Toying With Her

by Prescott Lane

  “Think any of them will get the religion behind that quote?” she asks.

  Sterling was our valedictorian, beat me to the spot by the slightest percentage. But I didn’t care. Even then, I put her first. “I hope so.”

  “You love it,” Sterling says. “I can tell. Teaching? It suits you.”

  “Yeah, I do. I thought I’d be a doctor, with Levi and everything. Was pre-med. College required community service, and I was assigned to this inner-city school. Teacher didn’t show up one day, and they threw me into this classroom of kids who didn’t want to be there anymore than I did. And I just loved it. Pay sucks, but I can’t imagine not teaching.”

  We step out into the hallway together as the last of the students scatter. No other place on God’s green Earth clears out quicker than a high school after the last bell of the day. A small smile graces her pink lips, the replay of our high school years echoing in her eyes. Probably a few of the smells, too. Throw her cheerleader outfit on her, her hair in a ponytail, and she’s exactly the same.

  The two culprits from this morning come running down the hall, grinding to a halt when they see me, and trying to make a mad dash in the other direction. I snap my fingers. “Cafeteria! Wipe the tables and mop the floors.”

  “Our mom says you can’t make us clean.”

  The mother of the Quaid boys sits on the board and is a royal pain in the ass. “Want to scrub toilets instead?”

  “Who’s she?” the older brother asks. “New teacher, I hope.”

  “Miss Jamison is an alum,” I say.

  “As in Deacon Jamison’s daughter?” the younger brother snickers.

  Taking a couple steps towards them, I motion for them to get going then turn back to Sterling. “Sorry about that.”

  She shrugs, giving me the same tight smile she did the other day. I hate that one. “It’s okay. Should’ve known I’d be the subject of teenage boys’ fantasies given what I do.”

  Of course, I know what Sterling does for a living. Everyone knows. And everyone seems to have an opinion about it. Her eyes glance down. I scan the empty hallway, saying, “It’s okay. I know all about your vibrator.”

  The way I said it makes her giggle. “You wish,” she laughs.

  Leaning forward, I whisper, “I know you never needed one with me.”

  The green in her eyes explodes. “I don’t think I even knew what a vibrator was back then. I was only eighteen.”

  Gently, I curl a strand of her hair around my finger, my eyes watching the hair twirl around like it’s unwinding my memories of us. I swallow hard, my throat dry. “I’m damn proud of you.”

  “You are?”

  “Why wouldn’t I be?”

  “I don’t know. Most men feel threatened.”

  “That’s ridiculous,” I say. “It’s a toy.”

  “It’s a toy that’s more effective at getting a woman to climax than a man is,” she says. “That’s why they’re threatened.”

  “Then they need better skills,” I say, raising an eyebrow. “You’ve used it, right?”

  “What?”

  “You used your invention?”

  “Oh, my God, that’s none of your business.”

  “Of course you do. So you tell me. Is it better than being with a real live man?”

  “Depends on the man,” she says, and I imagine that’s completely the truth.

  “Okay, fair enough,” I say, leaning closer. “Is it better than the last man . . .” I shake my head. I can’t go there. I can’t think about her with someone else. I’ve got no problem thinking about her and her vibrator, but another man bothers me. “Better than me?”

  The look on her face is priceless. She can’t believe I went there, and I know she’s not going to answer me. But while she’s the same girl I remember, I am most definitely not the same chubby, shy boy she may remember.

  “We shouldn’t be talking about this here,” she says, her skin turning a soft pink.

  A loud shriek rings down the hall, “Sterling Jamison!”

  Some people just continue to live in high school, like this woman, who doesn’t have a kid at our school, but she’s been our cheerleading coach since before I can remember. But I can’t for the life of me ever remember her name. I think it’s because she’s one of those close talkers. The type that’s always just a little too close, and no matter how much you inch back, they just keep coming.

  That explains why Sterling is currently pinned up against the lockers. Sterling was a cheerleader, so that must be how they know each other, but not the reason this lady is yammering on and on about uniforms, pompoms, and summer cheer camps.

  “You know what we really need is a sponsor,” the close talker says.

  So that’s her game. She knows Sterling has money. Real subtle. Sterling gives that same tight smile.

  “Would you like my company to sponsor the girls?” Sterling asks.

  “Oh, no. I wasn’t hinting at that. I’m so embarrassed. No, we couldn’t possibly have your company associated with the girls. You understand?”

  Sterling nods, straightening her spine and forcing the woman back. “I do.” Sterling takes a few steps away, the panic in the close talker’s eyes shooting out.

  “But perhaps if it was anonymous?”

  Sterling raises her eyebrows and offers the close talker a wicked grin. “Why don’t you call my assistant? His name is Miles. I’ll leave word for him to take extra good care of you.” With that, her eyes shoot to me, begging for me to get her out of here.

  “Thank you!” the close talker shrills before practically skipping down the hallway.

  Once she’s out of earshot, I ask, “That happen a lot?”

  Giving me a little shrug, she says, “Miles will handle it.”

  “You’re actually going to give her money?”

  She chuckles. “I don’t recall promising money. Miles will be sending her an extra-large shipment of vibrators in our designer colors.”

  Laughing, we start to stroll the halls, reminiscing about teachers, our old classmates. I fill her in on who’s up to what. Small town, so we all know each other’s business. We talk about old times, what we’ve both been up to the last few years.

  I’ve kept up with her some through our parents, so I’d know if anything major happened, like marriage or kids. But I’m more than a little curious about boyfriends. More specifically, if she has one. I’m certainly not picking up a boyfriend vibe from her. And I think it’s a pretty safe bet that she’s not involved with someone, otherwise I seriously doubt she’d be spending the summer away.

  It’s so easy being together, like no time has passed at all. I guess that’s what it’s like with old friends. No matter how much time you spend apart, you can just fall back into that easy place with each other. I’m hoping the place she falls back into includes my bed.

  They say your personality is set by the time you’re five years old. I’ve known Sterling since we were at least that young, so no matter what she’s been doing, I know her. Who she really is.

  “My old locker,” she says, running her hands along the freshly painted metal.

  “Top locker,” I say. “You always had the luck.”

  She glances across the hallway. Our lockers were across from each other for four years. But those ten feet felt like miles. She was so out of my league. Sterling was always kind to me even though we ran in different circles, but it was my brother who she took a special interest in.

  Running my hand across the locker above mine, my eyes close. Damn, I still miss him.

  “Levi,” she whispers.

  Opening my eyes, I see her holding in tears. “You’d always leave him sticky notes on his locker. Sometimes two and three times a day,” I say. “Those damn pink heart sticky notes.”

  Smiling, she reaches into her purse, pulling out a stack. “I’m still addicted to them.”

  Exactly the same girl.

  The same girl that didn’t look at my brother’s bald head and tease him. The s
ame girl who left him stupid knock-knock jokes on pink heart sticky notes. The same girl who helped me bury my brother.

  She’s leaning up against her old locker, and I’m leaning up against mine. Only now the distance doesn’t seem so far. I could kick my own ass for letting her go before. I let the distance stop me, just like I let being shy stop me in high school. It’s been years since she’s been home, and this time I’m going to make sure nothing gets in our way.

  Two big steps, and I’m right in front of her, my eyes on her lips. “I should go,” she whispers. “Momma should be done working soon.”

  “Did she get a new job?” I ask.

  “Of course not, she’s been doing hair in her shop in our backyard since I can remember. Why would you ask that?”

  Shit, she doesn’t know. I wonder what else they haven’t told her.

  “Rorke,” she says softly. “Why would you ask that?”

  “Sterling, it’s not my place.”

  “I really need a friend, Rorke. I was hoping it would be you.”

  Fuck me twice! I step to her and graze her arm with my fingertips. “I think we’re more than friends.”

  She pulls away slightly, but not before her cheeks blush, and whispers, “Friends.”

  I groan inside. “Your mom closed her shop a while ago.”

  “But Momma does everyone’s hair.” She starts rattling off names of people in a frantic pace.

  “Talk to your mom and dad,” I say, and she nods. “You want me to come with you?”

  “No, I’m fine. I’ll see you later,” she says, walking down the hallway and out the door, leaving me in the friend zone.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  STERLING

  Opening the door to my mom’s shop, I find the lights are all off. The chairs stacked up, some stuff covered in sheets. It’s obvious no one’s been in here for a long while. I run my fingers across the station where my mom worked. This was her spot for as long as I can remember. I had a playpen here. I did my homework in here after school. Other kids had forts or tree houses in their backyard. I had my momma’s shop. The majority of the memories I have of my mother are in this space, that’s now covered in dust.

  I hear the screen porch door open, knowing Momma’s staring at me from the house. She knows I know. How can they have kept this from me? I know the answer. Why do parents do a lot of things? To protect their children.

  I walk across the yard, the rush of the Bay waves in the background. “Where’s Daddy?” I ask. “Church?”

  She doesn’t respond other than to take my hand. “Stop beatin’ around the bush.”

  “Why’d you close your shop?”

  She draws a deep breath and looks out into the blackness. “Sterling, it’s nothing. I didn’t want you to worry.”

  “Momma?”

  She takes my other hand, sitting me down on the porch swing with her. “I had a little stroke.”

  “Stroke!” She says it like it’s no big deal, like she’s telling me she has a hang nail. I didn’t think there were such things as little strokes. Suddenly, I’m sobbing, finding myself scanning her hands, her face—anything for a sign of her health. “Are you okay?”

  “Baby, I’m fine. The only side effect is a tiny bit of shaking in my left hand. Other than that, I’m fit as a fiddle.”

  “But what caused it? What did the doctor say? Did you see a neurologist? Is there medicine?”

  “Sterling,” she says gently, pulling me into her arms and using her foot to make the swing rock back and forth.

  How many nights did we spend out here exactly like this? There really is nothing like your momma’s arms. She starts to hum softly, her voice mixing with the wind and waves, creating a melody of peace. Being an only child, my parents have always been overly protective of me. I know that’s why they didn’t tell me, but I sense a shift happening. Soon enough, it will be my time to take care of them. They always wanted to give me everything, and I want to do the same for them. I know just what to do.

  “How’re my girls?” Daddy asks, stepping out onto the porch. Momma strokes my hair, giving him a little nod. They’ve been together so long they can speak without words. It only takes that one motion for Daddy to know she told me. “I see,” he says, grinning.

  “It’s not funny,” I say. “When did this happen?”

  He kneels in front of us, looking up at my momma. “About six months ago. Sugar, your momma is just fine. I promise you.” I give him a little nod. “Heard you were at the school today.”

  “How’d you hear that?”

  “Small town,” Momma says, laughing. “Knew you were there before you knew you were going. Nothing is secret here.”

  I get to my feet, teasing them. “Well, I’ve got a secret.”

  “Got anything to do with Rorke Weston?” Momma asks, raising her eyebrows. “That boy has turned into a handsome young man.”

  *

  I forgot how hot the South is in the summertime. Opening my bedroom window to let the night breeze come in, I know there’s another reason for the heat. My skin’s been on fire since Rorke mentioned us being together that night. I can’t believe he’d bring that up, after all these years. But what I can’t believe more is that it would make me feel like this—pent up and horny as all get out.

  People assume because I developed a vibrator that I just sit around and masturbate all day and night. But the truth is, I don’t. I never even use a vibrator anymore. That’s probably not the best thing to admit, but my product is so good, no man can live up to its standards. I worried that I was ruining my chance to ever have satisfying sex with a real live man, so I stopped using it. I’m cursing that decision now, because the only thing I want is to release some stress, to get off.

  I don’t hear any noise in the house. My parents must be asleep. But with no locks on my bedroom door, I better be sure. To be on the safe side, I keep my cotton nightgown on, slip off my panties and get under my sheets.

  Rorke’s question echoes in my brain. Better than me?

  The truth is, there’s not a man, a toy, or anything else for that matter, that is better than that one night I shared with him. What are the odds of having the best sexual experience of your life at eighteen, both virgins? I can’t explain it. And over the years, I’ve wondered if it was just my inexperience that made it seem so good. After all, I had nothing to compare it to. But seeing him again, I know it wasn’t.

  But I meant it when I said I wanted to be his friend. It’s better that way. One of the unforeseen consequences of developing a sex toy is that relationships with men just don’t work out for me. It’s better for everyone this way.

  But that doesn’t mean I can’t have this little fantasy. At eighteen, he was as inexperienced as I was, maybe even more. But what he lacked in knowledge, he made up for in pure desire.

  Pulling down my nightgown slightly, I stroke the hot skin of my breasts, remembering when Rorke first reached for me. The way his strong hands felt caressing me, like he was touching something forbidden, like a work of art in a museum that’s there to be admired but not touched. That’s what I was to him, and even at that tender age, I knew it. But I didn’t know he’d ruin me for every other man. That no man would ever make me feel that revered again.

  This time, when my breasts hit the night air, I don’t tremble like I did then. My nipples peak, and I close my eyes, licking my finger. His tongue circled and sucked softly at first. Boys were usually rough and rushed, but not Rorke. My body was his shrine, his place to worship. His kiss, the tender nibbles, both creating a deep ache between my thighs. I’d never felt it before when a boy touched me. It almost hurt, this deep need to feel him.

  “Rorke,” I whisper into my empty bedroom, just like I whispered it into his ear that night.

  My hand slips lower.

  His kiss meandering down my flesh.

  There is nothing that could’ve prepared me for the first feel of his tongue between my legs. I’d heard about oral sex, but mostly about the “bad”
girls who did those things. I was a deacon’s daughter, raised a certain way, but I didn’t care. All I knew was if this was bad, then I never wanted to be “good” again. Now he’s got a slight stubble on his face that I know would just add to my pleasure.

  My legs spread wider in my bed, my finger mimicking the movements of his tongue over me. I credit Rorke with teaching me everything I know about a woman’s orgasm, that it doesn’t come from one place. The most powerful and best orgasms are a whole-body experience. You can’t ignore any part. The clit is great, but the lips are just as important. And Rorke worked it all.

  I remember the wave of heat flashing over me, my first orgasm sending my entire body trembling. “How’d you learn how to do that?” I asked him.

  “I think I was made to love you,” he whispered.

  “Can you do it again?” I teased, not really expecting him to slip back down between my legs.

  But he did.

  And I did.

  My fingers start moving faster between my legs, and I’m desperate to get there, to find release, the rush of memories feeding my desire. Rorke would’ve been content to bring me to orgasm over and over again that night. We’d already crossed a line, so why stop there? Somewhere inside me, I knew this was how I wanted to lose my virginity—with Rorke.

  We did more together that night than many couples do in years. He pleased me, I pleasured him. He was on top. I was on top. He took me standing up. I took him sitting down. It was one night of pure bliss.

  Nothing compares to that first moment, the feel as he lingered at my entrance, his eyes studying my face so intently. The way my body stretched, making room for him. The slow way he pushed himself into me. The look of pure, raw pleasure on his face, like I was watching his greatest dream coming true. The way our awkward teenage bodies seemed to know just how to move together.

  Stuffing my pillow over my face, a flash of heat washes over me. His name falls from my lips, carried out by the bay breeze.

  *

  RORKE

  Hammering the nail with one hard pound, I mutter, “Friends?”

  That should be a cuss word, especially coming out of her full, pink lips. I toss the hammer aside, scanning the mostly-converted barn. Yep, I live in a barn. Well, not any barn. The barn where Sterling and I lost our virginity. I know just the spot. It’s the spot where my bed is now.