Chapter Twelve


The son and Robin in the back of Mrs. Cox's white '62 Bonneville



Half-watching television beneath the vaulted ceiling of a gigantic sitting room inside the Masonic Temple, the son waits in aroused anticipation for the conclusion of the monthly meeting of the Order of the Rainbow Girls. This is an outing upon which he generally tags along every third Saturday, knowing that Robin will have a dress on for the ride home. Since Mrs. Cox's cruel disruption of "basement time" one week ago, he has had no opportunity to slake his addiction to the lifting of his girlfriend's skirt, the admiring of her garter belt and the grinding of his pelvis between her hot, nyloned thighs. So he looks forward to this evening even more than usual.

The son knows the names of the different Masonic organizations--Scottish Rite, Eastern Star, Commandery, DeMolay, Job's Daughters--but cannot imagine what the members do during their secretive meetings behind securely locked doors. When they emerge, the Masons don't look the least bit mysterious. They stand around talking, saying goodnight, making plans to meet somewhere for drinks or late dinners.

Around 9:30, when the Rainbow Girls adjourn, Mrs. Cox announces that she would like to take the son and Robin to Frisch's Big Boy for something to eat--a plan her daughter lobbied for all the way to the Temple tonight. But Mr. Cox, as they all know, is not much of a Frisch's fan. "We can drop you off at home," Mrs. Cox offers when her husband appears unenthusiastic.

"Nooo, Nooo." Mr. Cox shakes his head emphatically. "I'll just bum a ride. 'Bum-a-Ride Cox': that's what people call me, anyway. Only man in town that owns three cars and has to bum a ride home at night." His other two cars, purchased at discounts through his employer, General Motors, are driven daily by Robin's two older brothers. "Old Bum-a-Ride Cox," he repeats.

"Well, I'm sure they're hungry," says Mrs. Cox. "We can drop you . . .?"

"Nooo, nooo. I don't want to put anybody out," Mr. Cox insists. "I'll just bum a ride. Hey, Bob . . ." He flags down a friend across the room who might be going his way.

"Good idea," the son mumbles to Robin. "Did you wear black?"

"Yes," she giggles.

At Frisch's, they order by speaker from the car and wait for the carhop to deliver their Big Boys. To make more room, the son and Robin move into the back seat of the Bonneville to eat, and there they remain when Mrs. Cox pulls from the parking lot and drives toward the city limits.

The son whispers into Robin's ear, "Your period's, uh . . .?"

She nods. "Mama, can we take a ride and look at the stars?"

"I'm sure your father's expecting us to get home," Mrs. Cox protests, though she is driving not toward but away from East Morton and the trailer park.

"Mama! Just a short ride," Robin chides. "Look at the stars tonight."

"Yes, they are beautiful," Mrs. Cox agrees. "Can you pick out the Big Dipper?"

"We'll look for it, Mama, if you drive slowly."

And so this evening's long awaited "star time" begins. Mrs. Cox does drive slowly as Robin requests, but not slowly enough to preserve the fragile remnants of her little girl's innocence. Before she knows it (if ever she does), mother has chauffeured daughter directly through the one-way gate to womanhood, which lurks in the form of a mammoth pothole on the surface of the dark country road beneath them.

The son cannot be blamed. Careful as ever, he is attempting only the most tentative possible entry of his girlfriend when the Bonneville smacks the huge, hidden crater. The car is momentarily airborne, and the shock of its wheels returning to earth bounces the young lovers lying in the back seat into a deeper penetration than they would ever intentionally dare. Thus the son discovers, against his will, the standard by which he will gauge all future pleasures, whatever they may be.

Robin sounds a lot like the lunatic who sings "They're Coming to Take Me Away, Ha

Ha!" when she whispers savagely into her boyfriend's ear: "You're fucking me!"

"Oh, God!"

"Oh, God!" Robin echoes. "We can't."

"I'm sorry," the son whispers, reluctantly abandoning the paradise into which he has innocently blundered to the hilt.

"Come back!" Robin immediately breathes into his ear.

"But we can't."

"Oh, God, I want to fuck now," she says, "just a little bit."

"Say 'fuck' again," the son whispers.

She puts her warm mouth back against his ear and repeats, "Fuck."

"I like to hear you say it."

"Fuck."

"Any broken teeth back there?" asks Mrs. Cox from the front seat, after regaining control of the car.

"We're okay, Mama," Robin answers aloud, then whispers to the son, "What if she hits another one, and it happens again? It won't be our fault, will it?"

"Aren't you worried about . . . ?"

"I think it's still all right. I just finished . . . you know."

The next bump the Bonneville hits is not as big as the first one was, but it too seems to cause a slightly deeper accidental penetration than the young lovers would normally risk.

"Oh no!" Robin chills the son's ear when she catches her breath.

"Oops." he whispers, slowly withdrawing. "Sorry again."

"Maybe it's meant to be--tonight, I mean," Robin says dreamily.

"You think so?"

"If we hit one more bump," she says, "that will make three. Then we'll know it's meant to be."

"You kids better come up for air back there," Mrs. Cox says.

"Wait, Mama! I think I saw the Big Dipper a minute ago," Robin says excitedly. "Can you drive back to wherever you were before?"

"Yes, but you'd better sit up," her mother warns. "This road is terrible."

"Mama, I have to look straight up through the back window to see the stars," Robin explains impatiently. "Just drive back slowly until I find it, please."

"All right, but then we should be getting back. I'm sure your father's worried."

"Yes, Mama."

Because Mrs. Cox drives carefully now in anticipation of the rough road, the jolt when she hits the big pothole again is not so great as it was the first time. But the lovers are anticipating, too, teasing themselves with rigid restraint. Robin's dress is up to her waist. Her black birthday panties are pulled to one side, her legs as far apart as she can spread them. The son, agonizingly hard for her, feels one moment the torturously teasing kiss of her tender wet flesh against his; the next, he is a fraction of an inch inside her, then a fraction of an inch outside again. When the bump finally comes, slightly diminished though its impact is this time, the lovers know what is meant to be, and they restrain themselves no longer.

"Oooh, GOD!" they moan to each other again.

"Take it out?" the son asks.

"No! Yes! Oh, God!" Robin whispers frantically. "Half!"

The son obeys.

"No. Give it back," she orders. "Push."

"Does it hurt?"

"Out a little," she says. "No, in. You're fucking meee! Oh, it's meant to be! We have to get those things . . . it's all right . . . just, Oooh, my God! Did you . . . it's all right!"

It doesn't take much time for the son to finish. The pleasure of being completely surrounded by Robin is more than he can withstand for long. After a few strokes he explodes all over her glorious insides, but keeps thrusting as she directs him, until his erection is completely gone.

"Did you two find the Big Dipper yet?" Mrs. Cox wants to know.


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