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From: Passing4human <bardPbick1@airmail.net>
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X-ASSTR-Original-Date: Mon, 07 Oct 2002 18:43:34 -0500
Subject: {ASSM} Handiwork (MF nosex voy "1st")
Date: Mon,  7 Oct 2002 23:10:02 -0400
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--
All comments and criticisms welcome. To Email me, get the lead out.

Note: This story was inspired by a letter years ago to Ann Landers.
Ann's correspondent, a long-haul trucker, said that from the cab of his
truck he had a clear view into cars and was stunned by some of the
things people did when they thought nobody could see...

<1st attachment, "Handiwork.doc" begin>

This is not the story of how I lost my virginity - that was still
several years in the future - but rather the first time I became
aware of myself sexually.

I was fourteen years old and living in Fort Worth. Our eighth
grade class had chartered a bus and taken an all-day field trip
to Austin, the state capitol. There, we did the usual field-trip
things: touring the state capitol building with the gouge on the
floor of the rotunda, the result (depending on who was telling
the tale) of either a suicidal visitor or a careless workman; the
Texas Memorial Museum on the University of Texas campus; the
Treaty Oak, an enormous live oak tree in downtown Austin where
settlers and Indians supposedly negotiated their differences.

And now it was 5:30 P.M. and we were northbound on I-35, heading
home. I was sitting by myself on the right-hand side of the bus,
staring out the window and looking in vain for something more
interesting than barbed-wire fences and litter. As we crossed the
Williamson county line I became aware of a sub-compact sedan,
which had been pacing the bus for some while. My fertile and
bored imagination offered wild explanations for its presence.
Kidnappers plotting to seize us and demand ransom! Russian spies
intent on ferreting out the secrets of America's charter busses!
The most likely explanation, however, was that the driver sought
relief from the 90+ degree heat and found it in the bus's
shadow.

Looking down, I had a clear view into the car's interior. The
driver was a man; I could just see his beard. The car's other
occupant, a woman with bracelets and painted nails, was curled up
next to him asleep. Both wore cutoffs and T-shirts, the only
sensible attire for Texas, even in October.

The man was tapping his fingers on the steering wheel in time to
music from radio or tape. Din din DAH, din din DAH - I thought I
recognized the music, Queen's 
_We Will Rock You_, and a moment later I was certain - ... Din
din DAH, din din DAH "...You got blood on your face/A big
disgrace/Wavin' your banner all over the place." I liked Queen a
lot, and found myself humming along. The driver next tapped along
with _'39_, another of my favorites; he'd created his own
compilation tape and I regarded him as a kindred soul. He began
tapping out what might have been _Keep Yourself Alive_, when the
woman woke up and stretched. The man turned his head, they
exchanged a bit of conversation. He arched his back, stretching
stiff muscles. Then he laid his hand on the woman's leg just
above her knee, gave her a friendly squeeze, and began slowly
moving his hand upwards towards the hem of her shorts, his
fingers lightly dancing along the inside of her thigh. She began
playfully swatting at the hand   Eek! Sex fiend!   but it
continued its relentless advance until it reached her shorts,
where the fingertip played with the ragged edge of her shorts
leg. She delivered a mock final blow with her fist. The hand
flipped on its back, shuddered in its death throes, and lay
still, as the woman's index and middle fingers did a victory jig
on her slain assailant.

What did my classmates think of these goings-on, I wondered?
There was no eager clustering of gawkers on this side of the bus,
no ribald comments; the show was mine and mine alone. So much the
better, because Act II was now beginning.

The hand, only feigning death, abruptly grabbed the woman's hand
and held it palm down against her thigh, her fingers slowly
bowing and stretching like prey resigned to its fate. But instead
of exulting over its prize, the man's index finger began
massaging the woman's index and middle fingers, which had spread
slightly apart. They spread farther still as the fingertip ran
slowly, lazily, along their inner sides, drew a playful circle
around each joint, then reached the webbing between the fingers.
There it gently but firmly massaged the valley between the
knuckles, toyed with the web itself, and teased the sensitive
skin right around the web. Instead of evading this new assault,
however, the woman's fingers slowly curled and stretched, now in
unison, now separately, as her hand slowly moved against her
thigh. Once, her fingers briefly gripped the man's fingertip,
then released it and resumed their movements, which seemed to be
growing more urgent. I watched all this, puzzled but also vaguely
uneasy. The woman seemed uneasy too, shifting about in her seat,
her other hand rubbing her right thigh. Finally the first joints
of her fingers, pincer-like, grabbed the man's finger and held it
tightly. She laid her right hand over the back of the man's hand,
holding him firmly for a moment before releasing him. She was
still for a moment, then I saw brownish-red hair in a ponytail -
my first and only glimpse of the woman herself   as she leaned
across the seat and gave the man a lingering kiss on the side of
his neck. She then took his right hand in her left and held it,
lightly.

I was smiling at this more conventional display of affection,
when she circled her fingers around the base of his thumb, than
began slowly moving her hand, up, down, up down, along his thumb,
squeezing. At first I couldn't figure out what she was doing.
Then my face flamed red, I dry swallowed, and other parts of me
became hard as I suddenly realized *exactly* what she was doing,
and now had a real good idea of what the man had been doing
earlier, too. I watched, embarrassed and fascinated, as she
continued pumping his thumb, which now pointed straight up. She
was massaging it more quickly now, her fingers squeezing the body
of his thumb as the tip of hers firmly rubbed the pad, the
thumbnail, the sides of the tip. If what she was doing affected
me like this, what was it doing to that poor lucky guy behind the
wheel? I could guess; the car, whose movement until now had been
almost perfectly in step with our bus's, had now begun moving
ever so slightly erratically in its course. 

We were approaching Temple now, and the car suddenly peeled away
from the bus and cutting across lanes to get to the FM 1670 exit.
There was a McDonalds and a Motel 6 near the interstate and
somehow I didn't think they were after Big Macs and Dr. Pepper.
The car's taillights retreated and finally vanished for good in
the evening darkness.

Still breathing fast and sweating, I moved over to the aisle seat
where there was more air-conditioning, closed my eyes, and tried
to cool down. It was helping a little, and I was trying to get
the images out of my head, when I was interrupted.

"Hi." 

I opened my eyes with a start and saw Pam Haskell standing in the
aisle in front of me. "Did I wake you up?"

"No, I was just resting my eyes. Too much sun."

"Yeah, you look kinda red. Sunburned?"

"Uh, yeah, a little."

She clucked reprovingly. "You should've put on sunscreen, now
you'll probably die of skin cancer". 

Pam lived a few streets over from me. We'd known each other for
years, both in school and out of it; this year we were in English
and History together. And even though I'd known her for as long
as I could remember, now it was as if I were seeing her for the
first time. She had deep-set dark brown eyes under thick black
eyebrows, but why should that be so fascinating now? And her
black, wavy hair, falling down her back; I'd seen it almost every
day since I was five, so why was I wondering now how it would
feel in my hands, flowing between my fingers? 

My musings were interrupted by the sound of sirens as an
ambulance entered the interstate, closely followed by a fire
truck. Pam said  "Cool", and squeezed over and past me (!!!) to
sit in the window seat and look out. As the emergency vehicles
rushed ahead of the bus she looked over her shoulder at me. "Ever
notice how they always send out an ambulance and a fire truck
together? *I* think spontaneous human combustion is a lot more
common than the authorities are willing to admit." She grinned
and turned back to the window. 

As I studied Pam I continued noticing things about her. The fact
that there was now a small but enchanting swell in the front of
her blouse. The way her jeans were noticeably wider at the hips
and rounder in the seat than they had been. I also noticed that
she was about two inches taller than me. But I also knew,
somehow, that this would only be temporary and that I wasn't
finished growing taller, any more than she was finished growing
more...not girl-like, but womanly. I then saw something else: Pam
wasn't looking out the window, she was looking *at* the window.
More accurately, she was looking at my reflection in the window
and had seen the way I'd been watching her. Her reflection was
smiling at me, her leg was close enough to mine that I could feel
her warmth, her hand was resting casually on her thigh about 3/16
of an inch from mine, and whenever the bus hit a bump my hand
brushed against hers. My reflection smiled back at her.

We sat there side by side, pretending to watch the darkening
landscape. Two fourteen year olds in a bus full of their
classmates: the love that dare not speak its name. And although I
was sure we'd get to know each other better - and differently -
than before, I wouldn't have dared predict that in five years,
almost to the day, I would be looking up into those same deep
brown eyes as they looked into mine while their owner took my
virginity. Which was only fair, because I was taking hers at the
same time, and if you want to know what that's like go arrange
your own wedding night. 

But for now we just sat there next to each other, and when it was
finally dark and private enough, I reached my hand out to her and
found her hand doing the same.


<1st attachment end>


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-- 
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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