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Chemistry Lab

4453 Words | 0 |2.00

When they talk about Chemistry, or their eyes meeting across a crowded room… #Geri #Mnem #Gape

Well, I can’t believe I forgot about my first time, for so long. I was going through some old boxes, looking for stuff to throw out. Consolidate everything in to 1 box, when I came across my old High School yearbook. Text books, I forgot why I even kept my Chemistry book at first.

I had college texts, with actually useful information in them, but there was even an old backpack. Jansport, it seemed so important at the time, and Jordaches. Everyone had to have them, anything else was just cheap, or out of fashion, but it still smelled like my mom, and dad’s house. or maybe I was imagining it, but.

“Hm.” That took me back, but then I checked the inside, back cover, knowing what would be there. [I think he likes you] I’d written, holding the pages out of the way with my thumb, so the letters were squished together, and diagonal. Smooth, the grooves from the ballpoint long since went away, and even stretched out the ink a little, but.

Carli Thomas. “Ngm!” She tucked her chin down, behind her hair. Long straight black hair, with eyebrows she shaved, then penciled over, so she looked like a clown, with no eyebrows.

‘what’s so funny?’ I kept my voice down, but whatever the teacher was teaching. God, this had to be, well. Several years ago. Junior year, but she just pointed across the room, at the other table. Across from us, 2 boys partnered together, for some experiment, but if I could look back. Around the room, in the past. Then, I could remember who else had that class, lab, how many tables there were with pipes up the legs to feed the spouts for Bunsen burners, and.

Like you know, stuff? Chemistry stuff, but then she waved her pen, on her notebook. [Jeremy’s got a stiffy!] She tapped her paper hard, [Don’t look!]

[I think he likes you] I wrote back.

“Huh!” So, I got out my yearbook, because this was driving me nuts. I must be going senile, because they say that you never forget your first time? Well, what was his name, anyways?

“Oh,” Right, “Chris.” Only about a million Chrises, Christophers, Christines… It was a very popular name. “Chris Vogel.”

[How do you know he doesn’t have a boner for you?] Carli wrote back, but she took after her mother. Who was from, the south. South America, Guiana, or French Guiana. One of those next to Suriname, but I forget what one. I’m forgetting a lot lately.

[He’s not Racist.]

[I’m not calling him a racist, but how do you know what one he’s got a woody for?] She couldn’t decide whether to call it a stiffy, a boner, or a woody, I remember. Not necessarily in that order, but it was as if she wanted to run through all the names she could think of, and smile quietly to herself, writhing them down. Holding in giggles, she thought it was funny at the time, but also, pointed out the problem with traveling in packs.

She wasn’t at my table in the lunch room, we just got paired up for Chemistry lab, she was smart. Smart enough to take advanced electives, but also, she hung out with the. Essays? I don’t know how you spell it, but the Spanish speaking kids, they called each other that. Essay, I’d never seen it written out. “Uh,” they thought she was Puerto Rican, or Dominican, or at least that’s what they tried to guess. Apparently, that was a game they played, to get to know you, when you first showed up at the Latino table.

[Probably you.” I guessed, and did that. “Ngh!” Shy, childish them, where I put my head down, and squirmed. Shaking my head, unable to entertain the thought, for one second that a boy was interested in me, but then Carly stuck her hand under the table, and gave them the thumbs up.

They looked back, and fort at each other, Chris mouthed something, silently to Jeremy, who pushed him, but when I looked back, Carli was leaned back. [Carlita Tomas.] Oh right, she spelled it Tom, without an H. They called her Dumbass, that I could hear, once. Because of the way she said “Tomas,” with a little bit of an accent. Other than that, she spoke perfect English, but there she was, in Chess Club, smiling, and looking so young.

Student Body Secretary, and speaking of which. Yeah, oh yeah. Even in school clothes, so as not to distract the boys, there was only so much you could do to hide those hips. Long skirts, below the knees, so even if they rode up to show your knees, you had to pull them down, cross your legs, and I can’t remember the last time I felt so moist.

Blood flowing between my legs, and the tissues plumping up, the wrinkles flattening out, and the pubic hairs trying to uncurl. “Huh!” Carli had pants on, and her legs wide open, so I had to cross them. Then, she stick 2 fingers down, and spr4ad them. The boys looked back, and forth, Jeremy nodded first, then Chris nodded back, and they uncrossed their legs.

They had them crossed, demurely like girls, only instead of to hide their legs, it was to keep their erections from printing through the front of their pants. [What are you DOING!?]

Carli couldn’t answer, because she already had her hand down the front of her pants. Her other hand picking at the fly, then her thumb stuck out, of her zipper. “Omh!” I bit my lip, but I thought God, that’s so sinful! She chucked her head, to point with her chin, and even puckered her lips, so when I looked over to see, the boys had already pulled their shirts out.

They were usually tucked in, dress code again. If you puled your shirt out, then a teacher would tell you to tuck that shirt in, but then they unzipped their pants, fishing around in there, and looking around, but nobody else was looking, which was shocking in, and of itself.

I can’t say I’d never seen a dick before. I could barely even remember this, but before that, I don’t remember when I’d seen a boy’s pisser before. Only thinking that I’d never seen one hard, and sticking out of his pants, but then there were 2. They were clever enough to untuck their shirts, with their feet up on the stools. Like bar-stools, only made out of metal instead of wood, but they had braces between the legs to put your feet up on. High tables, win pairs across from each other, so the teacher could roll a cart down the middle, and show you some experimental setup, for you to copy.


“Carl LEE!” She enunciated.

“Sorry, Carli.”

“Sorry Charley.”

He looked back at the next table over, but that look that teachers gave you, so you’d stop misbehaving. So Carli could slip her hand back out of her pants, and pick up her pen, but her fly was still unzipped, and I remembered the lacey patch, the zipper wide open, like an eye, or a hungry vagina.

“Pay attention, this is important.”

Oh yeah, now I remember. He had these 2 beakers on his desk. That’s why we weren’t doing any actual experiment yet, he was showing us safety. “This is hot,” he waved his hand over one, “This is not.” Wax on, wax off, Danielsan. They were both were up on Bunsen burners, but neither one of them was turned on. “Now, what does hot glass look like?”

“Ooh,” I held up my hand.

“Mason?” He called on someone else.

“Exactly like cold glass.”

“Exactly. Now.” He leaned over, and waved his hand over both beakers. “Never stick your face over an open experiment. It could be caustic, hot enough to scald your nose, or poisonous. Waft.” He demonstrated, for the boys I guessed. Because they might not have ever cooked spaghetti sauce, or whatever. The girls know that from cooking at home, even browning unions in the bottom, or hot peppers could burn your eyes if you weren’t careful, but cooking is just chemistry at home. Chemistry is just cooking you can’t eth, but that lesion, about what hot Pyrex looks like, it stuck with me.

You don’t forget that, or the time I dropped a whole casserole, because I didn’t think to check, and I burned my hands on the handles. After that, I started waving my hand over them, to feel if they were hot before I grabbed them, bare handed. It’s not like aluminum glows red hot at 350 degrees either, but that’s still hot enough to burn you.

“Oh!” My husband, of 17 years looked in. “Feeling a little Randy are we?” He chuckled. “Should I get The Pill?”

“Hm.” I pulled the fold of my underwear out, and felt it. In the meantime, I had gone from moist, to damp. “If you would like.” I pulled down my slip, but my skirt fell all on it’s own.

He’s still on the pill, but he doesn’t take it regularly, any more. “I’ll be in the office.”

“I’ll be in the bedroom.” I followed him back, but he just popped the little blue pill in his mouth, cupped a handful of water, and pulled his shirt out, to dry his hand. I looked for something sexy to wear, unbuttoning my blouse to pull it over my head, while he retired to the office. To look at pornography on the computer to get in the mood.

Younger women, but it could take anywhere from half an hour to 45 minutes to take effect. That gave me time to kill, so I pulled out my house coat. Not the sort of thing one wears around the house, it’s sheer, and covers up as much as it exposes. My bra, I kept on, just to avoid the uncomfortable sweat that gathers underneath my breasts, if I let them hang out too long.

I try not to pay attention to the wrinkles, stretch marks, and liver spots, just cover them up, but this house-coat doesn’t have a belt. I just crossed the ends, and tied them in a loose not. Unbuttoning my pants, and shaking my hips out of my underwear, but. “Snh!” Take a deep breath, of that scent. An odor, I hadn’t made in quite some time, and I was as fragrant as a whore at a bachelor party.

By the time I’d met Thomas, we were both adults. I was widowed, but that eliminated any question of my virginity, on our wedding night. He was relatively young, at the time, and is remarkable shape for his age, but still. I was a widow, I grieved, and then my children left for college. I got lonely, and he was there. He made me feel young again, we went hiking, and camping in that dingy trailer of his smelled of mildew, but.

This all started remembering when I was young. I suppose, sixteen, or seventeen, and Chris.

“No, Stan.” He preferred Stan, to tell him apart, from all the Chrises. He smiled, “You can call me Stan.”

In a word, a nerd. That had a little more sting to it, before everyone had a computer, then mobile phones, and even smart ones. I vaguely remember transister radios being space age, and my first walkman for my birthday. Now, they even have wristwatches, like Dick Tracy could only dream of. Not only with a radio speaker, but a tiny screen to check the weather, or your heart rate, if you’re out running.

“Uh, my hip.” I sat down, and carefully rolled over to pull the pillows up, and get comfortable. I had a bad fall, the bathmat got loose, and I don’t want to think about that, right now. It’s only been 10 minutes or so, since my Thomas took The Pill, and I have to still be ready, when he is.

“Hm.” Close your eyes, and try to remember. “Stan.”

He was shy, but horny, and his friend had to put him up to it. Well, just about everything, but Carli was there, to lead the way. She had an old pickup, her father’s which he had replaced, and handed down to her.

Labs, and suchlike were always the last period, after their classes. So, if an experiment went long, or you wanted to stay late, to work on a project. Usually in shop class, automotive, or Home Economics, Chemistry wasn’t that sort of class, but there wasn’t much room on the front seat.

Jeremy sat in the middle, so Carli could feel his leg, in between gear changes. she’d shift, then put her hand right back on his leg, and rub it. Stan had to hold me on his lap, and I had to put his hand on my knee. Move it up to feel my thigh, through my slip, but underneath my skirt. For modesty, on the road, but.

I wasn’t very chesty, until my first pregnancy, I was lucky to fill up a couple B cups, and that was only if they were padded, with foam. Carly had no trouble, at all in that department, but she had to brush him off her neck. “Let me drive, if you want to get there in one piece.” She patted his knee, and then down shifted, for the turn coming up. “Woo hoo!” She punched the lining of the roof, which was spotty, and torn. As was the seat, especially on her end of it, where her daddy got in and out, with keys in her back pocket.

I can’t believe how many of these, little details are coming back to me, but in the meantime. My nails had gone brittle, so that I can’t keep them from breaking off, almost as fast as they grow, so I filed them down. Not for this, but I have to admit, it’s nice not to worry about scratching myself.

I’d gone from moist, to wet. Not dripping yet, but there’s plenty to slick up and down, spreading my pursed lips, and sticking the hot wrincles to the sides, out of the way.

“Hm,” I hadn’t played this, in ages, but it was a bit of a party trick. Once my first husband and I started throwing parties, wild parties before my eldest was born, but even before that. “Huh!”

My father, had a collection, as most do. I suppose, I never looked at them myself, but I had heard them slide down the wall, when he was finished. Behind the bedside table, so all he had to do was drop them, behind the lamp when he was finished, or heard someone come down the hall.

My mother, on the other hand, read “Romance.” Trashy little paperbacks, that looked innocent enough, but you know what they say about judging a book by it’s cover? Well, they didn’t have half naked women on the cover, with far too many buttons undone, or football makeup under their eyes, and the sides cut out of their shirts, so you could see clearly that they had no bra on. Typical father porn of the 60s, and 70s, they had to hide under the mattress, or just drop behind the nightstand.

They had parties, of course. Usually at the end of those trashy paperbacks, with cheap ink that smudged, and grey paper like newsprint. “Snh!” I can almost remember the smell, and running of to my room with one tucked under my arm, the moment mommy threw them out. They weren’t intended to be read twice.

Mommy porn, housewives, some of them watch their stories, on daytime television. My mother preferred to read about higher status women, with high rise apartments (If not Penthouses) mansions, summer cottages, and/or yachts for vacations on the Caribbean, or Mediterranean. The names changed, along with the details, but I suppose you could pick out the man from the cover.

Tall, dark, and handsome, tanned, muscular of course, and usually hairy. That’s what my mother liked, which was strange, because she married a WASP with dirty blonde hair, and light blue eyes. I suppose I got my father’s eyes, but they always went to some exotic place, if they didn’t live there, and cheated.

That was the 1 thing, basically all of the housewife stories had in common, be it on daytime television, or trashy novels with “Romance” on the cover, so your husband never suspected that you read about taking a plane down to Barbados to get filled with as much dark uncircumcised man meat as you could, before you came home.

That was sex education, back in the day. Whatever your mother was into, or your friend’s mothers, if they got their fix from soap operas. I knew that it was bad, “Cheating,” that was the thrill, and mom, didn’t just read about it, either. Dad didn’t just look at other women’s breasts, and handle himself, he cheated on her as well. To thins day, I just don’t understand why so many people do that, but the party at the end. (If they didn’t meet at a party in the beginning.)

They never fucking went to Swinger parties. Oh no, swingers are degenerate hedonists, nobody want to read about consenting adults, swapping keys, and the wife getting a ride home with someone else’s husband for the night. it was so much more salacious if he got drunk, she saw him holding the door for some other woman, a younger woman, with his hand on her bare back, slipping into the side of her open backed dress, then closing the door.

So, she had an excuse to corner that dark young waiter, make him set down the tray of champagne flutes, and hand him one. “Why don’t you take a little break?” Lead him off to another room, he’d been flirting with her all night, and she resisted until she saw That Cheating BASTARD!

“Huh!” I ran out of fingers. “Uh!” I shouldn’t be surprised, but. I’m a little proud of myself, that I’m still elastic enough, to fit all 8 of them in, and pull it apart.

“Honey, I’m ready.”

“Uh, me too. Why don’t you come in here.” I wiggled my hips, tried not to wince, but spread my legs wider, so I could push my elbows down between them, and pull myself even more wide open.

“Oh!” He grinned, gripping it tightly, to hold the blood in. “9 hole, huh?” I nodded, closing my eyes, and trying to remember Stan.

“What was her name?” He took my legs, and picked them up, so I could pull myself even wider.

“The girl, from the photographs?” I nodded, keeping y eyes closed, and the shy smile on Stan’s face, when I took his glasses off. Biting my lip. “Jasmine, I think.”

“Huh, Stan.”


“No, Christian, but did I ever tell you about my first time with a boy?”

“No, hang on.” He fit it in easily, with the other 9. Hence the name 9-hole, but we could say that in front of friends, and they would think he was talking about Golf. Then again, he did manage to drop a golf ball in once. After 4 kids, hell I never lost that flexibility from the first one.

“Uh!” He pushed my knuckles out, even wider, so I could slip them out, one bye one. “Oh, Stan!”

“Uh, Jasmine, you’re so lose, and fucked out, by all those black dicks.”

“Huh, stop. Just. Don’t say it out loud.” I shook my head, then closed my eyes.

“Well,” he started pulling out, then turned around, about half way to sink in again. “Tell me about this Christian.”

“Huh, he was shy, and a good boy.”

“Christian? I mean, Catholic.”

“No, Ecumenical, but a Presbyterian family. Shy, smart, and nerdy. He’d never been with a girl before, but his friend put him up to flashing me. At a party, he had a girlfriend, and they were making out, but he didn’t have the balls to talk to a girl, and fuck me. Oh yes, fuck me Stan, you can do it. I’ll make you a man today, I promise, just don’t stop. Uh, god, your dick feels so good inside of me pound it in hard, harder, fuck me harder Stan, yeah. Almost there, Stan, you’re almost there, uh ah HAH!”

“Huh? Ah!” he rolled off, and curled up, obviously in some sort of pain.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing honey.” He winced, and pulled his leg up. “Ngh!”

“You get a cramp?”

“Yeah, right here.” He moved his fingers, so I could feel it, dig it out from under his gluteus maximus, pinch it, and rub it away. “Huh, I’m sorry, honey.”

“It’s okay, dear.” I felt his rough stubbly cheek, and kissed the other one. “You did just fine, honestly. I haven’t been fucked like that in years!”

“I’ll go see if I can get it up again, before The Pill wears off.”

“I’ll be right here,” but I was so close, I knew that it would be relatively easy to race to the finish. I just have no way of knowing, how many more orgasms, I have left in my life, but I did good. So far, 8 years of swinger parties when I was young, and 4 beautiful children, from 4 different men.

Oh yes, I forgot to tell you. That was my first husband’s thing. He couldn’t have children of his own, but he positively delighted in raising other men’s kidsn as his own. So, it wasn’t difficult to find other men to impregnate me, while I was still young and attractive. Swinging parties were all the rage in the late 80s, and early 90s. College kids usually had a bar, or some pot, and always cocaine. “It helps me study.”

“It intensifies my personality.”

“Yeah, but what if you’re an asshole?” No Quaaludes, that I remember, but then the AIDS crisis put a damper on things.

Well, outside of the gay community, but I remember Carli. “Huh!” Her boyfriend, Jeremy, or “Jer.” He wanted to see her, licking pussy. “Sliph mhn! Mh!” I let my eyes slip closed, and remember his dick, pulling out. The skin winking like an eye, then pulling back, to let me suck the juices off it, before he plunged it back in. Before that, she passed me a note, telling me her Boyfriend. [Jer has such a nice dong. Thank god he’s all natural, they look weird when they’re cut off.] She liked them uncut. I liked his uncut cock, she was right. He did have a nice cock.

Oh right, my first threesome. We got rid of Stan, because he wouldn’t understand, I suppose he was the first one I cheated on, but I tried to talk him into it first. “An open relationship,” or “Seeing other people,” which he took to mean I was breaking up with him.

It took me a long time to find the kind of man that I like. The kind of man that doesn’t get jealous when you sleep around, he got off on it, literally, but not Jer. He didn’t pull out, and Carli hit the roof. Yelling at him in Spanish, and slapping him, with his fresh wad dribbling out.
Running down her legs, and I so much wanted to suck him off, still glistening wet with her twat juices. Then, I wanted to lick it up off her leg, and eat it out of her sopping wet twat.

“Ah huh! HhuhH! AUGH!” I shook my head. “Huhn, nhm!” Now it was my turn to cramp, but with the orgasmic pleasure, even that wasn’t enough to spoil it. I had to pull the clingy sweaty shear fabric away to probe my abdomen, feel the loose limp weak stringy muscles, and the knot to massage it away, so I could breathe better. All those years as a massage therapist payed off in more ways than just all the opportunities I got to get my hands dirty.

“Finished without me?” But I got my Happy Ending.

“Huh, yeah. Sorry.”

“Well, that isn’t working,” He hooked his thumb back down the hall toward the spare room, and the office. “So, I’m glad I could help.”

“Yeah.” He went over to the dresser, to pull out some clean boxers, and put on a new pair of britches. Switching his pocket junk, he carried them back to the hamper in the bathroom, and came out fixing his belt.

“You done in there?”


“Help me up.” I managed to get to the bath tub on my own, but I was careful yo hold onto the walls, in the hallway. I’m going to have to get my walker out of the closet, and my back is killing me, but it was worth it.

Let’s face it, now I’m old. A grandmother, and I still can’t tell the grandkids that I met my husband at a BDSM party. I’m not in any hurry to become a great grandmother, and besides. My youngest is only 19. Barely even starting college.

So, she can find out on her own. “Oh!” Just let the hot water soak into my back, my hip, and rub the scar until it stops tingling. “Huh!”

A part of me still wishes I could, though. I suppose that’s why I’m writing it here, instead.

“Honey,” he came back to the doorway, buttoning up his cuffs. “Can we talk about your first husband?”

I shook my head, and sank down, but I’m ashamed to admit that, I still have something to be ashamed of.

My daughter, my estranged daughter, my eldest. He died, in prison, for statutory rape. It wasn’t incest, but I should have seen why he was so delighted to raise another man’s child. He was so happy when I had her, and she was the apple of his eye. Daddy’s little girl, and somehow, I didn’t want to see what was going on, right under my nose.

“Huh!” I have to breathe though. “Huh!”

“Charli called, and she wants to talk to you.”


“No, not now. She hung up, but she keeps calling me, and sending me messages on the E-mail. She wants to talk to you, about what happened.”

“All right, help me up then.”

I suppose, I have put it off long enough, and I don’t know how much more time I have, to make amends. I suppose that’s what I was punishing myself for, or finding men, and women to punish me, when he found me, and saved me from myself. So, I suppose he has a right to know, too..

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