Running Home Wouldn’t Get That Done

They settled on an old Impala with two young guys in it.
 
“Let me do the talking this time,” Holly Jo told Francine.
 
They had done this before, gotten a couple of guys to take them out drinking and for a little loving. It was the loving more than the drinking they were after. The first time had been a couple of boys from the other high school in town. Holly Jo had let her boy feel her boobs and touch her pussy. That guy was happy with a handjob. Francine had been squirming away in the backseat almost as soon as they had driven off from the BP station with the twelve pack of beer.
 
This sophomore boy from the county high school she got the second time only wanted to kiss her. She had even taken his hand a couple of times and placed it on her boob, but he just let it lay there. Francine had done the talking that time. This time around Holly Jo wanted to get a couple of guys who knew how to fuck.
 
That’s all she and Francine had talked about the prior week.
 
“It’s time to get laid,” Holly Jo would say to her in the hallway.
 
This time Holly Jo was ready to go all the way. She had stolen some of her dad’s rubbers: he was in Afghanistan again. There was even a little jar of lubricant in case she needed it. That was the thing—she really had no idea what she needed. She just thought that, at age 16, she was finally ready to have a dick in her.
 
When one of the guys came out of the station with a six pack, she was ready. He looked a little older than she had thought.
 
“Need some help with that beer?” she asked, leaning against the bottled water stacked in front of the store, holding her shoulders back to make her boobs look bigger than the 32B that they were.
 
He stopped in his tracks and looked to the voice. Yep, he was twenty five, maybe even older.
 
“We sure do,” he smiled at her.
 
He looked over to Francine and then back to the car.
 
“Just the two of you?” he said.
 
Holly Jo nodded, still concerned about his age. She almost turned and grabbed Francine and ran for the safety of her grandpa’s house down the street. No. Tonight they were getting laid. Running home wouldn’t get that done.
 
She glanced at Francine and raised her eyebrows in question. Francine nodded. She was good to go.
 
“Better get more beer,” she offered up.
 
The guy laughed and shook his head rapidly up and down.
 
“Hell yes. We’ll get enough to get a buzz on.”
 
The girls waited while he went back in and got another twelve pack of some kind of light beer.
 
Eddie and Paul seemed like nice enough young fellows. The guys had each cracked a 40, Eddie up front with Francine, and Paul in the back with Holly Jo.
 
“Duck,” Holly Jo said when they went past Grandpa’s. They both leaned over out of sight and Paul grabbed her neck while she was down there and pushed her face into his crotch.
 
“Hey, stop,” she said, her voice muffled against his denim pants.
 
She felt his grip loosen and he was laughing.
 
“Just fooling around, sweetie.”
 
She laughed too. She didn’t think she wanted to have her face pushed against his dick. She hadn’t even thought about that—blowjobs being something older guys might want.
 
Francine was already giggling from the immediate effects of the beer she just chugged. Eddie reached out and played with the boob nearest him. He motioned for her to slide over next to him on the bench seat.
 
“Where to?” Eddie said toward the rearview mirror.
 
“Only place I know much about is the plant,” Paul answered. “You girls got a good spot?”
 
Holly Jo had never much thought about where she’d get laid. You can’t go just anywhere and take your pants off.
 
“What plant?” she asked.
 
“The old auto plant. The one we’re tearing down,” Paul said.
 
He had his arm around Holly Jo, drawing her tight. She squirmed at first then sat still.
 
“You work over there?” she asked, thinking of Grandpa.
 
“Yep. My uncle contracted for the demolition. He’s getting fifty per cent of the scrap value to tear it down. Says he can retire off this job.”
 
“You done with that beer yet?” Eddie said and reached a couple full ones over the seat to Paul.
 
“Bottom’s up. Get that in you,” he said and tipped her beer up until it ran down her cheeks.
 
“Party time,” Francine shouted to the roof liner on the old car. “Partaaayyy.”
 
“Right on,” Holly Jo hollered back.
 
They had known each other since kindergarten and this was just one more adventure together. They had kissed their first boys on the same night. Smoked their first joint and drank their first beers together. Tonight it looked like they were both going to get laid.
 
As soon as they pulled over beneath the clouds of oily smoke at the factory, Eddie and Paul laid out some lines of crank and snorted away. In a little bit they were jabbering and sucking down the beers, kissing and fondling the girls in between sips. Paul emptied another and tossed the can on the floor and pushed Holly Jo into the big seat and laid on her. He kissed her so hard she felt smothered. She could feel his dick pressing into her thigh and kissed him back.
 
By the time he was working her jeans down her legs she was starting to feel good. She could feel her heart pounding and feel Paul’s calloused hand on her boobs. Her panties came off in a tear, but she didn’t care. She heard one more “Partaaayyy” from up front and heard the rally cry muffled as Eddie pulled Francine down on the seat.
 
Paul rubbed her too hard. That was not how she wanted it done. She was feeling lighter in the head at every moment, less in control of her body. Then he was on top of her, wouldn’t listen about putting on a rubber, finally pushed hard against her chin to shut her up about the condom, and he was in her, pumping hard and fast and in a couple minutes he rolled off and got Eddie to give him another beer.
 
Holly Jo sat looking out the fogged window at this place where her grandpa had spent most of his adult life. When she was very little, he had talked to her about working here someday if she wanted to. And she had thought maybe she would try it. But then the place closed down in 2008 during what her grandpa called the final end of capitalism. She sat for a minute peering out the hole she cleaned off the steamed window, watching the white and black smoke drift past their car like a low-hanging cloud. She heard a beer tab pop. She felt Eddie pulling her left leg back onto the seat. This is all she remembered for a long time.
 
In the two hour period she was out, she knew he fucked her again, maybe several times. Francine didn’t remember that time period either, so Holly Jo always wondered what had transpired.
 
When she woke, Paul was again forcing her head into his crotch and she saw his dick and smelled herself and him together and pushed herself away. But he was right on her head again with his right hand, pushing her in toward him. “Suck me, little girl. Suck my cock,” and she could hear both Eddie and Paul laughing.
 
The car was moving, maybe it had been moving for a while, she didn’t know, couldn’t tell. Paul kept pushing her head down and she kept fighting. She wasn’t going to do that, and then she felt his fist, hard against the side of her head. All she remembered was him pushing and yelling, “Suck it, bitch,” then more punches on her head and back. The door came open and he tore her bra and top from her body.
 
“Naked slut bitch,” he shouted over the taillights.
 
Holly Jo knew through her stupor and pain that she was on a road. She crawled off of it just as a car whizzed by. She crawled down into the shallow ditch, shivering from the chill spring air, not really sure if she wanted to live. She thought about how angry Grandpa was about the plant—the tearing down and poisoning of what had once been a beautiful spot to him.

Front Page Image by Colby Stopa.

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William Trent Pancoast

About the Author

William Trent Pancoast's novels include Wildcat (2010) and Crashing (1983). His short stories, essays, and editorials have appeared in MONKEYBICYCLE, Night Train, As It Ought To Be, Solidarity Magazine, and US News & World Report. Pancoast is retired from the auto industry after thirty years as a die maker and union newspaper editor. Born in 1949, the author lives in Ontario, Ohio. He has a BA in English from the Ohio State University.
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