High school . . . full of expectations, frustrations, and disappointments. And yet, we wouldn’t trade those years for anything. Or would we?
I suppose it’s only natural to look back from the perspective of adulthood and fantasize about how things might have been different, if we had been a bit less cautious—and a bit more bold.
Personally, I would have encouraged that much-too-shy boy who sat behind me in history class, maybe even letting him know how much I would have enjoyed chatting with him over a pizza, and maybe later, snuggling at the drive-in.
I can still remember all those afternoons I pretended to study, waiting for the phone to ring, hoping it was Tommy, or Bill, or even Stephen. And at bedtime, wondering if my lack of dates was the result of genetic misfortune—my face too plain, or my body too boyish to motivate someone to ask.
But that was the irony of being young. Not realizing how much waited for us, available just for the asking.
Here’s a brief synopsis of The Possibilities of Amy:
Amy is the ultimate trophy girl—gorgeous face, killer body, and a vivacious personality. But there’s something else about her, something that makes her even more special. Amy is new. A transfer student from out of state, she’s starting her senior year without knowing a soul. And that means she’s up for grabs, available.
Infatuated from the moment he sees her, David is determined to meet Amy, and if the fates are willing, to spend the rest of his life with her. But his shyness prevents him from approaching her—until his friends devise a contest to determine who will be the first to prove their manhood by seducing her.
Here’s an excerpt:
I had not met her, yet she consumed my every waking thought. Sometimes, sitting alone in my room, I wondered if she had any inkling of how much my life revolved around her. Every night I prayed for the chance to tell her.
The first time I saw Amy, she was leaning against the green-board, waiting for Senior English to begin. She was a transfer student—arriving three weeks after the start of the school year—requiring her to stand on ceremonious display as she waited for the teacher to provide a seat assignment.
I had never seen anything like her.
Standing about five foot five, she had thick blond hair that feathered over her shoulders to the middle of her back. Her face displayed the kind of beauty I had previously seen only in fashion magazines—shiny, little-girl bangs set over large, vivid blue eyes that flashed in sync to brilliant white teeth. Her skin was flawless, her legs and arms a warm shade of chestnut spice, the tan appearing to come from underneath, as if God Himself had warned the sun to color, but not burn.
And then there was that incredible seventeen-year-old body. A tiny mole dotted her chest just below the collarbone and, like a friendly road sign, it directed the eyes lower, to large, rounded breasts—not hung like coconuts, but each one presented in flawless contour, each one crying for attention. Even her clothes could not conceal the spectacular perfection of it all, the seam of her fitted dress revealing the half-moon valley of her waist and the perfect ripe curve of her ass.
I fell in love with that body. So did every male in the senior class.
And while I could sense many of the girls were already questioning her right to invade their pre-established numbers, I was also aware of more than a few who were considering the possibilities.
The possibilities of Amy.
From that day on—the day of Amy’s arrival into my life—I looked forward to English class the way a child looks forward to Christmas and birthdays.
After school, in the solitude of my own thoughts, I spent hours devising intricate fantasies to bring us together—euphoric daydreams that invariably plunged my beloved Amy into some horrible, frenzied conflict. Alone and terrified, she faced the ghastly predicaments of an unwilling captive, languishing without hope,until my just-in-time arrival predictably resolved every problem and vanquished every foe. My reveries always ended with Amy’s confirmation of her undying and eternal devotion, leaving us forever in love and deliriously happy.
At night, however, my delusions grew into obsessions. Envisioning her beside me, I would move close to her conjured form, craving a taste of her. As my hand gently skimmed the surface of the pillow, I would touch her hair, the lobes of her ears, and the smooth soft skin of her neck. Too stimulated to sleep, I would lay there for hours, my rigid penis pressed against the mattress until my hand would eventually take over, confirming Amy’s surrender as she granted me every carnal pleasure.
I desperately searched for her phone number. Just to have it, to be able to recite it from memory. Even after the operator told me it was unlisted, I still repeatedly scanned the phone book, as if expecting it to magically appear from my sheer need to find it.
I ached to know where she lived. So I could drive by. And if courage and timing were right, wave at her as I saw her coming or going.
But I had nothing—nothing but fifty minutes a day, when she was close enough to see, but too far away to start a conversation. And so I sat at my desk like a devout parishioner attending church, worshipping her.
Like a shy and foolish schoolboy, I had waited for circumstances to bring us together. The last two Thursday nights I made sure I had a clean shirt and jeans, just in case Friday found us face-to-face, friendly and talking, getting along in a way that seemed so natural, so right, that she would want to go out for a pizza and a movie. But the opportunity for flirtatious banter had never materialized, leaving my hopes of our exchanging a kiss with the lingering aroma of melted cheese and pepperoni on our breaths an unfulfilled dream.
As my frustration grew in proportion to my unrequited desire, I began to pray for divine intervention, a miraculous reshuffling of the seating chart that would position Amy directly in front of me.
It would change my world—to be near enough to reach out and touch her.
But after two weeks of pleading my case to the Almighty, it was obvious that God was not predisposed to our meeting. If Amy was going to become part of my life, I was going to have to take the initiative and somehow find the courage to say hello.
Every morning I practiced for the possibility. Standing in front of the mirror, I quietly recited the same words, over and over: “Today is the day. Today I will walk up to her and introduce myself. Today I will let her know in a most clever and confident way that I find her attractive. And then I will off-handedly mention that we should go out, suggesting this weekend would be perfect.”
My rehearsals inevitably left me in a clammy sweat and my stomach tied in knots. But it didn’t matter. I was willing to endure it all—whatever it took. Because there was something else about Amy, something that made her even more special.
Amy was new.
It meant we could start from scratch. There would be no awkward common history or mutually-shared embarrassing experiences to taint our beginnings. She wouldn’t be able to remember me losing my swim trunks at the sixth-grade pool party. She was free of the mental trauma I would have certainly inflicted by spilling Coke on her pink taffeta dress during her thirteenth birthday party. As far as Amy was concerned, I was a stranger, with no phobias or syndromes renamed in my honor.
I knew I had to act soon, as any advantage to be gained from her newly-arrived status would soon be lost to those bolder and more aggressive. And from the way she seemed to fit right into her new surroundings—busily exchanging hello’s, and what I hoped were not phone numbers—it was apparent that this kind of beauty would not sit quietly, waiting for the shy or less confident to finally work up the nerve to speak.
And so from the very first moment I saw her, standing in front of the green board, I had to meet her, touch her, and convince her to spend the rest of her life with me.
Author Bio: Jaye Frances is the author of the new romance novella, The Possibilities of Amy, and the paranormal/occult romance book The Kure, the first novel in The Kure series. She is also a featured columnist for the NUSA SUN magazine. Jaye was born in the Midwest and grew up surrounded by traditional values and conservative attitudes (which she quickly discarded). She readily admits that her life’s destination has been the result of an open mind and a curiosity about all things irreverent. When she’s not consumed by her writing, Jaye enjoys cooking, traveling to all places tropical and “beachy” and taking pictures—lots of pictures—many of which find their way to her website. Jaye lives on the central gulf coast of Florida, sharing her home with one husband, six computers, four cameras, and several hundred pairs of shoes. For more information, visit Jaye’s website at www.jayefrances.com, or Jaye’s Blog at http://blog.jayefrances.com
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