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{For one of my very favoritest Canadians…}


Meg looked around the room and listened to stories of the glory days of high school and how often they’d dropped by to visit old friends, teachers they’d liked and so on. Meg had no such fond memories. Odd little geeky girls like she’d been didn’t wax nostalgic for high school. They left town right after graduation and didn’t look back.

The D.J. was playing Motown. She listened. “My Girl” wafted from huge speakers on either side of the gym, tangled up in the crepe paper streamers hanging from the raised basketball hoops and floated near the banner proclaiming the 25th reunion.

She grabbed a can of Diet Coke from the cooler and stood in the corner watching the people. Everyone seemed to be having a good time, dancing, drinking, and talking with each other. Just like high school, she thought, but it wasn’t really. Margaret Larson never attended dances. She was never asked.

“Margaret Larson?” A masculine voice penetrated her thoughts. She looked up into the blue eyes of the man standing beside her.

“It’s just Meg now. Meg Jones.”

“Oh, you’re married,” he replied, looking over to her left hand for a wedding ring.

“I was. Years ago. I wasn’t what he wanted anymore.” A long pause and she continued with a smile, “I hope he’s very happy in Stepford.”

He looked at her puzzled and then broke out into a laugh. “There’s the Margaret I remembered. You always had such a strange sense of humor.”

“Thanks, Steve.” She glanced at the name tag slapped on his chest. Not that she needed one. She knew who he was. Steve McCormick. The heartthrob of their high school class. Her secret, she hoped, crush. “That’s just what a high school girl yearns to be known for, being strange.”

“No, really. I always thought you were cute.”

She laughed, but there was a bit of pain mixed with the humor. “I was geeky, scrawny with thick glasses and scraggly hair.”

“No, you weren’t.” He looked at the yearbook picture printed on her name tag and continued, “Margaret. Meg,” he corrected, “you were just as pretty as any other girl. You just didn’t realize it.”

Meg looked at his picture on his name tag. “Not you. You knew you were the most popular boy in school.”

“Maybe so, but inside I still felt gawky and awkward, just like you. You can’t always judge a person by their appearance. It took me a while to figure that out,” Steve said.

“What I remember most about you was your sense of humor. I bet you would have been fun on a date. I should have asked you out.”

“You never would have asked me to share a lunch table, let alone ask me for a date. I wasn’t one of the cool kids.”

He sighed. “Yeah, you’re right. It never even crossed my mind. That’s one of the worst things about high school. All the pressure to be cool. I’m glad I don’t have to worry about being cool now.”

The D.J. segued into a ballad popular when they were in high school. The music’s steady drumbeat pulsed in the room. The guitars crooned a soft melody. The bright overhead lamps dimmed, casting the cavernous gym into a world of low lights and shadows deep in the corners. People moved from their chairs along the walls and onto the floor, slow dancing to music from their past.

“Well, Meg,” Steve said softly, taking her hand and pulling her onto the edge of the floor, “how about that dance we missed?”

They danced very properly. Hands in just the right position, bodies almost an arm’s length apart and still she felt awkward, as gawky as the teenager she used to be, liable at any moment to step on his toes or trip over the black lines of the key painted on the floor of the basketball court. If she concentrated on the music, just let the smooth voice of the tenor flow over her, perhaps she could relax and enjoy this dance.


“Yes,” she answered, not looking up at him.

“Mr. Daniels isn’t chaperoning tonight. You don’t have to ‘leave a ruler’s length between those bodies’,” he said, quoting their old principal’s words to her.

“Oh,” she replied, easing her body closer to his. “I guess I’m just a little nervous.”

“Don’t be. We’re just dancing. Relax.”

“Here. Like this,” and he guided her hands up to his neck and then rested his hands lightly on her back, his fingers touching the thin strip of smooth skin now exposed there. Her reaction to his touch was barely audible, a feeling rather than a sound.

“Ticklish?” he asked.

“No, just a little surprised. It feels good.”

They danced. Bodies swaying in time to the music. Gradually edging over to the edge of the dance floor, back to a corner where the lights didn’t reach and the music was soft and low. He tilted her face to his with one finger under her chin.

“I really want to kiss you,” he murmured as he lowered his mouth to hers.

“Oh, yes,” she whispered against his mouth. “Yes, please.”

They kissed, slowly and gently at first, the kisses they missed in long ago in high school when he was almanbahis giriş the most popular boy in school and she was the shy girl who watched him and wanted, but was too reticent to do anything about it.

They kissed like the people they were now, deep, passionate kisses, her mouth opening to let him inside. His mouth opening for her. Long drawn-out kisses that left them both gasping for breath and longing for more.

He brushed his fingers back and forth, dipping a finger between her skin and the faded denim of the short skirt she wore.

“This,” he whispered into her ear, “was my very favorite part of slow dancing.”

“You just wanted to cop a feel,” she whispered back.

“I got to be pretty good at it, too,” he replied, “and if I was very lucky back then, I could touch her panties. A major coup, believe me.”


“Yep. Just like this.” His fingers slid even farther into her skirt, but encountered nothing but skin.

“Why, Margaret Larson! You’re not wearing panties!” She could hear the expression of mock astonishment in his tone as he pulled back slightly to look at her face.

“High school was a long time ago. I didn’t think the dress code would still be in force,” she smiled.

“Remind me later to tell you my teenage theory of girls, their panties and parking,” he said.

“Sounds intriguing,” she said.

“You’ve certainly been worth the price of admission to this shindig. Any more surprises around the corner, Meg?”

“You have all night to find out,” she replied.

“I have a feeling it may take me a lot longer than that. It seems like I have about twenty-five years to catch up on.”

“The music’s stopped,” she whispered, just as the lights in the gym were flipped on. They stood there, blinking against the harshness of the overhead fluorescents. “I suppose I should go. The party appears to be over.”

Yeah, I guess so, but the evening doesn’t have to be.” He took her hand and led her out through the side door that led out into the parking lot and into the dark, summer night. “My favorite part of the evening is coming up.”

“I thought that already happened,” Meg said as they stood on the edge of the asphalt.

“Oh, no. That was my favorite part during the dance. My very favorite part happens soon. Or at least I hope it will.”

“Cruising?” Meg asked with a grin.

“Hm. That isn’t what I was thinking, but sure. We’ll have to take my car, though,” Steve said, leading her to the farthest corner of the parking lot.

“Your car?” she asked. “Why?”

“You’ll see. It’s right over here,” he said, gesturing with his free hand.

Meg looked where he was pointing. “The Hummer?” she said with a puzzled look.

“No. This one,” and he stopped at the next car, the one almost hidden by the oversized vehicle. It was a Mustang convertible, dark and sleek and looked as if it was already in motion. Steve was right. It was the perfect car for cruising on a warm summer night. The perfect car for a formerly geeky girl and the boy she had a crush on, the man she very well could be crushing on once more, to spend the night they missed all those years ago.

“It was supposed to be a simple sedan, but the airport messed up and gave me this instead,” he said, opening her door for her. “Seems like kismet, now.”

“I can’t think of a better car to cruise in,” she replied, “especially since they probably ran out of the ones with the dorky birds painted on the hood.”

He looked at her and then laughed. “Firebirds! I haven’t thought of those in years, but you’re right. That was certainly the car to have back then.”

Steve put the car into reverse and backed out of the parking space, then turned to Meg. “This is your night. Where to?”

“Hm. Take me back to all those times I missed in high school. Cruising the strip, driving through the Dairy Queen parking lot and then –” she paused. “Where’d you guys go then?”

“If we were by ourselves, usually just home or out to Johnson’s farm to split a six-pack. If we had a date, though, it was time to find a quiet country road and do some serious parking,” he answered. “Cruising, it is, then,” he said as he hit the stereo’s scan feature, stopping at the local station playing “all the golden oldies for all the reunions going on this weekend”.

They drove through the streets, commenting occasionally on all the changes since they’d left town, but content most of the time to simply listening to the music and enjoying the ride.

“The Dairy Queen’s still open. Want a sundae? My treat,” Steve asked.

“Mmm. Ice cream. Yes, please,” she said and Steve pulled the car into the parking lot.

“Wow! There’s still no drive thru window, just that same old window that slides open.”

They walked up to the window, the buzz and snap of the neon lights and the bug zapper competing with the sound of Bob Seger’s voice on the radio, ordered their ice cream, small cones for each of them, at the window and then sat down at the almanbahis yeni giriş curb to eat them. When they finished and returned to the car, Meg reminded Steve of his promise to tell her about his theory.

“Oh, yes,” he replied. “Steve’s patented theory, from my vast high school experience, mind you, about girls’ panties and parking.”

“Girls’ panties and parking? Oh, most definitely. Tell me more, please.”

“Well, the bigger the panties, the less likely you’re ever going to see them. Speaking as a teenage boy, of course,” he said. “For example, Patsy Littleton — you remember her –,” he whispered dramatically, naming one of their high school class’s cheerleaders, “wore white cotton granny panties. I’m pretty sure she tucked them into her bra. There was no way a boy was ever gonna see those.”

“Not even a football hero like you?” Meg asked.

“Nope. Those things were like a bulletproof shield. Nobody got through that armor. A few kisses, and maybe a button or two undone, if you were very persuasive or really lucky.”

“Hm,” Meg mused. “If no one ever got to see them, how do you know this?”

“Hey, that’s why it’s just a theory,” Steve retorted.

“Anything more to this theory of yours?” Meg asked as they drove through the quiet streets.

“Oh, yes,” Steve said, “there’s one for each kind of panties. Regular ones? Kissing and maybe a bra sighting, too.”

“Regular ones?” Meg giggled.

“This was a teenaged boy’s theory, remember? It had a few bugs in it,” Steve explained. “Anyway, back to the theory. Bikini panties? I’d definitely be seeing her bra and there was a pretty good chance of bare breasts, too. Want to hear more?”

“I wouldn’t miss it for the world,” Meg replied.

“Anything fancier than bikini panties meant there was a possibility of actually getting into those panties,” Steve said.

“And if she wasn’t wearing panties at all?” Meg asked.

“Ah,” Steve said, “a teenaged boy’s fantasy girl. Often talked about but personally never encountered in my high school parking experience. However,” he said as he steered the car onto a dark tree-lined country lane and pulled off the graveled road, “I’d certainly be willing to see if my theory still holds, if I had a willing lab partner.” He turned off the engine and the lights, leaving the stereo playing softly.

“Well, all in the name of science,” Meg said as she unbuckled her seat belt and turned to face him. He did the same, leaning in and taking her face gently in his hands. His lips met hers, a soft kiss, quite reminiscent of a kiss which might have been exchanged between two shy high school sweethearts. Then the kiss deepened. Mouths opened, tongues sliding over lips and dipping inside.

“Wow,” Meg gasped as they pulled apart, each taking in air in deep breaths. “I think I’m really going to like parking.”

“I thought you might,” Steve said. “Care to move on to step two in my patented parking technique?”

“Oh, yes. The backseat,” Meg answered with a grin.

“Oh, no, no,” said Steve. “That’s much farther along in the process. Right now it’s time for a dance under the stars,” he said, turning up the volume on the radio a little as he opened the door. “Come on.”

Just then, almost as if it was destined, as if Lady Fate herself was smiling upon the couple, the DJ segued from “Crocodile Rock” to King Harvest’s “Dancing’ in the Moonlight”. The clouds parted and the crescent moon glowed silvery white over the top branches of the trees. For a long time, there was nothing in the world but the sound of the singer’s voice and two people silhouetted against a backdrop of a perfect summer night’s sky, swaying to the music. And they swayed, kissing each other as the play list shifted from song to song to song.

“Now is it time for step three?” Meg’s voice whispered softly into his ear.

Steve replied in the same low tone, although there was no one within miles and miles to hear them. “We really don’t have to use the backseat, you know. I have a perfectly fine hotel room in town, you know.”

“So do I,” Meg answered, “but I’ve had sex in hotel rooms before. Tonight’s a night,” she hesitated and continued, “for geeky little Margaret Larson to …”

“Have her dream date with the ever-popular Steve McCormick,” Steve finished the sentence for her with an exaggerated emphasis on the last few words and smiled.

“Exactly,” she answered and returned his smile with one of her own, an impish grin quite reminiscent of the high school girl she was beginning to think she hadn’t left as far behind as she once thought.

Meg turned to open the back door but a slight sound from Steve stopped her.

“Part three of the patented parking technique calls for much more kissing,” he explained. He took Meg’s hand, led her around the car, stopping for a kiss leaning against the car before he reached down and opened the front door for her. After she was inside the car, he hurried around to the other side. Instead of opening the almanbahis door, he slid in through the open window, banging his elbow against the steering wheel in the process. The sudden noise of the horn seemed to echo into the darkness.

“I used to be much smoother,” Steve laughed.

“I would have been quite impressed,” Meg said with a little giggle. The giggling stopped as Steve took her face in his hands and kissed her. The kiss continued as music played on and the crescent moon moved higher and higher into the sky. The kiss continued as Meg was pulled across the seat, her body sprawled over the center console of the convertible.

Steve broke their kiss, but kept Meg cradled in his arms. “Now,” he said raggedly, “it’s time for the part four.” He gave Meg another quick kiss and settled her back into her seat.

Steve’s hands played over Meg’s white top and lightly stroked her breasts through the thin silk. Even in the pale light of the moon and the dimmed lights of the dashboard, Steve could just make out the outline of the lacy bra which had been teasing him all evening.

“You look so hot right now,” he said to her. “That top and the little peeks I’ve been getting of your bra have been driving me crazy all night long.”

“Want to see more?” she said and began to pull the top over her head.

His hand stopped her. “I want to see it all. All of you,” he corrected himself, “but I also want to take it slow. For tonight, anyway, that teenaged boy is going to take his time.”

“Oh,” Meg said and lowered her hands.

Steve stroked her breasts lightly through the diaphanous fabric. He felt her nipples tighten into hard buds under his palms. Meg dropped her head back onto the seat, closed her eyes and let out a small sigh. “Mm. That feels so good.”

He slid a couple of fingers into the loose neckline of her shirt and caressed the top swell of her breasts before moving them beneath the lace of her bra. Steve’s mouth kissed the exposed side of her neck, the hollows of her collarbone and her throat.

He pulled the top gently over her head and made a sound, part gasp, part groan that made Meg open her eyes and look up at him.

“What?” she asked.

“You’re so pretty,” Steve said as he cupped her breasts still clad in their lacy bra. “So pretty,” he repeated, dragging out the “so” until it was two or three syllables long.

“So,” Meg began, “if a girl wanted to participate a bit more actively in your patented technique, was that allowed?” She rested a hand on his knee and began trailing her fingers up and down his thigh, edging ever closer to the erection she could see behind the denim.

“Hm. I don’t recall it ever happening, but I’m sure it was allowed,” Steve answered, opening his legs to her touch. “Most definitely allowed and very much appreciated.”

Steve resumed his kisses, bending this time to kiss her lace-covered breasts, first one, then the other. He brushed his thumbs over her nipples, back and forth.

Meg’s fingers found the erection straining the zipper of his faded Levi’s. She stroked him and felt his cock grow longer and harder with each caress.

Steve pulled the ribbon of the small bow tied in the front of Meg’s bra and the two cups fell away, baring her breasts to the warm night air and to him.

“So damned pretty,” he murmured as he touched her. His hands were on her breasts, but it was his eyes on her face that made Meg shiver deep inside. She reached up and deftly popped the buttons of his shirt, exposing his chest and his nipples to her touch. Meg’s fingers flicked back and forth over his nipples, echoing the touch of her fingers on his cock.

“May I?” she asked, her fingers poised at the button at the top of his jeans.

“Oh, yeah,” he said, “you may do anything you’d like.”

She unfastened the button and ever so slowly slid the zipper down, the snick snick snick on each tooth in the zipper somehow audible over the sounds of Sam Cooke’s voice crooning “You Send Me” emanating from the car’s stereo.

Steve’s cock sprung free as the zipper opened. She felt the hard length of him and imagined feeling his heat under her palms, even through the cotton knit of his boxers. Meg touched him, up and down in light, feathery strokes which gradually increased in intensity until her fingers were wrapped around him, pulling his underwear tight around his cock.

Steve kissed her then, a slow, deep, hard kiss, his tongue exploring her mouth, his mouth pressed against hers so hard it was almost painful. Almost, but not quite. Not pain, but passion made tactile.

He broke the kiss and for a moment all was quiet except for the song playing on the radio. “Unless,” Steve said, “you want me to really regress back to my teenage years and thoroughly embarrass myself right now, I think it’s time to move to the back seat.” He stood on the console between the two bucket seats and stepped between them, pivoted and landed sprawled on the center of the back sear.

Meg knelt in her seat and just looked at him.

“Well,” Meg said, “that part certainly seems to be quite dramatic. Any girl’d be swept right off her feet with that move.”

“I don’t remember it being exactly like that. My part five skills must be a little rusty.”

“Oh?” Meg asked.

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