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I began to feel an inner tickle right at the start of high school. At night in bed, my hands hadn’t made any formal connections into the pleasure zones, but I was occasionally waking up in a bit of a lather. By day, the prospect of making out with the star quarterback in our backyard gazebo was a delectable diversion from calculus, although he had a retinue of very game blondes at his disposal.
The first summer after freshman year, I was sent away to my four-week tennis camp. My aptitude in sports and music was seen as the finishing touch for admission to one of the elite colleges that my family had staked out for me.
Tennis camp also meant a heavenly respite from Webberworld. My developing body and tanned legs were starting to float across the court, attracting the lead instructor, or so I thought. His name was Bradley and he was a devilishly handsome nineteen-year-old who had a lot of the girls eyeing his tanned legs as well.
In short: the perfect naughty boy.
I spent the first week crushing on Bradley. I assumed the outcome would be no different than that of my earlier failed fantasy for the trumpeter Tommy Reed.
A clod—that’s how I envisioned myself on the tennis court. At least that’s how it was in the beginning. But soon, tennis began having its way with me: thinning out my middle and growing my legs stronger, defining them, overlapping my quadriceps from muscular hypertrophy. One of my major advantages was I was practiced. I picked up a racquet for the first time at age five and had spent countless summers at tennis camp, playing eight hours every day. I learned how to use the entirety of my kid body to generate tremendous racquet-head speed.
I remember the first match I played that summer with Bradley looking on. Gliding across the baseline, I anticipated where my opponent was going with the ball: cross-court, down the line, inside out, lob, or short. I may have felt clunky, but I was fast and consistent, the little power player no one saw coming, whipping my forehand across the net at lightning speed. I rushed the net and slammed the ball down the other girl’s throat, grunting upon impact, fist pumping like the champs.
Suddenly, more boys appeared. Motivated by the fervor, I leaned in, hitting an impossible volley just barely retrieved, followed by a pounding overhead slam heard clear across the campus. The boys on the sidelines were hollering. They wanted to see a tennis chick throw down. The energy was infectious; I’d been bitten by glory.
During one of my matches, I bent over to pick up two tennis balls, seductively storing them in my tennis underwear. Where had I learnedthatmove? I sauntered over to the baseline, looked across the net at my opponent, and calculated which corner I wanted the ball to drop into. I coyly removed a ball from my panties. With my knees bent in a power stance, I bounced the ball with my left hand, preparing my right arm for maximal racquet-head speed. I tossed the ball—brief pause as it achieved peak height in the air, right arm maximally torqued—then I made impact, sending the wailing ball just past the other girl’s forehand. “ACE!” the referee shouted. Game. Set. Match. It felt like it was finally my turn to win.
Soon, I realized that Bradley was giving me a good deal of special instruction, especially in the toss-and-serve motion. Not that I was staring, but there seemed to be a little tent being pitched in his groin area.
As a reward for our hard work on the court one day, the camp director threw a movie night. As the hour grew late, the weary campers retired to their bunks one by one, while Bradley hung back. He was older and accustomed to late hours, wise to the fact that there was an invisible nightly inflection in which human behavior changed from the mundane tease to the fiery climax.
I had nodded off watching an old classic,Caddyshack. Suddenly I felt droplets of ice on my cheek and neck. Despite the late hour, Bradley had the intense Darwinian look that should have been a warning.
“Rory,” he whispered. “Come upstairs.”
My body filled with excitement. My face flushed and I felt the impetuous itch down below.
I let Bradley guide me by the hand to his room. Once we had gotten there, Bradley wasted no time. He pulled me in close, placed his hands firmly on my cheeks and led with his tongue, rolling it deep into my mouth. Quite honestly, it was the most disgusting sensation I had ever experienced, and I recoiled immediately.
In a panic, I tried to retreat.
“Bradley. Maybe I’m not ready.”
“Shhh, Rory. It’s okay. Why don’t we just lie here for a bit?”
“Okay.”
That seemed harmless enough. I lay down next to him as he fondled my body parts. This was not at all the make-out session that had cued my fantasies. I felt like I was suffocating, desperate to get out of his room. Caught in Bradley’s now-tender massage for what felt like an eternity, my lids eventually grew heavy and I fell asleep.
I awoke with a start nearly thirty minutes later, my eyes trawling down my body reflexively, checking for clothing that was amiss. Nothing had been unbuttoned or unzipped. I could see that Bradley had passed out as well. I squirmed my way out of his bed and snuck out of the room. Once in the hallway, I ran to the nearest pay phone and called home, collect. (Cell phones were prohibited.)
“Rory is on the line,” the operator droned. “Do you accept the charges?”
“Yes,” my mother answered, her tone drowsy but irate.
“Mom!?” I whispered in a panic.
“What is it, Rory? What’s wrong?”
“Mom. I think I just had SEX!”
“What?! What do you mean you just had sex? You know the rules. ABSOLUTELY NO SEX! LEGS CLOSED. Tell me what happened.”
“Well, he was my counselor. He invited me to his room, and I fell asleep. I slept with him, mom!”
“Rory. Were your clothes off? Was there penetration?”
“Penetration?”
