The Deceptive Visage of Youth: A True Story of Perceiving Innocence Where None Exists

Because so many of the stories I’ve posted recently have been slightly romanticized, I decided to share a memory of which I am particularly ashamed.

Also, before anyone accuses me of horrible things, this is a story from several years ago, when I was still a young’un myself, before I had come to terms with my relationship and sexual issues.  Abigail and I were only a few years apart in age.  (Remember, I’m still in my 20s.)

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It’s just past 2:00 a.m. when I put my car into neutral and kill the engine.  I’m parked across the street from a small house in the suburbs.  I’ve never seen it before, but the address matches the number scrawled across my left palm.  The lights are off and no activity is obvious from my vantage point, suggesting the occupants have gone to bed.  Satisfied, I climb out of my car and gently close the door.  I shove my hands into my jacket and walk hastily toward the short gated fence surrounding the property.  Sure enough, the lock is open.

“You shouldn’t be doing this,” I mutter as I let myself in.

I walk around to the back of the house, keeping close to the wall and ducking beneath each window, just in case someone has decided to get up for any reason.  I narrowly avoid knocking over a child’s sit-in toy truck as I make my way toward the air conditioning unit positioned a few yards from the patio.  A dim light shines through the window beside it.

“You really shouldn’t be doing this,” I repeat to myself.  I tap the window pane lightly with my knuckles and wait.  A few seconds pass, and I consider knocking again before a face appears at the window.  It slides open quietly.

“Thought you got lost,” Abigail whispers wryly.

“Almost did.”  I grip the sill and hoist myself up, through the open window and into the darkened room.  It takes my eyes a brief moment to adjust, and I find myself in what I can best describe as a kid’s bedroom.  The walls are painted light blue and decorated with various posters and art boards.  The floor is cluttered with clothes and other sundries, and the chest of drawers displays several photographs of happy young people, laughing and gallivanting as only young people can.  The only clear space is the twin bed pressed against the far corner of the room.  The decor has a very innocent feel to it, which only reinforces the wrongness of the situation to me.

“Not quite what I had expected,” I say as I take in my surroundings.

“Yeah, my parents never changed my room after I moved out,” Abigail responds.  I feel her hand on my bicep, and I turn to face her.

I’ve never seen Abigail outside of the uniform we both wear for our part-time job.  It’s an unflattering uniform that masks your body shape in loose folds and dark colors.  Now, standing in front of me in a light pink baby tee and white pajama pants, I can see she still has the unusual slenderness of youth, her frame lacking any curvature apart from the small mounds of her breasts.  Seeing her like this now, I can’t believe she’s 19.  She looks younger.  Much younger.  Closer to 16.  Her youthful appearance is reinforced by naturally blonde curls framing a face best described as cherubic–slightly chubby cheeks; light, flawless skin painted with freckles; and wide, doe-like brown eyes.

You shouldn’t be doing this, I think to myself.  You still have time to back out.  But my body doesn’t listen, and I place my hands lightly on her non-existent hips.

Abigail kisses me abruptly.  It’s a sloppy thing, not overly wet, but poorly executed, with too much pressure and none of the jaw movement one associates with a good kiss.  It’s amateurish, and I can’t get into it, but I try, for both our sakes.  Fortunately, I only have to pretend for twenty seconds or so, when she suddenly breaks the kiss and steps away from me.  She unceremoniously removes her pajamas, making no show of it whatsoever.

“You like?”  She puts her hands on her hips and stands proudly before me, totally nude and completely hairless.  Christ she looks young.  So young it makes my stomach turn into an uncomfortable knot.  I want to tell her to put her clothes back on, to just sit and talk with me for a while, or to go on a walk, or something, anything innocent.

Instead, I close the space between us, grab her about the waist, and toss her onto the bed.  She bounces and gasps, and her angelic features suddenly take on a more primal visage as she bites her lip, lying back and waiting for me.  I strip off my shirt as I approach the bed, and she wrestles with my belt unsuccessfully.  I help her along, and with my assistance she finally slips my jeans down.  I move toward the foot of the bed, prepared to go down on her first, but Abigail grabs my shoulders and pulls me on top of her.

“No, just do me,” she says.

I press myself against her and find her surprisingly wet.  Abigail is incredibly tight–definitely not virginal, but close, and despite her physical preparedness, several long moments pass before I am finally able to slip inside of her.  She gasps again, and her face tightens into a brief grimace.  We take our time, working her into it gently, and soon she is rocking her body smoothly and steadily in time with my own.  Because of her tightness, rather than pound into her, I keep my length as fully inside her as I can, a difficult proposition given that I can’t enter her completely without impacting her cervix, and even then I’m still an inch or more longer than she is deep.  But we make the most of it, rotating our hips in opposite circular motions as best we can.

I want it to feel good.  And physically speaking, it does.  Abigail’s body is supple and whip-like, with the resilience and flexibility of a sapling pine, and whatever lack of skill she displayed in the kiss is more than made up for in her sexual technique.  She touches my back lightly, tracing my spine and sending shivers throughout my body.  She kisses and licks my chest, massages the side of my neck, rubs her foot along the side of my ass and thigh.  She engages her whole body in fucking me, and I am enveloped in a complete sensory experience–the sound of her breath and whispers, the salty taste of her flesh, the smell of sweat and body, the feel of our skin and her tightness, and the sight of her beneath me, her back arched, chest out, eyes closed tightly in pleasure.

But as good as it feels, I know what I’m doing is wrong.  She is a nice girl, but she doesn’t mean anything more than that to me.  She knew that coming into this, but I can’t help feeling that I am using her, and her younger-than-she-looks appearance makes me feel even more depraved.  My stomach continues twisting into knots, but that doesn’t stop us from fucking each other for hours.

Abigail is exhausted and sprawls in her bed, physically spent, and I dress in silence while she sleeps.  I let myself out through the window, return to my car, and drive home.  It’s just after 6:00 a.m. when I arrive.  Ashley is sleeping soundly, and rather than wake her, I crack open a beer and sit on the porch.  The first hint of light has begun to creep over the horizon, and I stare at it, considering the evening’s events with equal amounts of distaste, guilt, and excitement.

“What the fuck is wrong with you,” I mutter into my beer as I watch the sun rise.