Desiree

Kenneth C. Goldman One-Time/Reprint Rights

1700 Oakwood Terrace, Apt. 3-G ©2009, Ken Goldman

Narberth, PA 19072 Approx. 27,845 words

215-208-6384 e-mail: [email protected]

Desirée (Part 1)

by

Ken Goldman

If one time with Desirée you should kiss

Then no other lips will you ever miss.

And if two times with Desirée you should smooch,

Then never will you show interest in another girl’s cooch.

But if three times with Desirée your lips should lock,

Then, I’m sorry, my friend, say goodbye to your cock.

-- “Kissing Desirée”

Poem by Leonard Dowbyrd, Age 17

Desirée Chappelle is a homicidal bitch!

-- Found on a bathroom wall at

Glenn Echoes State College (2000)

Sunday, October 31, 1982 (Carlotta, Halloween Eve)

“What I give to you is myself.”

A woman who gives birth

Is a mother partly,

But she who suckles

Is a mother completely

- Jacob Cats (Dutch)

First half of the 19th Century

The adults of Glenn Echoes knew better than to allow their trick-or-treating children to ring the bell of the old house on Greystone Street. Carlotta Chappelle would not have answered anyway. Never would she have removed her nursling from her breast, not if Jesus himself appeared at her doorstep wanting some candy. Near her mother’s heart, this was where her infant belonged and where she spent most of her waking hours. Had the newborn drunk the very life blood from her body, Carlotta would have given it freely.

“Drink up, my beautiful one, drink up. That’s right, child. Mama’s milk. There’s nothing better. So good. So very good ... ”

Carlotta had no use for Judeo-Christian dogma, no reverence for deities or demons, for Testaments old or new. Rejecting doctrine from the pulpits of popes, priests, and proselytizers, the only bible she followed was T.V. Guide. Her daughter’s well being required more than mindless invocations to a God that wasn’t there, or to a Devil that was. Carlotta’s true religion was Motherhood, and only maternal love would protect her infant from the evils the world abundantly provided.

“Know this, my little one. Your mother’s purpose is to live for her child, her only desire to love and watch over you. So drink, for what I give to you is myself.”

Carlotta’s breast swelled pink as her daughter suckled with a fervor uncommon for one so fresh to the world. The mother kissed the top of her child’s head, chanted a tuneless strain conceived from the darkest reaches of her soul. On All Hallows Eve her song to her nursling seemed especially appropriate.

“Desirée drink and Desirée fill!

Drink and drink and drink until . . .”

Saturday, September 23, 1995 (Tommy, Tamara, and Desirée)

“You can french kiss me if you want.”

One huge cake, thirteen candles, two redheaded kids sharing the ceremony by blowing them out together. Twins Tommy and Tamara Drenoff were turning thirteen today.

Friends and neighbors joined in a rousing rendition of “Happy Birthday to You” followed by cheers and one snickering jeer of brother, Tommy. He happily added the inevitable chorus of “You look like a monkey and smell like one too.” In sibling rivalry mode Tamara returned the favor when it came her brother’s turn by substituting ‘monkey’ with the words ‘douche bag.’

Following cake, parents Steven and Holly dutifully joined the adults in the family room upstairs, leaving eighteen partying kids below - conveniently nine boys, nine girls - to continue their festivities unchaperoned in the dimmed light of the Drenoffs’ recreation room. On Tommy’s new stereo his sister’s favorite Cyndi Lauper CD warbled “Girls Just Want to Have Fun,” but Cyndi’s lyrics proved only half true. Nine prepubescent boys nursing brand new wood intended to have their share of fun too. Tommy’s speakers boomed loudly enough to ensure that his young guests’ afternoon entertainment was not overheard by any coffee sipping parents upstairs.

“My brother Tommy wants to play a game!” birthday girl Tamara chirped, although the game had been her idea. When Tommy held up the empty Coke bottle and made lip smacking sounds, every kid in the room knew what that meant.

Some girls giggled, but that was expected. Desirée Chappelle was first to take her seat on the floor, her fingers twirling hair that shone like black marble even in the low light. Desirée’s breasts had already displayed a healthy summer growth spurt presaging the perky melons that would soon sprout. Those thriving attributes provided reason enough for several among the group of young girls to hate her.

Boy-girl-boy-girl they sat in a circle, the glass vessel in the center. This part of the ritual the assembly had down cold, Spin The Bottle having been perfected during several earlier birthday celebrations. But Tamara had added her interpretation of the bottle spinning rules. Girl/boy kisses were fine, she informed her pals, as were girl/girl kisses. But boy/boy kissing was a no-no because that was just yucky. First time boy/girl kisses could be simple pecks, but second ones had to go at least five seconds. And if you landed on the same person a third time, then fuck yes! -- you hit the jackpot. That meant at least seven minutes in the coat closet with no holds barred. Once that door had shut a girl could say no to anything below the neck, but above the neck was fair game, and that included tongues.

The bottle’s first round was disappointing. Rachel Korn, a skinny girl whose prominent overbite proved downright painful to several young horn dogs, had been the luckiest recipient of the Coke bottle’s favor. Tommy felt satisfied with his half-a-loaf reward. It beat having to kiss Stephanie Harrad, who, as everyone knew, had breath that smelled like bad fish. When Tommy’s turn came around a second time he silently prayed that the Coke bottle would find its way to Desirée.

Closing his eyes, he gave the vessel one mighty spin.

“WOOOOOOOoooooooooooooooooo!!!!” the hormonal chorus sang, and one look at the bottle’s neck told the tale. Desirée smiled, knee-walking over to the birthday boy to deliver his lip glossed reward. Her kiss was the obligatory peck, but it was on the lips and Tommy’s face burned crimson. His reaction was not entirely embarrassment. Tommy’s real birthday gift throbbed inside his pants, and he hoped no one detected his subsequent crotch concealing maneuvers.

With Desirée’s turn God’s hand aligned the Coke bottle correctly a second time. Still nursing an unmistakable hard-on, Tommy managed to ass crawl to Desirée without drawing unwanted attention to his twitching manhood, although he felt certain he saw Desirée steal a glimpse.

“No tongues, okay?” she asked.

He agreed, his face close enough to feel her warm breath.

“One! ... Two! ... Three! ... Four! ... ” sixteen friends chanted with the synchronism of a metronome. To Tommy’s surprise Desirée’s kiss exceeded the expected five seconds, and around the ninth she did slip in a little tongue. The sweet sensation crackled through the birthday boy like an electric current. When their moment ended the two stared at each other, mindful of their shared secret. A great cheer from the others returned them to their places in the circle.

Throughout the next round the pair continued stealing peeks at one another. Sometimes

Tommy looked away, Desirée’s glance outlasting his, his erection eagerly awaiting his next turn at the bottle. When finally it came, the boy was in a sweat.

“How about you give some other girls a chance!” Sondra Wickers shouted out, adding an unconvincing laugh. Aware of the cluster of pimples dotting Sondra’s chin Tommy spun the bottle hoping to keep his chin far from hers.

“You lucky bastard!” Perry DeFino shouted when the bottle stopped at Desirée again. “You fucking lucky bastard!” Maybe Perry meant this as a good pal’s ribbing -- he was always joking about Desiree Chappelle’s ripening ‘ba-zooms’ -- but there seemed a touch of resentment in his voice. Tommy didn’t care. Only one thing mattered now, and it waited for him inside the darkened closet.

Alone with her, Tommy reached for Desirée. “Will you let me, you know ... french you?” Like a silken angel she glided close to him, her lip gloss taking on an iridescent glow inside the small chamber.

“I never kissed a boy before. I mean, there were a few pecks like today at other parties, but I never really kissed a boy, you know?”

Tommy touched her hair, looked hard at her face. Desirée’s lips seemed impossibly full. “Me neither. I mean, about kissing a girl. But if there was any girl I wanted to be my first, I would’ve picked you.”

Desirée smiled, moved closer. “You can french kiss me if you want.”

“Do you want me to?”

Feather soft, her lips brushed his.

“Yes.”

For nearly twenty minutes he remained inside the coat closet with Desirée Chappelle, emerging with a grin that displayed a mouth smeared with crimson gloss.

His thirteenth birthday was the best birthday Tommy Drenoff ever had.

It was also his last.