Teenage Booty Sluts - Sex Stories

Teenage Booty Sluts

Barely legal..." "But dressed to impress all the same..." "Cool outfit." Yeah, right. Most families spend July 4 slouched around the barbecue pit passing wind. Mine spend it sprawled around a photo album, passing comment, and while I can't say I've ever contributed much to the conversation... I've certainly never brought one of my own albums along for inspection... it's hard not to get sucked into the occasion. Especially when cousin Margie is around, with half your own teenaged years in glowing Kodachrome. Gary, her husband, tore his eyes away from the television. "Hey, I remember that outfit," he laughed. And, a little later, as we made our way into the dining room to eat, he sidled up to me again. "I remember what happened to it, as well." I smiled. Well, he had a better memory than I did. "Really? It probably ended up in a charity store somewhere." "Yeah. And Monica Lewinsky bought it." It took me a moment, but... oh. My. God. Suddenly I remembered what had happened to it, too, and the only saving grace, as my face turned cranberry color, was that he and Margie barely knew one another at the time. Whereas he and I had been study hall buddies back in High School, and still occasionally came across one another in town. Literally, as it turned out. Barely legal, but dressed to impress. I was working my way through my freshman year at college, shut up in a downtown insurance brokers, mindlessly typing my way through the reams of documentation that the most innocent ...

... fender-bender spontaneously created, and wishing every day away, not because I had anything to do at night, but because I hated that job with a passion. So when Gary turned up in the office one day, a motorcycle messenger who viewed his job with only marginally more urgency than I viewed mine, it wasn't exactly a wrench to put my thoughts of premiums and deductibles to one side, and catch up on what we'd been doing since graduation. Which took all of thirty seconds, so we moved on to more engrossing topics and, by the time my boss came out to see how I was getting on with the Harrison claim, we'd already set up a lunch date for the next day, and a gig for the weekend as well. It was the gig where it happened. Shit, I don't even remember the band we were seeing, one of those early Noughties alt rock whiners that would have one singalong hit and then disappear. I do know that we were dancing all evening, though, and I also know - ah, but I'm getting ahead of myself. Let's go back to the beginning of the night. We met outside the club. It's not there anymore, the building was razed about five years ago, to make way for another one, all ugly and new. Lunch had gone well, but it was tentative and nervous; maybe it was the crowd and the noise in the bar, but our conversation was hesitant, punctuated with so many "sorry, I didn't hear you"s that it was almost a relief to go back to work. There wouldn't be any better opportunities for conversation tonight, of course, but that didn't seem to ...