We saw each other several times after that, and then Felice dropped out of sight. Not even Ginny knew where she had gone, or if she did wouldn't tell me. Five years later I received a latter from a Catholic school in Santa Barbara. It was filled with religious drivel about how God has been good to me, God will take care of me, He works His wonders in strange ways, and something about the ultimate happiness of service to Him for eternal rewards far greater than earthly rewards.
It was signed "God bless you," by Sister Cecilia Roselin (Felice).
But if sad things happened to me during that period, funny things happened, also. I played a Jewish youth-group dance at one of the local temples and got picked up by a girl named Bonnie, who was a little bleached blonde with an ample ass, big tits, and a winning smile. She went to Lowell High School and it was obvious that she wasn't the virginal type. I offered to drive her home and she accepted readily.
In the car, Bonnie told me that her folks were going to Lake Tahoe for the weekend, leaving about eight the next morning. If I came over about nine we could have the whole day. She was obviously a girl who had been around. I knew that there would be no problem, so I agreed. She kept telling me how cute I was and rubbed me all over as we drove. When we arrived at her fancy house in the Seacliff district her mother was waiting, so I just dropped her off and accepted her nervous wink.
Saturday morning started beautifully. Bonnie greeted me at the door, dressed only in a robe that was open down the front, and a devilish grin. Her parents, not wanting to waste the day, had left for Tahoe at five-thirty in the morning.
We didn't even bother to go to her bedroom. As I walked in the front door there was a wrought-iron grill, on my right, which overlooked a step-down living room. Directly below the grill was a wide, long sofa. The bedroom seemed miles away, so we settled for the sofa, a near fatal error.
Within a few minutes Bonnie's robe was on the floor and I had clothes strewn all over the room. We were on the sofa, doing a beautiful, slow, loving sixty-nine. Bonnie was oh top, moving her lips leisurely up and down my shaft while I licked and nibbled around her crotch and the insides of her heavy thighs. After all, we had the whole weekend.
We both were so occupied in our pleasure that neither of us heard the key in the front-door lock.
"Bonnie, honey?"
It was her mother, and it was too late. I felt Bonnie's legs freeze solid around my face, and my own adrenaline suddenly seemed to be shooting out of my ears.
"Tahoe was snowed in, so we turned around and… Oh, my God! Oh, my God! Sam… Sam!"
Bonnie screamed and rolled off of me, snatching her robe off the floor and galloping like an ibex to the back of the house.
I didn't even look up. I grabbed my pants just as Sam, an overnight bag under one arm, came rushing through the door. The goddamn legs of my pants were inside out, and I was seriously considering running naked to the car, but remembered that my keys were somewhere in the depths of my inside-out pockets.
As I was pulling out the pants legs I looked up. Mama was standing over the iron railing, pointing at me, with her mouth open. "They were… they were… oh, my God!"
Sam dropped the bag just as I was hopping into my pants. "Sonofabitch!" he screamed, as soon as he understood. "You dirty sonofabitch bastard, you… you… you… "
And words failed him also.
Now both of them were standing there, pointing their fingers at me as if there were pistols attached to the ends of their hands.
I grabbed my shoes, one of which had a sock in it, and my shirt. The only way out was past both of them. I vaulted up the two steps to the hall and dashed for the door, pausing an instant to say, "excuse me," as I brushed past Sam, who had turned to face me, his finger still outstretched. I dropped my shirt as I raced down the porch steps and out to my car. My pants were unzipped and they kept slipping down, making it necessary for me to hold them up with one hand as I ran.
Adrenaline may make you move fast, but it doesn't make you move good. I fumbled for what seemed an eternity to get my keys, and then couldn't find the right key to get the car open.
Finally, the right one. I poked it into the lock, but missed, poked again and missed. The third time worked.
Sam was on the porch. "Death!" he screamed at me. "Death!"
I slid into the seat, somehow found the ignition, and with my shoes on my lap I left the scene, donating most of the rubber from my rear tires to the pavement in front of Bonnie's house.
When I saw her after school on Monday she was waiting for me by my car and looking around nervously. As I came up to her she started to cry, and as if to distract my attention offered me a small paper bag. My shirt and one sock were balled up inside of it.
Her parents had grounded her for a year. Bonnie went to Lowell High School, which was not in the area where she lived, but did have a student body that was about ninety percent Jewish. All Jewish parents, especially those with girls, pulled strings so that their children could go to Lowell and meet Nice Jewish Boys, so that they wouldn't be infected by association with goyishe trash. Bonnie got out of school at three-thirty, and her parents wanted her home by four. Yet she had taken the time to come to my school and let me know what happened.
Neither of her parents were speaking to her. Her mother told her father that we were doing something awful, something worse than intercourse. She said that she couldn't date, or even go out with girl friends for a year-no school activities, no movies, no dances, no nothing,
I told Bonnie that I was sorry, and I was.
I told her that I would try to see her sometime soon, but I never did.
Chapter 3
Anyway, I quickly forgot Bonnie, and as I became accustomed to being on my own, time passed more rapidly. My seventeenth birthday came and went, so did my junior year in high school. Relations with my parents improved after I finally told them the truth about how long I had been living alone. No matter how much Jewish parents may be convinced that their son is a no-goodnick living a fast and loose life, a report card containing all A's can smooth their discomfort in a hurry. I had moved to three different apartments since my first little basement room, which I found too depressing; first to an older place in the outer Richmond district, the kind with bench seats built into bay windows with no view of the Bay, then to a more modern apartment in the Marina district, where the weather was nicer, and finally into a newly completed fourplex, one-bedroom furnished apartment at the corner of Franklin and Jackson, on the edge of Pacific Heights. The rent was one hundred forty-five dollars, considered moderately expensive at the time. The apartment had a stainless-steel kitchen with a full-size range and refrigerator, a garbage drop, a garage, and above all it was light and cheerful and new.
My mother, her maternal instincts revived, took me shopping for furniture. I ended up with conservatively modern stuff: a couch, two easy chairs, lamps, tables, a small dinette set, and a blondwood bedroom set complete with vanity and mirror. My father, just to prove that his heart was in the right place and by way of a peace offering, paid for the whole thing. If he'd known how much I had in my bank account, he wouldn't have done it.
I was really excited about the apartment. It was the first place I had lived in that I really considered a home for myself. I was happy and content to stay alone and read, study, and listen to music. I bought a big bookcase, which soon became filled with books, magazines, and records, and I got a real hi-fi to replace the old portable phonograph I had used. The walls became filled with paintings and pictures of my own choosing. Life had become a ball.