Warren, Part Three
Getting on Warren's good side turned out to be pretty simple. He and his friends liked that I had a car, I think. Soon I was bussing Anna, Warren, Heather and their friend Eric home after school pretty much every day.
Warren still intimidated me, and so I was meek and pliant at first. But when I found a mysterious pattern of cigarette burns on the back of my front passenger seat I wasn't scared to point the finger at him. "You're the only one who sits behind that seat, Warren." His eyes welled with tears as he swore he would never do something like that to me. We were friends, he pleaded. I knew he had done it. He knew I knew he had done it. But he also knew how happy it would make me to hear him confirm our friendship outloud.
Months earlier, when Warren had finished high school, his life had come to a screeching halt. The boy just had no ambition. He seemed pretty content doing nothing. He and Anna were on-again/off-again, although they always remained good friends. He would stay at her place or in Heather's treehouse during the weekends. During the week he stayed at his dad's place in a lake development outside of town. He had no car, and so Anna's grandmother used to drive him home on Sundays. She was relieved when I offered to take him for her. "It's on my way," I lied.
One night, as we sat in his dad's driveway, Warren gave me a kiss. I don't remember how it happened, only that it was soft and sweet. And I remember being terrified that his dad would look out the window and see us, and wondering if that's why he had done it. I knew his dad was a royal asshole. My friend Marti's mother had told me, "Warren's parents may as well have just thrown he and his sister in the garbage. It couldn't have been any worse than what they did to those kids."
Sunday evenings soon became my favorite part of the week. We wouldn't always kiss; sometimes we would just talk. He started telling me secrets. He told me about Paul, the man who lived up the street from Warren's dad's place. Paul, who was in his 30s, was the grown son of my Methodist preacher. I had always thought he was a bit creepy. Warren confessed that he had had sex with Paul several times. "The first time we did it, I woke up the next morning and he had already left for work. And he'd left a bottle of wine and twenty bucks." He said it made him feel so dirty that he drank the whole bottle of wine and cried.
One Sunday night, Warren suggested that we go to Paul's house. "Paul always has weed." I agreed, although when he turned out not to be home I was secretly relieved. We sat in my car in Paul's driveway. With no fear of Warren's dad looking out the window, our makeout session got more heated than usual. Warren put his hand on my crotch. He unzipped my pants. Before I knew what to say, he was giving me a blowjob.
Clearly he knew what he was doing. It was the most amazing, exhilirating thing I'd ever felt in my life. It would have been perfect if I hadn't been so concerned about reciprocating. I didn't know how to do what he was doing. I was certain that if I tried, it wasn't going to feel the way it did when he did it. I was scared, I guess. So I did something I'll always regret: nothing.
"It's okay," he said after it was over. But I could tell that it wasn't. Eleven years later, I still feel guilty for not at least trying to explain myself. He naturally assumed that I was using him. In a way, I guess maybe I was.
We never talked about that episode after that. And we never made out again. After that night, whenver I would drive him home he would just jump out of the car and run into his house. Months later, when I went away to college, my little sister had a nasty accident while driving my old car. It was totaled, but amazingly she escaped without a scratch. I was talking to Anna on the phone from my dorm room in New York City when Warren got on the line and asked if my sister was all right. "We had some good times in that car," he said. It seemed like our friendship was going to survive.
(To Be Concluded)
Warren still intimidated me, and so I was meek and pliant at first. But when I found a mysterious pattern of cigarette burns on the back of my front passenger seat I wasn't scared to point the finger at him. "You're the only one who sits behind that seat, Warren." His eyes welled with tears as he swore he would never do something like that to me. We were friends, he pleaded. I knew he had done it. He knew I knew he had done it. But he also knew how happy it would make me to hear him confirm our friendship outloud.
Months earlier, when Warren had finished high school, his life had come to a screeching halt. The boy just had no ambition. He seemed pretty content doing nothing. He and Anna were on-again/off-again, although they always remained good friends. He would stay at her place or in Heather's treehouse during the weekends. During the week he stayed at his dad's place in a lake development outside of town. He had no car, and so Anna's grandmother used to drive him home on Sundays. She was relieved when I offered to take him for her. "It's on my way," I lied.
One night, as we sat in his dad's driveway, Warren gave me a kiss. I don't remember how it happened, only that it was soft and sweet. And I remember being terrified that his dad would look out the window and see us, and wondering if that's why he had done it. I knew his dad was a royal asshole. My friend Marti's mother had told me, "Warren's parents may as well have just thrown he and his sister in the garbage. It couldn't have been any worse than what they did to those kids."
Sunday evenings soon became my favorite part of the week. We wouldn't always kiss; sometimes we would just talk. He started telling me secrets. He told me about Paul, the man who lived up the street from Warren's dad's place. Paul, who was in his 30s, was the grown son of my Methodist preacher. I had always thought he was a bit creepy. Warren confessed that he had had sex with Paul several times. "The first time we did it, I woke up the next morning and he had already left for work. And he'd left a bottle of wine and twenty bucks." He said it made him feel so dirty that he drank the whole bottle of wine and cried.
One Sunday night, Warren suggested that we go to Paul's house. "Paul always has weed." I agreed, although when he turned out not to be home I was secretly relieved. We sat in my car in Paul's driveway. With no fear of Warren's dad looking out the window, our makeout session got more heated than usual. Warren put his hand on my crotch. He unzipped my pants. Before I knew what to say, he was giving me a blowjob.
Clearly he knew what he was doing. It was the most amazing, exhilirating thing I'd ever felt in my life. It would have been perfect if I hadn't been so concerned about reciprocating. I didn't know how to do what he was doing. I was certain that if I tried, it wasn't going to feel the way it did when he did it. I was scared, I guess. So I did something I'll always regret: nothing.
"It's okay," he said after it was over. But I could tell that it wasn't. Eleven years later, I still feel guilty for not at least trying to explain myself. He naturally assumed that I was using him. In a way, I guess maybe I was.
We never talked about that episode after that. And we never made out again. After that night, whenver I would drive him home he would just jump out of the car and run into his house. Months later, when I went away to college, my little sister had a nasty accident while driving my old car. It was totaled, but amazingly she escaped without a scratch. I was talking to Anna on the phone from my dorm room in New York City when Warren got on the line and asked if my sister was all right. "We had some good times in that car," he said. It seemed like our friendship was going to survive.
(To Be Concluded)
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