“Come on chicken legs!” she said.
I didn’t listen. I embraced the rain. It was cold, cold rain, and the sky had become a darker hue of purple. We had to rush home, but I didn’t want to go home. I loved the rain.
She pedaled ahead of me, and I had to follow suit otherwise I would have lost my way back to the house. The rain was pouring hard enough to even cloud my vision. And the fact that I wore eye glasses did not help my perception of my surroundings in the least bit.
Remember the movie “Singing in the Rain”? I actually never got to watch it until three weeks ago. It was a brilliant movie. I loved the acting, the singing, the atmsophere. The love story was intense. The best part was close to the end where the two were on the stairs of the stage, the lady looking ethereal with her long, free, angelic gown and the surreal atmosphere. I also love the fact this has nothing to do with my post.
Not now anyway.
The road dragged on. A lightning blade sliced through the ominous clouds above, thundering the air. The rain hit hard my face and body. I could no longer ride with enough speed to follow Sarah. I told her to go easy a little bit.
“If you tilt sideways the rain won’t hit your face in the front,” she instructed. Of course, why would it? It didn’t occur to me. I had to swerve left and right as I biked.
But I enjoyed the rain. I was drenched far beyond drying. My gray shorts and white shirt turned darker as they soaked. I became heavier. The bike became heavier.
“Wait up!” I shouted. She didn’t listen; she kept forcing her way through the heavy rain. I put some effort to up my speed, but, with all the water on my glasses, I didn’t see the end of the pavement. I clumsily stumbled but steadied the bike; my glasses, however, just fell off. Not being able to stop to find them, I just carried on without them.
I should have lazik eye surgery sometime soon. It is a completely different feeling.
We eventually rounded up around the house, discarded our bikes in the backyard and headed to the warm inside. Or, maybe, it just seemed warm relative to the freezing rain and wind.
It was then that I realized that Sarah was wet.
It isn’t like I am that mentally handicapped to not think of the obvious, it just did not occur to me that she would get wet (if this sentence doesn’t make sense don’t try to decipher it). Women never get wet. Not when men want them to. But she looked… different.
I was 13.
She wasn’t the perfect figure. But why would a 13 year old care anyway? This is the best chance. Two soaked individuals, one juvenile 13 and the other around 10, in a hot kitchen.
There was only the orange juice bottle and some leftover cereal on the kitchen table. This is going to be really really hot.
I think it was in those few months in the States that I actually felt I have testosterone. After I turned 14 and went back to my regular, boring life, it took me 2 more years to self experiment and 5 years after that to have the greatest dream of all: Banging Angelina Jolie TWICE (once in a void and once on a kitchen table, with no cereal), and satisfy her (and myself) both times.
Nothing sexier than beating Brad in his game.
“Oh my God Sarah, you are wet!” I stupidly highlight the fact to her.
“Well, like, I don’t know Kinan, I think I THINK I was outside in the RAIN. And you KNOW it is made of WATER, so, like, of COURSE I will be WET DUUUUUUUUUH!” She noted that I am stupid, in a plainly American way.
She grabbed a towel and flanked it over her head.
“Well I just think that you’re kinda, I mean, wet,” where the hell was I going with this? Note to women: I am still that stupid.
“Kinaaaaan, ewwwwwwww, you are DISGUSTING! Get a LIFE!” She instructed. Note to women: I am still told to get a life. She stomped upstairs.
Oh, she wants to play hard to get now huh? Well, the bedrooms are upstairs, and so are the bathrooms and showers. It is going to be awesome.
Note to men: I had not seen porn before then.
I followed her upstairs. This is going to be a blast. Of course, I had no idea what sex is, much less how to do it. I don’t even recall I had an erection, and even if I did, it would take me some years to know what to do with it.
I went up anyway. I am sure she would show me the ropes. Even if she were 10, who cares! That idiot Tom/Bob thing had a crush on her… it is either me or him. And I had to take this opportunity.
Of course I am now speaking in retrospective.
I went up.
“It suddenly rained on us!” she said. To whom?
I continued up the stairs. Surely this must be the female way of attracting inseminating men. First by complaining, to draw attention, then by playing victim, to draw sympathy and sex.
Of course. This had to be it. I couldn’t possibly be wrong. She had been giving me hints so many times and I just overlooked them. I played the role of the forbidden fruit. She wanted me and bad. Really bad.
It is all text book.
I reached upstairs.
She was talking to her dad.