the drive-in, some hands retreating in defeat, and then there are others, like his, that manage and move quickly before being denied. On-screen, the detective lights a cigarette and seems to look out at all the cars. There is a woman whom the detective loves, too, but in the movie, you already know he’s going to have to wait to get to her. And still, it won’t be this, an earnest but inconsequential boy who is sweating at the brow from nerves and delirium, his mouth impatient at each nipple. He has never felt a pair of breasts before, not by the way his hands clamor underneath your bra. He has to learn to open the blouse completely first, how to caress buttons. He has to learn to be gentle and enjoy the feel of skin, give pleasure instead of just taking it. But right now, his eyes round out, dewy and unblinking at his first sight of rosy nipples. He is twenty-three but still a boy. He puts his mouth on each nipple and has to have his hand guided to your other breast. You reach down to feel him because this is what he wants, what he needs, and there’s just the sound now of months and months of his desires finally being met. He’s doing the moaning now, the teenage voice from years ago stuck in his throat as his thick cowboy belt buckle gets undone for him and the top button released. He wore brand-new underwear—the elastic is too tight—and there is his warm thickness. It’s enormous and probably beautiful, but he’s too young and inexperienced to know that yet. His stomach is coated with that familiar stickiness and he rests his forehead on the car door while he’s fondled. Who can tell what he is thinking, a soft hand stroking him hard enough that he actually has to pull away, but keeping his forehead on the door as if he’s ashamed? The detective on the screen is giving chase along the dark streets of a city, but no one cares about the pursuit. A car just ahead is bobbing ever so slightly. There is nothing wrong with wanting like this. Even better with a young man of twenty-three, still mired in shame: he won’t be bragging to anyone, still thinking what he’s doing is dirty, and you can go back to work at the shoe store with no one ever gossiping about you. His hands have to be brought down to the wet warmth that he’s never come close to, even in his imagination, his fingers guided around and inside. He’s a sweet boy, but you know, after he drops you off, that he’ll be smelling those fingers all the way home.
The pickup truck is absolutely still—or is it moving? There is no telling what they are or are not doing in there. Who could push away Dan Watson? Because the speaker is off, from way over in the distance a girl’s furious moans carry along the dirt lane, then some quiet laughter from people sitting on their hoods, watching the movie. Whoever heard that laughter—how people react when exposed to that kind of desire, with laughter or disgust or disapproval—might stop what they were doing. But it’s happening all across the darkness, panties slipping off and resting playfully on the gearshift, on the radio knob. Yours is twenty-three and doesn’t know what he’s doing and he admits that he’s a virgin in a terrified voice. He thrusts and it feels good only because you close your eyes and picture yourself in the pickup truck instead, the way Dan walks, the waitresses who feel dirty for thinking of him that way because they knew him when he was a little, little boy. They know his mother. You close your eyes and think of Dan but concentrate on this boy, holding him at the hips when he begins rocking too fast, getting carried away to a point when he won’t be able to control himself. He’s sweet in his earnestness—he truly is—and he stops when you tell him to do so, his face covered in sweat. He looks like he is about to cry.
Car engines begin to turn on even before the movie is over, and horns blast at the disorder—some people want to know who committed the murder, who made the beautiful girl scream like that. The pickup truck stands absolutely still, the silhouettes hard to pick out now because of the shifting lights and shadows. It