Chapter 18
Eighteen
Remy and I pedal our dirt bikes to a secluded section inside the massive, sprawling Joaquin Miller Park where we can ride to our heart’s content. There’s a great spot with trails, hills, and jumps, and we’ve logged a ton of hours here already this summer.
He dumps his bike near a tree and motions me over. “Wait ’til you see what I’ve got.”
Inwardly cringing at the roughshod way my friend treats his belongings, I dismount, laying my bike carefully on the ground before sitting next to him on a rock that’s big enough for both of us.
Mischief sparks in those blue eyes, his copper hair reflecting the sun’s rays so brightly, it’s almost blinding.
He opens his backpack and pulls out two beers. My mouth quirks as he hands me an Olympia, the gold and white aluminum can smooth in my grip. I pop the top and foam spurts everywhere.
“Fuck!” I bolt to standing, the liquid soaking into my clothes, and quickly suck on the opening so as not to waste even more.
Remy recently started pilfering beers from home and we’ve shared a few. I hated the bitter, earthy flavor at first—but it’s growing on me. And yeah, it does something to pump me up, make me feel like a big man. I get high on that part alone.
He barks out a laugh, tapping on the top of his first to calm it down like we’ve done with sodas before. He still gets nailed but laughs it off.
I settle back on the rock, and he pulls out a pack of Kent cigarettes and a matchbook from The Equinox. I recognize the name of the fancy restaurant in Montclair, not that I’ve ever eaten there. The pinstriped box looks like something a businessman would choose, reminding me of a suit.
I’ve never smoked but Remy told me he’s swiped some from his parents and tried it out. My folks smoke too but I’m too chickenshit to steal any from them. He hands me one, and I stow my nervousness about trying it.
He plants one in his lips, and it flaps while he speaks.
“Just inhale it. You’ll probably cough, but then you’ll get the hang of it.
” He lights the match, the head screeching across the rough paper before it flames, the acrid sulfur shooting unpleasantly up my nose.
He puffs to ignite his then holds the flame to the end of my cigarette, cupping his hand around it.
Here goes nothing.
I suck in and fire hits my lungs as if they’ve been simultaneously assaulted and suffocated.
I choke and wheeze like a little bitch trying to catch my breath and expel whatever’s angrily lodged in there.
It’s hella embarrassing, and Remy takes total pleasure in my discomfort, laughing his red fucking head off.
Before I’ve stopped hacking, I kick his shin hard with my sneakered foot, hoping to shut his ass up.
It doesn’t go unnoticed that he puffs on his cigarette like a seasoned pro. My next inhale is much smaller. It still tickles my throat and I’m desperate to cough, but I chug more of the warm beer to stave it off. Finally, the urge passes.
Once we stomp out our cigarettes, Remy reaches in his backpack again. “I saved the best for last.” Those blue eyes of his are bright and damn near twinkling.
What now?
He pulls out a magazine. A Playboy. This isn’t our first. Mr. Remington is a dirty old man, and we’ve snuck peeks before at his collection, but Remy’s never been bold enough to flat out take a copy off the premises.
My eyes rove over the pictures of sexy girls as he flips the pages, finally unveiling the centerfold.
The woman leans forward, her boobs hanging in the foreground like ripe fruit, nipples visible and everything.
She’s fully naked with pronounced tan lines.
Her jugs aren’t huge but they’re right there like two beacons—creamy white in sharp contrast to her tanned skin.
My eyes coast lower, taking in her small waist that flares into shapely hips.
One arm partially conceals her belly button, her hand leading down to…
My breath stalls, sticking in my throat, and I swallow thickly.
Dark hair sprouts in the V between her legs, where I can just barely make out a fragment of something.
My eyes bore a hole in the picture, trying to see more of what frustratingly isn’t visible.
I would give anything to have a closeup.
They never show us the whole lower half, always hiding it so you only glimpse whispers, shadows, fucking apparitions. I’m dying to see what the entire apparatus looks like.
When will it happen in person? And what the hell am I supposed to do to it, with it?
I mean, I’ve figured out what makes my dick happy.
But girls are a mystery. I’m pretty sure their junk is all hidden, concealed.
How do you even understand what’s there?
Do they squirt stuff or make a mess? Do they fondle themselves too?
I hope whenever the chance presents itself, I’ll figure it out and not blow it.
My eyes travel back to the model’s face.
She wears the friendliest smile, like she wants us to cop a feel.
And damn I would like that too, stroking every inch of her body.
I want a girl to flash me that kind of smile, invite me to touch her…
everywhere. My dick strains against my shorts and I shift casually so Remy doesn’t see.
Both of us stare longingly at the centerfold. Someday we’ll experience the real thing. Someday.