He grinned. “Lemme check.”
As he rummaged in the kitchen, I sat, trying to work on my persona. I took a few deep breaths, determined to act grown and confident, and then I leaned back into the couch. I couldn’t tell if I was hot and sticky because of work or because of my excitement. I suspected the moisture between my legs told me it was the latter. Casey returned with our drinks and sat close to me on the sofa. He poured my Bartles & Jaymes into a jelly jar and, leering at me, he asked.
“Are you a bad girl, Evadne?”
This is it, I thought and proceeded to empty half my drink in one gulp. Big mistake. The room started to spin. “Is that why you asked me over?”
He leaned closer, his breath was hot against my cheek. “I’ve plotted your revenge.”
“Revenge?” I blinked and swallowed hard to prevent my being sick.
He smiled and got up. “I’ll tell you in a bit. But first. . .” He exited the room. A moment later, I could hear Sisters of Mercy playing on his stereo. He returned carrying a small tray with a bag of grass, a pipe and some matches.
“You smoke?”
I shook my head. His lips pressed together like he was suppressing a laugh. I frowned.
“My, my . . . you are innocent. Mind if I do?”
“It’s your home.” I watched him pack the pipe, light, and toke. He offered it to me and I accepted.
“Good. You may need something to boost your nerves after you hear what I got planned for you,” he grinned. “Just inhale . . . and hold,” he instructed. Soon, I got use to the earthy, grassy taste and was puffing like a pro.
Casey’s apartment, I discovered, was built on a hill and slanted upwards. His green carpet grew up the walls like a fuzzy fungus and colored spots sparkled and floated like little fireflies on a lawn.
“Don’t hog it, Sugar Pop,” he laughed, taking the pipe back.
“Sorry.” I made myself comfortable on the sofa and asked, “Where do your parents live, Casey?”
“In Louisiana,” he said, taking a toke. I was confused.
“So… how did you end up here alone?”
He didn’t say anything for a long time and it made me nervous. Finally, he spoke.
“I got into a little trouble in school back home. They thought it better if I come out here and live with my aunt rather than stay under their roof.”
He didn’t elaborate on what the “trouble” was, but I had to ask, “And where’s your aunt?”
“Cross town. Things got a little out of hand there too.”
Once again, no explanation. Casey’s puffing on the pipe became deeper and more frequent. He wasn’t looking at me but I’m sure he could feel my gaze on him.
“What about. . .” I began and then stopped before blurting out, “what about school? Did you graduate?”
Casey’s gaze slid in my direction along with the side of his mouth into an upward sly smile. “Yes, Evadne. I did. Not at the top of my class and not in person, but yes, I did.” He put down the pipe and leaned back into
the sofa. “I have plans, if that’s what you mean. Go to Barnes Business School, maybe.”
That answer surprised me and made me realize just how prejudiced and snobbish I was. I had never expected Casey to be the type to be interested in business school, or any school for that matter, but this entire summer had been an education in life for me and I was starting to resent the short leash my parents had me on for so long. Casey eyed me as he picked up the pipe for another drag.
“How old are you, Eva?”
I guess I had it coming. It was his turn to ask an awkward question. I take another sip of my wine cooler. “Eighteen.”
“Liar.”
“Yes I am!” Setting my glass down, I turned to him, eyelids narrowing in anger. “If you don’t believe me, why do you risk corrupting a minor with booze and pot?”
Casey’s eyes widened at the sharpness of my tone but then his eyes narrowed, piercing me with an electric blue gaze. “Corrupt’s a strong word, girl.” His voice dripped like thick honey as his forefinger traced circles on my arm. “If you were so scared, why’d you come to my apartment?”
He had me there. Although his eyes were glazed, they saw through my pretense. His steady breathing expanded his chest allowing me to see the muscles beneath his shirt. His nipples poked like tiny buttons beneath his cotton T-shirt and even I could tell this boy was aroused.
“Do you want to go home?” he asked.
I believe it was the mellowing effects of the grass we just smoked that made me climb on top of him to pin him by his shoulders and crush his mouth with mine. From that moment on I was driven by instinct and my desire made me want to rub my crotch against something . . . like the rising bulge in his jeans.
Casey once told me he used to be on the wrestling team at his high school in Baton Rouge. He was tall and beefy and suddenly I wondered if it applied to all of him. He sat up, making me straddle his lap, and pulled his tongue from my devouring mouth.
