Turning the corner from home, no one knew where I was, where I was going, or where I had been when I returned. I loved my new independence.With my own car, I provided family transportation and drove Mom shopping but stayed in the car and listened to the radio if she went to the grocery to avoid food stamp stigma. I drove her to work, parked the Desoto at her hotel and I walked to school. No longer did we wait for a bus, endure its frequent stops and comingle with other riders. My one-year younger brother got his driver’s license in the Desoto with me as an instructor. Its automatic shift meant he didn’t learn to drive manual shift and I retained a smug driver’s superiority over him.Dad made us park on the street so he could park in the garage. Thereafter the front of our house was cluttered with our cars, typically with my brother’s '52 Chevy in some state of disrepair. None of us bothered with car insurance.With the Desoto, I blossomed into school popularity but retained only my one. She flipped over on her back without hesitation, however, because it was in this position that the delicious, dangerous game became especially interesting.He started dutifully on the fronts of her thighs. Gloria grew impatient, waiting for the upward strokes that would approach her sex. She waited for his hand to press between her thighs to bid her open them. She considered opening them on her own, but did not because that would negate a crucial part of the game. She closed her eyes and let him do it all, of course. She enjoyed the slow approach, the anticipation, and the recall of times it had happened before. There was a droplet of sweat on her forehead and it ran down her temple; her breathing was rapid. His stroking with the rolling pin was probing higher—near that precious triangle that made everything happen. She was excited—she could smell her excitement; Raul could certainly smell it, too, but she didn't care. He touched her, tentatively; she let it spur her expectation of.
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