Dear Caroline,
You know, I always tried to remain faithful to you. Don't know why, as things turned out. But such was my way in those days. I tried and I succeeded in limiting my sexual activities to our bedroom (or backyard on that one occasion). It wasn't too hard to do, because you had a slight kinky streak which put it all over the top. All the times we made up stories to tell each other while locked in the throes of passion...stories about possibilities. My tale of you being with multiple partners always seemed to elicit a more vigorous grinding on your behalf. Your stories of swingers and perverts brought me to the brink of orgasm on countless occasions. It wasn't until you mentioned a real person's name in conjunction with a fantasy you were entertaining that I got scared. All talkin', no walkin' for me. I don't guess it was the same for you. Or maybe it was just that I didn't approve of this particular person you wanted to bring in to the party. Probably not, though. I was unprepared to embark upon the depraved, immoral, unclean path you eventually chose. Look what it got you! Frank!
But I never committed adultery. At least not with you. And I wouldn't have done it against ANYONE were it not for those two gals who were impressed with my band. I tried my best to resist. I wouldn't have done it, I swear, if it had been only one of them. But the prospect of a threesome was too powerful to resist. A situation made even more attractive by the sheer volume of THC that was coursing through my veins in a mad dash to kill a few brain cells. It was a short hop, skip and jump to their house, where the pipe was produced. If there's one thing I like about marijuana, it's how the stuff settles you in to really enjoy sex. Plus, I don't know if it was the dope or the responsibility of pleasing two women, but my endurance was incredible that night. I got about an hour out of it, as compared to my usual 3 minute rut.
Sorry. You don't need to know that. It wasn't what I was writing for anyway. I was wanting to fill in a few details you may have forgotten (or never known) about the closest I came to messing around on you (uh...pretty close, if we're calling it "messing around", but you know what I mean).
I was playing in a rock band...it was the first time I'd had a chance to play that kind of music, so I was happy about it. Plus, I was the one who put the whole thing together, so that made me the "leader" of the band. With such power comes such satisfaction. I did a damn good job of it, too. I love to give orders. I can't abide anyone telling me I should "do it this way" or "do it that way". They're almost always wrong. Better to let me lay down the various laws than to let the project suffer from bad decisions which would invariably made if I didn't exercise my authority. It doesn't matter if they offer good ideas sometimes. Dismiss 'em. That's all you can do. If you realize they really are good ideas (and I can't help but do so, since I'm so in tune with what's best for the band) then you put 'em on the backburner until the person who suggested it has forgotten. Then you pull 'em back out and call them your own. That, my friend, will get the job done.
Anyway, some of the ideas I had about this band were incredibly good. The decision to play Devo's "Whip It", for instance. Everybody loves "Whip It", right? It's not really a hard song to play. So why wasn't anyone else in the tri-state area playing it? I'll tell you why...because none of those bands had a leader with such prescient vision as yours truly.
Another song I chose for us, "Centerfold" (as made popular by the J Geils Band), proved to be a real crowd pleaser. They especially liked the part in the song where I produced a copy of Playboy, held it up so that the centerfold would fall out, and then sang the last verse with a perfectly frightening sense of lechery. Hard enough to pull off such theatrics, made even more difficult by having to do it while playing the bass guitar. I swear to God I don't know how the hell I did it. But I did, and they ate that shit up like honey.
Then there was the most controversial decision I made for the group. I let "The Funk Daddy" stand on stage with us and pretend to play the synthesizer. Truth was he couldn't play any instrument at all. He had absolutely no musical talent whatsoever. But damn did he look cool standing there in his New Wave get-up...he looked like he was playing, and as far as I was concerned, that was enough. A band got a little more serious attention in those days if they were more than just a guitar-drums-bass trio. A synth was a basic requirement if you wanted to be taken seriously. Nobody said the synth guy actually had to be PLAYING, right?
So he was with us the day we played a Pep Rally at a school that was too small to have their own band...and they were fine with it, especially since they were to be entertained by an ass-kicking rock band that, gasp, actually had a synth player.
The show went well, for what it was. They might as well have been a captive audience. They loved everything we did, everything we said, the whole she-bang (especially when the Playboy was produced from out of nowhere). The boys were rockin' hard. The girls, however, were thinking of more than just "rockin' hard". There was a love light shining brightly in the eyes of practically every female in the house. To my surprise, few of them were trained on Funk Daddy. I was blown away that they were actually gazing at me with doe-eyed invitations to invade their virgin worlds.
The choice was mine to make...I suppose that's one of the perks that come with being a natural born leader.
Now, normally I do not like cheerleaders. I can't stand their routines. I can't stand the snobbishness that characterizes so many of them. I can't stand the way it's so important to them that they neglect things that really matter. I don't like the perceived social status that they believe cheerleading confers upon them.
But most of all I just hate the way every single one of them want nothing to do with me. Until that day...and maybe it was BECAUSE of this that I chose a fiery little sprite of a girl who just happened to be wearing a cheerleader's get-up.
Oh, man. She was really cute. I struck up a conversation with her and my suspicion was confirmed: this little girl wanted to know me better. She wanted to know what my dreams were. She wanted to know my hopes and my ambitions. She wanted to know where I came from and where I was going. She wanted to know if there was a place in my life for one such as her. Most of all, she wanted to know what my cock felt like in her hand.
My answers to those last two questions:
1. No
2. Play your cards right and you may find out tonight.
I knew, would go to the game that night and to the homecoming dance that followed. I told the guys in the band what was going down. I begged them to come with me to the game later. They all declined/chickened out. I looked at them with disbelief and they returned a gaze of scorn and disgust (they knew I was married, and that explains that). Fuck 'em, then. Right? It's as if they were starving and someone gave them a cornucopia of food...and they refuse it. Idiots.
When the time had come I got into my tight blue jeans and slipped on my black Talking Heads long sleeve t-shirt (it was a little nippy). If anyone in that little school doubted the breadth of my hipness, they would have to concede when they took one look at my "The Name of the Band is Talking Heads" tour shirt. It was one cool motherfucker, that's for sure.
The trip to the game was uneventful, unless you count the huge, ever-growing erection that pressed my ying/yang against the tightness of the jeans I was wearing. The prospect of the myriad possibilities of the situation had me in a state of arousal I had not experienced since first seeing Linda Blair in "Born Innocent". It was a very real concern of mine that the "moment" would occur before I even arrived at my destination. So I cleared my mind of the erotic fantasies I was entertaining and fixed my thoughts on Nancy Reagan. When this only seemed to further the intensity of my excitement I tried real hard to meditate on the mental image of Madonna. That seemed to work, so I put 'er in overdrive and motivated towards the football field.
I tried not to betray my negative feelings for cheerleaders in general as I watched her try real hard to get the apathetic crowd into it. It was easy to conceal those awful notions when I noticed that she had her eye on me almost the whole time. When a break came she would climb up the bleachers to sit with me. I didn't have to say anything. I was already in the door. She seemed too sweet to even consider deflowering. At least not that night. Maybe later down the road.
The game came to a conclusion with the home team losing. Yet, even in the midst of such sorrow and disappointment there were many, many players and other students who came up to me and praised my band's performance. Some worshipped me because of the leader I am. Others were jealous that I had this fine looking cheerleader on my are. Not a single one knew that I was a married man. Some secrets, I learned, are best kept that way. They all asked, "Are you coming to the dance?" To which my response was a leering glance at cheerleader babe, a knowing look returned to them, a wicked smile and a smirk that let them know that I had a plan. "Hell yeah!" they said. "I should have known! I guess I'll see you there."
The dance was actually quite fun. I had not enjoyed the dances at my Jr. & Sr. proms...basically because I couldn't find anyone to go with me that didn't look like a pit bull with tits. The tits were the only reason I even bothered to go. And they were nice tits.
I danced with cheerleadin' hottie on almost every song. Popular boys would step up to us and ask to cut in. She looked offended and said, "No!" I would look at the guy with sincere compassion, knowing how difficult it must have been to attempt to cut in on a superstar such as myself. Before I felt too sorry for him, I told him to fuck off and die. I didn't have time for this bullshit. I wanted to get what I came for and get the hell out of Dodge.
My expectations for this night were really not high. I wanted to get a good feel of this girl before making the decision to give her the dynamite. It very well could be a week or two before that decision would be made, because there were just too many angles, too many aspects, too many things that could go wrong. So it was not without caution that I approached this initial session. Besides, as much as I thought I despised Madonna, it turns out that her image in my mind nevertheless has the power to make me squirt in my pants. It was a good thing I had taken a spare pair with me. I'd originally hoped to change into them at the end of the night instead of the beginning. It turned out for the best, though, as I became even more convinced that she was an apple not quite ripe enough to bite into. It wouldn't be long, not tonight.
We drove around town for a minute or two in my sweet Chevy Nova with the Pioneer stereo, the graphic equalizer and the JBL speakers pumping Duran Duran. I'd just bought "Rio" a week before and it was fast becoming a favorite (which says a lot about the dismal state of the music industry that year). Cheerleader liked it a lot, too. If she didn't, she'd still say she did. It was the soundtrack to a very special night in her life, for I could tell that, even though I planned on taking it slow, she was hoping and praying to get her hymen busted by a rock star. She knew I was the closest she would ever come, so it's understandable that she would get worked up over it. Her virginity was definitely on the line. She was ready to present it to me like a gift wrapped present beneath the Xmas tree. Free of charge. No red tape. No hassles or commitments...the only thing she expected in return for this treasure was permission to spread the news to everyone in town. Unfortunately the request backfired when her father finally heard the news (which was not very long afterwards, I assure you).
I mentioned that we drove around for a minute or two. That was plenty of time to see what the town had to offer. Plenty of time to SEE THE TOWN 2 or 3 times. So we parked in front of an old gas station that had been closed down for ages. It was nice and dark. The only light visible was from the stereo that I left on, in hopes that we'd still be pitching woo by the time "Hungry Like The Wolf" came on.
Wound up hearing "Hungry Like The Wolf" a couple of times, as it turned out. In the cramped confines of my automobile I managed to get a good idea of her bra size and she found out the answer to her question about how my penis would feel in her grasp. She seemed to like it. At least she did when she could actually hold it all in her hand. If there's anything bigger than my ego, it's my ju-ju.
The only problem (and it was a serious one, IMO) was her mouth. Do you remember in my previous letter where I mentioned how dry your sister's pussy was? Well, cheerleader's mouth was every bit as dry, maybe even more. Cottonmouth to a degree I had not witnessed until I started smoking pot. I dunno, she may have been a swell kisser. I couldn't get over the arid dryness of her tongue, her upper palate, the sides of her mouth, every nook and cranny I could reach with my Gene Simmons-esque tongue (though I did purposefully avoid her uvula).
Still, she was too fuckin' gorgeous. Too cute for words. Now that I think back on it, she was also too young to be daydreaming about a man of my age. As the night darkened she asked me to take her home. She showed me how to get there, all the while snuggling up against my side, her angel's face illuminated by the dashboard light's glow. I knew that the dry mouth situation could not have been the usual state of affairs, and I looked forward to exploring her mouth and tasting her spit at a later date.
But, as you surely remember, I became increasingly guilty as the days went by. It was so hard to lie to you. I knew I wouldn't be able to do it for long. I also kind of figured you wouldn't mind so much what with all our epic love-making storytelling.
I confessed. I told you everything I thought was necessary to tell you. I felt like shit. I was glad to get it off my chest, even though it hadn't been there long enough to really matter. You were a little pissed, I remember. I slept on the couch for a few nights...that's fairly typical punishment for a transaction so relatively minor. I didn't fuck her, okay? So what if I'd hoped to? So what if I WOULD HAVE eventually, assuming that she do something about the dry mouth. But I DIDN'T. That is what counted.
You told me not to see her anymore. Actually I think your words were more like, "If I even catch you THINKING about that slut I'll take everything you own and leave you!" I didn't think you would ever do that (this assumption was proven wrong just a couple of years later when you did just that). But it seemed reasonable. My enthusiasm about an affair with cheerleader babe waned considerably (only to re-emerge at a later date when it became increasingly evident that you may not have been altogether serious in your threats). My interest in her was temporarilly curtailed by your objections.
My interest in cottonmouth cheerleader was PERMANENTLY curtailed a few days later when I got a phone call from her father. I don't know how he got the phone number of the place I was staying. I don't know how much he knew about what went down. Most importantly, I didn't know how serious he was about confronting me with a shotgun if ever there came a time he found out I was within shooting distance of his daughter. At first I thought he may have been angry because she had become like this hardcore radical Duran Duran fan in the days since our rendesvouz. I was a little slow on the intake at that point, but looking back I would probably rightly assume that he was more concerned with her virginity than she was (definitely moreso than I was). He spoke with such authority that I had no choice but to take him seriously. Not only that he was pissed, not only that he had a shotgun, but, more importantly, that he would, without a second thought, use it.
I never told you about that phone call. No doubt you think that your ultimatum was successfully responsible for putting an end to the affair. It was not. She may well have been worth breaking up a marriage, but she was definitely NOT worth taking a bullet in the gut for.
Okay, now you know. If only you were reading these letters. I would love to find out if you were as "faithful" to me as I to you. I know this: you would never have confessed, and I would not know, even to this day. I have my ideas. One of these days I might just elaborate on those ideas.
Until then,
Love,
Orenthio
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