Jeremy's Open House

When a 14-year-old boy learns that few of his classmates have sexual experience, he invites all the females to his house one night to correct that shortcoming.

Part One

My name is Marshall Grant. When I was in the eighth grade in the 1974-75 academic year, I was fortunate enough to have Mr. Foster as my “core teacher.” The way my middle school operated was that entire classes stayed together for the whole day. For half the day, the students moved as one to different classes for science, history, geography, music, art and physical education. (Not all of them were taught each day.) During the other half of the day, the class stayed put with one teacher who taught the “core subjects” of math and all branches of English: spelling, grammar, writing, and literature.

As I mentioned, Mr. Foster was our “core” teacher—and he was a gem. I suppose he was in his mid-thirties at that time. He dressed not quite as conservatively as his male colleagues. He wore his hair longer than they did, too. He was the school’s resident “cool teacher” who always strove to keep things fresh and fun. He was universally popular with the students. I never heard anyone badmouth him.

Our class (#83) did its rotation in the morning and stayed with Mr. Foster in the afternoon. If we had a few minutes to kill at the end of the day, our teacher led us in something he called “Ask Mr. Foster Anything”. He’d take one question from the class, sometimes two, on any topic, and answer it as best he could. If he didn’t know the answer, Mr. Foster would look it up that night and share it with the class the next day. Sometimes the query was about current events. (I learned about the Berlin Wall this way.) Sometimes it was about science. (How does gravity work?) Most often, though, the questions he fielded weren’t about academic topics at all. They were more personal in nature. Since we were teenagers, often the questions were about boy-girl relationships, thus indirectly about sex. Asking direct questions about that topic was off-limits in 1974, even for a teacher as easygoing as Mr. Foster was.

One Tuesday, a girl named Bethany Howard who always seemed to have questions for Mr. Foster, asked when and where he had met his wife. “I don’t need to look that up in a reference book,” he said with a smile. “I met Pauline when we were classmates in elementary school. We had both moved the previous summer, so we were new to the school when the sixth grade began. We accidentally discovered that we were in the same boat of not knowing anyone else there, so we started hanging around together. Within about a week I somehow knew that I’d end up marrying Pauline someday. I was right. As of last June, we’ve been happily married for 12 years now.”

The class applauded spontaneously at his answer, which obviously surprised and pleased Mr. Foster. He dramatically took an exaggerated bow. Then he noticed that Bethany had her hand raised for a follow-up question. He looked at the clock, figured we had enough time before the bell rang, and allowed Bethany’s second inquiry.

“Does that mean you never had any other girlfriends other than your wife?” she asked.

“I suppose that’s accurate,” he replied. “I think I had one or two dates with girls other than Pauline during my high school days, but Pauline has been the only love of my entire life—unless you count the afternoon when I was in the fifth grade when Eleanor Thatcher invited me to her house to smooch. That wasn’t love, though. That was just a case of curious lust.”

The whole class laughed at that remark. I suspected Mr. Foster was the only teacher in our school who could tell an anecdote like that without getting into trouble. Certainly, no one in Class #83 was going to report him.

Persistent Bethany had a third question. She prefaced it by saying, “So your future wife was your girlfriend in the eighth grade?”

“Yes,” Mr. Foster agreed. From the tone of his voice, he did not quite know where Bethany was going with her line of inquiry. Neither did I.

“So, Mr. Foster, you think it’s perfectly normal for a boy to have a serious girlfriend in the eighth grade. Is that right? My parents think I’m too young to have a real boyfriend at this point in my life.”

Mr. Foster paused for a moment and said, “Let me turn the tables here and poll the class. How many of you are presently involved in what you would consider to be a serious boy-girl relationship?” There were 31 students in Class #83. Five people put up their hands. Two of them, Michelle Cressman and Michael Ferrera, were obviously a couple based on their constant amorous antics. Mr. Foster joked, “It’s a good thing you raised your hand, Michael, or you would have been in big trouble with a certain girl in this class!” The other three students with their hands raised presumably were paired up with partners outside of Class #83.

“I see only five hands,” Mr. Foster said. That means 26 out of 31 of you aren’t romantically entangled at the moment. That’s more than 80 percent of you. I’d say that’s typical for this age group. I’m happy for those of you who’ve found someone to love at this young age, but don’t be in too much of a hurry to grow up. These are the best years of your life. Keep them uncomplicated.” Mr. Foster paused and said, “Please don’t tell my wife I said that. She’d be unhappy with me.”

Part Two

The next day we again had time at the end of the afternoon for Mr. Foster to enlighten us about something. This time he did not field a question. Instead, he had a parenting magazine in his hand. He read the class an interesting article from it that remarkably pertained to Bethany’s questions from the previous day. Written for parents, it basically told them that once children reached their teenage years, they would become naturally curious about the opposite sex and would start to “engage in courtship rituals.” Mr. Foster paused, not knowing whether he ought to read the next line. He did. It was, “This may include encounters of a sexual nature, so it is wise as a parent to be wary.”

There was a bit of a collective gasp amongst the students because of the taboo topic. It was shattered by the voice of Kevin Murphy who asked, “What parent doesn’t realize that? Our parents were once teenagers.”

“Good point, Kevin!” conceded Mr. Foster. “Anyway, the point I was trying to make by reading this article was that you all are in a time in your life of rapid changes. Your brains and your bodies are telling you one thing, but your morals—and your parents—are likely telling you something quite different.”

Bethany asked if Mr. Foster was going to poll the class about how many of us had had sex.

“Absolutely not!” said Mr. Foster. Luckily for him, the bell rang in a timely fashion to save him from further difficult questions that day.

The following day, a Friday, Mr. Foster had to leave the classroom for a few minutes to tend to some issue at the office. While he was absent, Jeremy Smithers, a buddy of mine, took the opportunity to conduct the poll that Bethany wanted the previous day. “Okay,” he began, speaking rather loudly given the subject. “I’m sure we’re all curious about what Bethany asked yesterday. If Mr. Foster won’t conduct the poll, I will! How many of the 31 people in Class #83 have had sex?”

Four people raised their hands. All four, two boys and two girls, were part of the five who had raised their hands the previous day to indicate they were involved in a serious boy-girl relationship. The only one of those five who didn’t raise a hand this time was Tim McGregor. He had a chagrined look on his face. He comically commented, “I guess my girlfriend Melanie is letting me down. I’ll have to have a talk with her!”

After the class finished laughing at Tim’s remark, Jeremy stated enigmatically, “Maybe I can do something about this!” Mr. Foster returned to the classroom a few seconds later and resumed teaching.

When class was dismissed, Jeremy got together with me and Brian Baker to share his wild idea. He stated, “Next weekend my sister’s soccer team is playing in a big tournament 60 miles from here, so I’ll have the house to myself. Here’s what I think I’ll do, with your permission. Starting on Monday, the next time Mr. Foster steps out of the class I’ll announce that any girl from Class #83 who no longer wants to be a virgin is welcome to come to my address on Friday at 7 p.m. and hook up with any of the three of us for some nookie.”

Brian and I both openly laughed at the idea. “Assuming you’re being serious, Jeremy,” I said, “do you really think any girls in our class will accept such an invitation? I strongly doubt it.” Brian nodded, indicating he felt the same way I did.

Jeremy gave us a dismissive wave of his hand and replied, “I think you both are underestimating our personal charms. We’re not too repulsive. There are 16 girls in our class. I say the chances of at least one of them responding favorably to my offer are pretty good.”

After a moment’s reflection, I declared, “I guess we have nothing to lose but a Friday night when we’d likely be doing nothing much at all. You can count me in, Jeremy.”

Brian gave his assent, too. He also asked a very good question. “What if only one or two girls show up? Who sits out and who gets to have some fun?”
“The girl gets to choose her sex partner,” Jeremy noted. “We’re not forcing any girl to do anything she doesn’t want to do voluntarily. So, of course, she’ll get to decide which one of us gets lucky.”

“What happens if no girls show up—which I think will be the case?” I asked.

Jeremy responded quickly. “We turn on the TV set and watch whatever happens to be on the tube—just like I do on most Friday nights.”

“Jeremy, I’ll bet you a dollar we’ll all be watching TV shortly after 7 o’clock.” I declared.

“I’ll take that bet!” Jeremy said and shook my hand to finalize the wager. Then he noted, “Marshall, you’ll be the happiest 14-year-old boy in this city when you lose that dollar to me.”

Part Three

When Monday arrived, Jeremy had the chance to make his announcement to the class very quickly. About half an hour into our lessons, Mr. Foster was summoned to the office for some reason. As soon as he left the room and was out of earshot, Jeremy got everyone’s attention and said what he, Brian and I would be doing at his house this coming Friday night. He made an open invitation to the 16 girls in the class to come to his home at that night and time to have “a meaningless sexual romp” with any one of us. A few people began to laugh, but Jeremy insisted it was a serious offer. He gave his home address and phone number. From my desk, I happened to see a few girls begin to write something in their notebooks. I truly hoped it was Jeremy’s information and not answers to the English comprehension exercise the class was supposedly doing. Jeremy’s memorable sales pitch ended well before Mr. Foster returned.

On Thursday morning at school, just before the first bell rang, Jeremy approached me at my locker and said to me with a grin, “I hope you are prepared to pay me a dollar on Friday. I really like my chances of winning our wager.”

“Why are you so confident?” I asked. I was shocked by the response I got.
“Last night I got a phone call from Lucy Morgan,” he told me. “She said she intends to come to my open house on Friday. She wanted to know if she could bring a friend from one of the other eighth-grade classes at our school. She didn’t mention the girl’s name, but I told her that was absolutely fine.”

Lucy was a very average girl: she wasn’t a great scholar nor was she a raving beauty. She was just a typical, random, black-haired 14-year-old female. The more I thought about it, the more likely it was that Jeremy’s offer would appeal to a girl like Lucy. Still, I was skeptical.

I told Jeremy, “I won’t pay you until I’ve lost the wager. You’ll get your dollar when I see Lucy, this mystery girl, or any other female on your doorstep on Friday night—and not a moment before.”

Friday morning arrived. Before the school’s morning announcements were made, I asked Jeremy if he had received any other phone calls pertaining to his “open house”.

“Nope,” he replied, “just the one from Lucy I received on Wednesday night. Remember, I didn’t say anyone had to book an appointment. The girls are free to show up unannounced. Who knows? We might have a dozen girls show up at 7 o’clock tonight to get screwed. Wouldn’t that be fun?”

I chuckled and said, “I still think you’re dreaming, Jeremy…but I hope I’m totally wrong and have to pay you this dollar I have in my pocket.”

“We’ll know one way or another in about ten hours from now, my friend,” Jeremy declared as he pointed at his wristwatch. Then he complained, “This will certainly be the longest school day I’ve ever endured!”

Part Four

I arrived at Jeremy’s house at about 6:30 that night, half an hour early. Brian arrived five minutes after I did. I laughed when I saw that Jeremy had splurged and had bought several large bottles of assorted soft drinks and just as many bags of various snacks to feed the numerous houseguests that I was certain he wouldn’t have, not including Brian and me.

“Wow, Jeremy! You have plenty of food and drinks for just the three of us,” I said with growing confidence.

Jeremy quickly replied, “I hope I have enough goodies for the dozen girls from our class I’m hoping will show up tonight.”

When the clock read 6:55 p.m. with no sign of anyone else approaching the house, I asked Jeremy, “How much did you spend on the drinks and snacks?”

“Oh, the grand total was about $8,” he replied. “Marshall, I’d like to get that money back. How about we up our bet from $1 to $8? Are you interested?”

I figured since it was so close to 7 p.m., the outcome seemed to be a sure thing in my favor, so I agreed. We shook hands on it. Literally, a few seconds later, Jeremy said, “Excuse me for a moment; I see Lucy Morgan and her friend approaching the front door. I have to do the polite thing and let them inside. You lose, Marshall; you owe me $8.” He laughed heartily.

To this day, I honestly don’t know if I was the victim of a con or if Jeremy was just an extremely lucky fellow. Whatever the case, Lucy Morgan and a second girl were entering Jeremy’s house before the clock struck seven.

Lucy’s friend was someone who was vaguely familiar to me. Her name was Deborah Elliot. She was in Class #81. I had seen her around the school, but I hadn’t really taken an interest in her. She was much like Lucy. A brown-haired girl who was on the tiny side, there was nothing very outstanding about Deborah. Still, she was greeted warmly by us, as was Lucy. I can’t speak for Brian and Jeremy, but I wasn’t planning to be choosy. The mere thought of two 14-year-old girls, plain though they might be, accepting an open invitation for a sexual romp from three horny boys was enough to get me aroused. Of course, there was an obvious problem in logistics: How do we share two girls among three boys?

Jeremy later told me he was going to suggest an orgy in which the two girls would be pleasured by all three of us simultaneously. However, he didn’t get the chance to verbalize his idea because the doorbell rang. Jeremy rushed to answer it. There stood a welcome sight: a third girl. It was a classmate of ours, Roberta Menzies, a pretty lass with dirty blonde hair who possessed a better-than-average figure for a 14-year-old. She was clearly the most fetching of the three females at the open house. Jeremy had no idea she would be arriving.

“The perfect number!” Jeremy exclaimed, obviously delighted that his brazen invitation had remarkably drawn three nubile, teenage girls to his house. “I hope no one else shows up.”

“Speak for yourself, Jeremy,” I responded with humor. “As far as I’m concerned, the more girls who show up, the merrier it will be!”

Jeremy offered the girls drinks and snacks. They all accepted. In retrospect, they were probably as nervous as we were about this highly odd arrangement and didn’t want to rush into doing anything yet.

Jeremy naturally assumed the leadership role. He stated, “We’ve all met here tonight for one purpose—to have sex for the fun of it. This is all completely voluntary. Nobody is forcing anyone to do anything he or she doesn’t want to do. Does everyone agree with that?”

We all did with either words or nods. Jeremy nodded also and continued with his speech.

“Now the question is who gets paired with whom. The three of us boys discussed this earlier. We decided that the girls would make that important decision. However, we could also do it by lottery. It’s up to you three young ladies.”

Lucy, Deborah and Roberta looked at each other and went into an impromptu huddle to discuss their options. To my surprise, they chose to have their sex partners decided by a lottery. Obviously, they weren’t especially fussy, either. Jeremy got a deck of playing cards from a nearby drawer. He selected three clubs—the ace, the ten, and the king—and put them into one pile. He similarly selected the ace, ten and king of hearts and put those three cards into a separate stack. He mixed and shuffled them thoroughly and instructed the girls to draw a card from the hearts pile. The boys did the same from the pile of clubs. Jeremy explained to the girls, “If you’ve drawn the ace of hearts you pair up with the boy who has the ace of clubs. Same thing applies with the king and the ten. Now everyone… show your card!”

I had drawn the ten of clubs. I quickly noticed that Deborah Elliot had the ten of hearts. I also saw that she had a huge smile on her face when she saw the card I was holding. That may have been the greatest compliment I had ever received in my life—and Deborah hadn’t spoken a single word.

Jeremy had drawn the same card as Lucy had; Brian had done the same with Roberta. Now that we were officially paired up, the location of where we’d do our screwing had to be clarified. Jeremy initially suggested we all do it in the rec room where we presently were—and do it in full sight of one another. The girls unanimously balked at that idea, however. (That concern amused me. It was apparently okay for these girls to screw random boys—as long as they were modest about it!) It was eventually decided that Jeremy would escort Lucy to his bedroom, Brian would take Roberta to the living room, and I would remain in the rec room with Deborah.

Part Five

The moment Deborah and I were alone, I felt the need to introduce myself. It seemed highly peculiar that I was about to have sex with a girl from my middle school whom I had never even spoken to before. Deborah did the same. I told her that it was quite a brave thing she had done to come with her friend Lucy to this carnal get-together. She said that curiosity had gotten the better of her. She also said that she liked the one-in-three odds of ending up with me as a sex partner. She said she admired me from afar. Wow!

I told her that was a terrific compliment and that I’d enjoy making love to her—that was the polite term I used—because I always found petite girls to be especially attractive. I waved Deborah to join me on the soft leather couch where I was sitting. We immediately began to kiss. I didn’t have a heck of a lot of experience doing that, but I knew Deborah was good at it after just a few seconds. In fact, she was terrific at it! Since we had a plenty of time, we spent a good 20 minutes just kissing and hugging each other. I was quickly becoming fond of this so-called plain girl.

After a while I took the initiative of unbuttoning the peach-colored blouse Deborah was wearing. She had no objection whatsoever. In fact, Deborah lifted my sweater from my torso with lust in her eyes. Deborah undid the clasp of her brassiere. She was bustier than she appeared, which I liked, of course. “Not bad!” I exclaimed when I first glimpsed her 14-year-old breasts. “Not bad at all!” I began to fondle them.

Deborah got into the spirit of things by removing the belt from my trousers and sliding them down to my ankles. I stepped out of them completely. Deborah then slid her hand into my briefs to caress my rapidly hardening dick. She informed me, “You’re not bad, yourself, Marshall. That’s a lovely penis you have. I can’t wait for you to put it where it needs to go.”

I took off my shoes and socks while Deborah proceeded to lose the black skirt she was wearing. She had pristine white panties on—which sexually excited me further. When she dropped them to the floor I was transfixed by the full picture of her nude body. This girl, whom I once thought was plain, was actually strikingly beautiful when she didn’t have a stitch of clothing on her.

We both seemed to have the same idea simultaneously. I lied in the couch. Deborah lied atop me and gave my dick oral stimulation. At the same time, I had my mouth full of her beautiful and yummy vagina. This experience was definitely worth the $8 I had foolishly lost in my wager with Jeremy!

I could feel an orgasm building. A teenage boy gets to know such things from masturbation experience. I reluctantly asked Deborah to remove my shaft from her mouth so I could give her a good fucking. “Of course!” she replied. “That’s exactly why I came here tonight!”

We changed positions on the couch, so I was now atop her. Deborah was small in stature, and I didn’t want to hurt her, so I proceeded with caution. I pushed my penis inside her vagina slowly and moved it millimeter by millimeter as far as it could go. I stopped twice to ask her if she was okay. The first time she smiled and nodded at me. The second time she said, “Marshall, I’m more than okay. This is fabulous. No more questions, just keep doing what you’re doing!”

“You wish is my command, my love!” I replied to that direct order. I began to fuck Deborah with more zeal. I knew an ejaculation was on its way. To be on the safe side, I pulled out a moment before the eruption occurred. With my first blast, I shot a thick load of white goo onto Deborah’s body around her navel. My second blast was stronger and reached her breasts. That was a wonderful visual for me. A third shot barely produced any semen. It basically dripped onto her vagina.

“How did I do, Deborah?” I asked. “This is all new to me.”

“It’s all new to me, too,” she replied. “I think you did very well, Marshall. Let’s continue doing this until Jeremy tells us to go home.”

I joyously spent three full hours with Deborah who turned out to be fantastic in every way. To say we were compatible would be a tremendous understatement. It was like we were made for each other, and our drawing matching cards was somehow an act of destiny. Deborah and I thoroughly enjoyed each other’s company. I don’t think we were physically apart for the entire 180 minutes we shared together. It was a totally beautiful experience. Undoubtedly, it was the highlight of my 14-year life to that point.

I escorted Deborah to her home. It was a seven-block walk. We stopped several times along the way to engage in passionate kissing. We really didn’t want the night to end. We made plans to be together as often as possible. When I saw Deborah at school on Monday morning, she leapt into my arms. Our passionate kissing drew a crowd of onlookers. One was a teacher, Mrs. Butler. She gave us a warning that excessive displays of affection were frowned upon. We apologized for our behavior without the slightest bit of sincerity.

That afternoon in Mr. Foster’s class, there were some extra minutes available before the final bell rang to ask him questions, so I took the opportunity. It was the first time I had ever done so.

“Sir,” I began, “you mentioned the other day that you knew you’d marry Pauline not long after you met her. How did you know that? Is there a way you can really tell if you have a genuine love for someone rather than just a physical and biological attraction?”

“Wow! What a deep and thoughtful question, Marshall! I will do my best to answer it, but first I’d like to know what inspired it. I’m thinking you might have had a wonderful experience at Jeremy’s open house on Friday night. Am I right?”

The next 20 seconds was a cacophony of gasps and laughter. I looked at Jeremy and Brian. Both of them had stunned expressions on their faces. I could tell with certainty that neither of them had spilled the beans.

Mr. Foster waited for the clamor to completely die down before saying, “Marshall, maybe I should change the name of the last few minutes of class to Mr. Foster Knows Everything. You didn’t know I was omniscient, did you?”

I sat in my desk, utterly amazed and dumbfounded.

After a few seconds of awkward silence, Mr. Foster said, “No, I’m not omniscient, Marshall, but I do hear rumors all the time. You, Brian and Jeremy had zero chance to keep last Friday’s open house a secret in this school. Besides, I think you three fellows were unaware that Deborah Elliot is my wife’s niece.”