Her parents were friends with his parents and so they were thrown together for bar-b-ques and poker games. The younger siblings went outside to play, but the two teens went straight into his bedroom and settled in for a night of pleasure.
He was older and knew what he was doing. She was ripe and ready for exploration. He was a good trusted friend who was both charming and suave.
His room was like a den: bed made up like a couch with lots of pillows, walls covered with books and tapestries, a state of the art stereo with a diamond needle. Turandot by Giacamo Puccini was playing on the turn table.
He offered her a glass of Coca Cola served with ice and a cherry and placed it on a red napkin. He had the same. They were reading the libretto in both Italian and English. He was pointing out some finer points in the translation and began conducting the stereo as if it was the orchestra itself.
As the strains of the music surrounded them in the little room, he taught her how to French kiss. He whispered sweet compliments about her face and form as his tongue darted in and out of her mouth. He tentatively cupped one of her breasts… and she was agreeable.
As the summer wore on with their parents in the next room, he took her through all of Puccini and most of Verdi. Their love making took another step and another until there was no where else to go but all the way. But she was content to pause in this state of perpetual foreplay listening to the pleasing music as he caressed her body and explored every orifice.
She was thankful. She could think of nothing more beautiful for a first experience than being loved in the presence of the great Italian operas. He set the stage for all the other lovers she had in her life. He gave her a romantic beginning for a life filled with love. She was thankful for The Gift.
(First published July 26, 2011)
