Free Gringa by Sandra Scofield Page A

anything so bad about Farin. (He wore a nice aftershave, and he’d been sweet and polite at the movie.) It was that I didn’t know what was coming or what to do. I didn’t want to do too much. I didn’t want to make Farin mad.
    When I got back in the car, he pulled me toward him and put his wide wet mouth down over my face. What he got was a mouthful of lips. “You can do better than that, can’t you?” he said. He said it nicely.
    â€œWhatever you say,” I said, regretting instantly the generosity that implied. I opened my mouth and his tongue went in deep and glided around. I thought the beer from his mouth tasted better than the beer in mine. I was having a hard time breathing. He let off from kissing and began fumbling with my blouse. It was a bleeding Madras plaid from Penney’s. My straight skirt matched it. In a moment his hand had slipped inside my bra and over my nipple. I felt as if he had stuck a pin in me.
    â€œWhatcha scared of?” he muttered. I was cold and tense, but I moved a hand up on the back of Farin’s neck, and slid my fingers back and forth. “Let go!” he hissed. “You’re a-ticklin’ me!” Now I didn’t know what to do with either hand. I extended my arm away from Farin’s ticklish neck. My blouse was pulled out of my skirt by now. I felt twisted as a pretzel. Suddenly Farin moved away from me. He seemed to be staring at a spot on my throat. Then he lunged at me and pulled my blouse down off my shoulders.
    â€œI don’t know—” I faltered. I wasn’t sure what was expected on a first date. I felt absolutely nothing. Farin was tugging at me like I was a limp doll when I said, “I hardly know you.” I wondered if he was disappointed at my small breasts tucked inside my lightly molded bra. Farin ignored me. He expertly undid the bra. It dangled. He slipped it down so that it hung off the sides of my upper arms. It was ludicrous, my clothes dripped off me. I shrugged out of my blouse and bra and they fell into my lap.
    â€œYou’re sure a sweet little thang,” Farin said in a guttural voice. I was sweating heavily. Farin pushed me back against the door and put his mouth over my nipple. He sucked. I felt like a fool. I knew his hand was along a road he knew well and I was about to learn, I wanted it to be there, but I didn’t think it ought to be so dumb, so easy. I had heard all about basketball from Farin, last season and this. I knew how much his new seat covers had cost him, and that he planned to go to Tech and study business, maybe even accounting if he could do the work. This didn’t seem like a fair trade for my virginity, even if my virginity was something I was ready to be rid of. I squeezed my legs and twisted hard. His hand was caught between my thighs. I released it as I pushed it out from under my skirt.
    â€œListen!” I cried, my decision made. He seemed to be holding his breath. “I am NOT going to do it!” Farin rallied and sat up again.
    â€œYou tellin me—” he started to say. Both hands went down to his crotch, making a little shield over what he had there. “Shit!” he said. “You some goddamned virgin?” Then he said something that sounded like “Nuuuuh!” I was more embarrassed than anything. Weakly, I said I was. Soft, sweet as a chirping bird, he called me over. He hunched over his jeans, undoing them. “Just put your hand on it,” he said. I must have looked amazed. “On the outside, then, baby,” he said. He put my hand where he wanted it. He was hot and damp and swollen under the shorts. Size thirty, I thought. He groaned again: “Nuuuh!” He grabbed my bra and stuffed it down inside his shorts under our hands. He made his noise one more time and then fell quiet. Gently, I slid my hand away and put my blouse on again without the purloined bra. He wiped his forehead with his left hand, and