Miranda's Journey

"Oooh," she moaned, her fingers performing their magic. "Yes. Fuck me. Please . . ."

Suddenly, her friend Laurie's voice came to her. "Did you know that George Jeffries is hung like a horse? He is huuuge!"

"How do you know?" another girl, a redhead named Marianne, said. They'd been in the school cafeteria on a sleepy, gloomy April day, picking at their lunch. "Have you, like, seen it or something?"

"Better," Laurie had said. "I've tasted it."

"What? You slut!"

Laurie just laughed, blushed. "He's like ten inches. Oh my fucking gosh! You wouldn't believe it."

"Did you deep-throat?"

Laurie giggled. "No way! I'd, like, fucking choke to death! I just sucked him, and he came in my mouth."

"You whore!" But Miranda could tell Marianne was jealous. Truth be told, so was she. But then she thought about it. Ten inches. That would be too big. It would hurt. She didn't care if a guy had a small cock. In some ways, that would be better. As long as it wasn't too small.

"Oh yes," she said, her hips bucking now, her heart beating faster, faster. Outside, the thunder sounded closer now, and she could see streaks of lightning, even through the drawn blinds.

She was close now, very close, and the image of her fantasy lover changed. Now she pictured Ed Norton, in his hat and vest, looking silly, telling a joke, and that did it. She came with a shriek. She wasn't sure if anyone was in the cabin next to hers—she didn't think so, and hoped not. They would have heard her, even about the din of the storm.

She sighed as she came down from her high. How much longer would she be able to wait? Even a day seemed like a decade, a week an eon. She needed it so bad.

"Just don't be stupid," she told herself. "Don't pick the wrong guy."

Hard as it was, some things were worth waiting for.

"But only for another couple days. I'll find him when I get to Pittsford. I have to. I will. I know I will."

She thought about writing in her diary, but was too exhausted. It had been a hell of a day. She snuggled under her covers, hoping no bugs would decide to share the night with her. Yeah. Like they didn't get up close and personal when I camped in the woods last night. Just don't bite, guys, okay? That's all I ask.

And they didn't.

The next morning, she ate a Power Bar, put her hair in a ponytail, slipped into her walking shoes, and was ready to leave by 8:00 a.m. She felt refreshed and eager to get started. She hoped to make it west of Syracuse by nightfall.

But she felt bad about not writing a diary entry last night. Things felt incomplete. She grabbed a pen, sat down at the foot of the bed, her diary in her lap, and began to write . . .

I wonder what today will bring? Every day is different—different towns, different people, different situations. Hopefully it will be better than yesterday! I still worry a little that that asshole is out looking for me, and he'll find me walking out on the road. I just hope he has some semblance of a life, and will just forget about me. But I'll be sure to bypass that shitty town he was in on the way back home.

The weather's cleared. Storm last night, rained all day yesterday. Yuck. It was miserable. But this morning is really sunny, and I saw on the weather last night that no rain is expected the next few days. Hooray! Gonna be hot, though. But that's okay. I'll take that any day over getting soaked.

It's funny. I wasn't even gonna write anything this morning. You know, just ready to get going. But then I thought about it. And isn't that a lot like what I've been telling myself? To guard against going too fast? To slow down? Take a breath? And don't do anything stupid, like, oh, I don't know, asking the first good-looking guy I see today if he might want a blowjob or something? (And God! I really want to give one of those. I always wonder if I'll know how. Will I choke on it? Will I forget not to use my teeth too much, and hurt him? Will I go too fast? Too slow? What will he taste like? How will it feel? I can't wait!)

I remember when I told Laurie I was gonna do this Walk. She was, like, are you crazy, Miranda? And I was, like, no, are you? And then she says, "So, you're gonna walk across the whole damn state. What for?" I told her I was looking for something. "What? Sex?" she said, and winked. I just smiled, didn't say anything, but I guess she knows. She keeps sending texts, asking me if I've done it yet. When I write back, at night, I just avoid the issue. I'm sure it's driving her crazy! She'll probably force me to tell all when I get back. Every sordid little detail!

I hope I'll have something to tell her!

I miss you, Laurie. I miss you lots . . .

She easily reached her goal of getting west of Syracuse by nightfall, and two days later, hot, tired, but none the worse for wear, she arrived at her destination—the town of Pittsford, just east of Rochester. She had visited Uncle Jim and Aunt Helen's B & B years ago, with her parents, but she barely remembered it. When she'd looked at pictures of it online, she didn't recognize one room.

Walking along the quaint Main Street, her backpack remarkably light on her shoulders (she was so used to it, it hardly felt like it was there), her ponytail bouncing behind her with every step she took, she dialed the bed and breakfast on her Tracfone.

"Canal Retreat B and B," a perky woman's voice answered.

"Hi, Aunt Helen? This is Miranda. I'm here!" A horn honked to her left, and a mustachioed man with a baseball cap waved at her, and whistled. She looked away, not wanting to show unintended interest.

"Wow! That was fast," Aunt Helen said. "How do you feel, Miranda? I mean, you just walked across half a state!"

"Fine!" she said. And she did. Exhausted, but fine. "Um, this is gonna sound really dumb, but where exactly are you again? I know the street you're on, but . . . well, how do you get there?" She felt stupid asking for directions in a small suburban town after finding her way for over two hundred miles.

Aunt Helen didn't flinch, though, and gave her very clear instructions. "You'll be here in ten minutes!" she said.

Miranda made it in five.

She lay in her bed, savoring the air-conditioning and soft, feathery mattress. And the shower had been wonderful, too. The cool water massaging her tired body, cleaning her sweat-drenched skin. A slice of heaven. And now, just a few minutes before midnight, she just rested there, listening to the silence of the old house—modernized and updated in myriad ways but still retaining its antique charm.

Aunt Helen and Uncle Jim made her feel right at home. They took her on a tour of the rambling house with its hardwood floors, exposed wooden beams, its centuries-old paintings and high, vaulted ceilings. They sat with her on the wide, covered front porch, overlooking the street, watching the people walk by in the mellow evening sunshine. They took her around the grounds, and she loved the freshly cut lawn, tidy flower gardens, and well-kept birdfeeders, plentifully supplied with black oil sunflower seeds and cracked corn. On the porch, there were three hummingbird feeders, and not a minute would go by without her seeing a small, needle-nosed creature flitting to and fro, before settling in and drinking the sugar water her aunt had prepared earlier that day.

But perhaps the best part of her evening was meeting the family who was staying down the hall from her. A husband and wife from California, visiting relatives—both tall and trim, appearing to be in their midforties. Tony and Brittany Benedict. And their son, Jeremy—dark, curly hair, tall with broad-shoulders and a dimple on his chin. And shy. He'd looked away when Aunt Helen introduced Miranda to him, his big, brown eyes blinking rapidly behind his thick, wire-frame glasses. Miranda liked him immediately. He was around her age—they said he was attending college, but didn't say if he was a freshman or sophomore or whatever. He had a baby face—he looked fifteen. But he was cute. Very cute.

Maybe. Just maybe . . .

She smiled into the darkness of her room, and drifted off into a dreamless sleep.

The dining room was spacious, with a long oak table at the center, decorated with a rose-colored cloth. A large south-facing bay window looked out over the spacious backyard, and sunshine filtered through the glass, making the rose tablecloth appear two shades lighter than it was.

Miranda sat down at the table, the first one there. Her stomach was rumbling, and she eagerly anticipated the bountiful offering to come. Aunt Helen had mentioned last night that Uncle Jim used to be a chef, and he whipped up the best breakfast in western New York.

"And we know you're a vegetarian, honey, so don't you worry," she'd assured Miranda in her distinct nasal Rochester twang. Uncle Jim was originally from Albany, but Aunt Helen was a Rochester native. Miranda liked the accent. A native western New Yorker didn't have a mom, they had a "maaaaaaahm." They didn't have a job, they had a "jaaaaaaahb." She couldn't help but imagine a clothespin clasped onto Aunt Helen's nose. That's how she sounded when she spoke.

"What a lovely morning!"

Startled, Miranda turned to her left. Stop daydreaming, she chided herself. Mrs. Benedict, wearing a form-fitting floral sundress, sat down, two spaces down the table from her, and her husband took a seat beside her. The chair next to Miranda was still empty. Maybe that's where their son, Jeremy, would sit. . . .

He did. At first, he hesitated, but then he shyly sat down, avoiding eye contact.

Miranda was about to say hi, but was stopped in her tracks by the book Jeremy had brought with him to the table. It was a fan-book about the Lost Episodes of The Honeymooners!

"No way!" she said.

"What? Huh?" Jeremy looked at her, pushing his glasses up the bridge of her nose. "What is it? Is something wrong?"

She looked at his dimple, smiled. He was so cute.

"You like The Honeymooners?" she asked.

"Does he like them?" Mrs. Benedict broke in. "Goodness! He eats, sleeps, and breathes them! Ask him anything about the show, and he'll know the answer. Do you like The Honeymooners, too, dear?"

"It's my favorite show!" Miranda blurted out. Suddenly she felt so happy, so excited. This was the one. This was the guy she'd been searching for on her Walk. She knew that now. There was no doubt. Of course, there was no guarantee he'd want to . . .

Jeremy blushed, mumbled something she couldn't understand, and then Aunt Helen skipped into the room with a plate full of steaming omelets. "Swiss cheese, sautéed onions and peppers in these," she announced. "For the vegetarians among us." She winked at Miranda—and at Jeremy.

"You're a vegetarian, too?" Miranda asked him.

He nodded. Good God. She wanted him to take her right here, just ravish her on the table among the glasses and plates and omelets. This just kept getting better.

"Don't know where he gets it from," Mr. Benedict said, then took a sip of juice. "I'm a meat and potatoes kind of guy. Britt here—she likes to experiment." Miranda saw Mr. Benedict's hand disappear into his wife's lap. A moment later, she squealed, told him to behave himself. "But that doesn't mean she avoids meat," Mr. Benedict went on. "She likes it. Don't know where he gets it from."

Miranda sensed disapproval in Mr. Benedict's voice, and Jeremy just looked down at his empty plate.

"Here," Miranda said, and grabbed the plate of omelets. "These looks delicious." She used the green plastic spatula Aunt Helen had provided to slide one onto Jeremy's plate, then one onto her own. He looked at her, briefly, and smiled.

"You have a cute smile," she said. "You should do it more often."

At that, he broke into a full-fledged grin, and dug into his omelet, just as Aunt Helen and Uncle Jim brought in more plates and pots and bowls. The feast was on.

She was gluttonously full. She hadn't recalled eating so much since, well—she couldn't remember! Aunt Helen had been right. Uncle Jim did make the best breakfast in western New York. Maybe anywhere. Everything was perfect.

She lounged on her bed, propping herself up with her elbows, with her diary, opened, on the pillow. She had just written a fresh entry, and now she was reading it. . . .

I never thought I'd find him right here at the B & B, but I have! In a way, it's a surprise. He's maybe a year or two older than me, but he comes across as younger. He's so shy. I bet he's a virgin, too. I almost hope he is. Which is another surprise. I mean, all along, I've been fantasizing about being submissive and having some guy really take control. I always figured when I met him, he'd be older, maybe even a lot older. I didn't think he'd be anything like Jeremy.

But now that I've met him, I need to make the first move. He has no idea! And it makes me nervous. I mean, what if he says no? He might. He probably will. That would be so mortifying. But I have to try. I have to see . . .

Even if he says yes, will he be able to take control of me? Call me a slut? Spank me? I need him to do all of that! But I worry that he'll just lie there or something and wait for me to do all the work.

Oh well. I guess there's no use wondering about it. I need to just ask him and see how it all goes. But deep down, I think I already know.

And I can't wait.

They were alone, finally, sitting side by side on the bench that overlooked the fine flower garden in the backyard, carpeted with pansies and marigolds and purple and pink lupine. It was evening, and a soft, gentle breeze blew, rustling the leaves of the maples and elms that stood, like sentinels on watch.

She had passed him in the hall, asked if he wanted to go outside for a while, maybe talk in the backyard. He'd looked away, stuttered, then nodded. And now here they were.

"So," she said. "Have you ever been to New York before?"

He shook his head. "No. And it's pretty. I like it here."

Come back in February and see if you like it then, she thought, but didn't say anything.

"Is it true you walked across the whole state, just to get here?" he asked, to her surprise. It was the first time he'd initiated anything.

She giggled. "Well. Not the whole state. I started out near Albany. About a week ago."

"Wow," he said. "I could never do anything like that. You must be in great shape. And you're brave. I mean . . . "

For a moment, she had a flashback to that diner, the big creep who had tried to assault her. But then she forced the image from her mind and thought of the basketball game in Little Falls, the boy who low-fived her with his apple-pie smile and freckled face.

"It was okay," she said. "Not as hard as it seems. You'd be able to do it, I'm sure."

"I doubt it. But why'd you, um, walk here? Why not just drive?" He glanced away, at the flowers. "Sorry. I don't mean to pry or anything. I just . .. "

"Hey, it's okay," she said, and patted his shoulder. She could feel him tense up at her touch. "I wanted to talk to you, remember? It was my idea to come out here." She smiled at him, and he smiled back, some of the tension leaving his face. "Relax, Jeremy. I like you. And that ties in with what you just asked—about my Walk."

"It does?"

She nodded. Above them, in one of the elms, a blue jay hollered, then flew away, its flapping wings a coruscation of blue and white against the deep summer green of the leaves.

"I . . ." But now that she was about to talk about it, she wasn't sure where to start. Should she be coy, offer up double entendres? Or should she just be brutally up front and open? She decided on the latter. If he was interested, she'd be able to know sooner rather than later. And if he wasn't, why beat around the bush?

"Look," she said. "I'm . . . I'm a virgin, okay?" His mouth dropped open, and he fiddled with his glasses. "And I took this Walk to get away. I live in a small town. Everyone knows everyone else, and they all know who everyone's sleeping with." He cleared his throat. She continued, "And well, I mean, I really want to experience sex, you know? Is that so bad? But I don't want to get involved with anyone. I'm too busy, I have too much going on with college starting up in the fall and everything. And I just . . . oh gosh. I'm sorry. I wanted to be blunt, but not hit you with a tornado. At least you're still here! You haven't gotten up and walked away."

"Yeah. I'm still here," he said, and looked at her.

"I just want to do it for the first time, away from my friends and my town, and all of it," she said. "I want an experience, Jeremy, not a relationship. And I don't want people in my town wondering who it was. So I took this Walk. I mean, finding the right person to, well, you know." She blushed, smiled. So did he. "That isn't the whole thing, either. I mean, it's the main thing! But not the whole thing. It's been really interesting seeing the state. You see so much more when you walk instead of drive. But, honestly, this Walk would really be a failure if I didn't find the right guy. And I was kind of hoping that, maybe, well, you know . . ."

"I'm a virgin, too," he said, not looking at her. "Does that matter?"

"It makes it better," she said. In truth this did not surprise her. From the way he acted, she had guessed he was a virgin. "We can discover something together."

He swallowed, looked at her, adjusted his glasses again. For a moment, she thought he'd get up and run away, as far from her as possible. She could almost hear the turmoil roiling in his mind. But he stayed where he was. He wanted it, too.

"Come to my room later," she said. "The door will be unlocked."

He nodded. Then, abruptly, "So, you're a big Honeymooners fan, huh?"

She laughed at his awkward change of subject. And they talked about Ralph and Alice, Norton and Trixie for over an hour. Then they went back inside, and she went to her room to shower.

And get ready . . .

It wasn't until after eleven that she heard the gentle tapping on her door.

"Come in," she said. He was wearing pajamas—adorable! His hair was freshly washed, and he was wearing a musky cologne that made her head spin. Probably his dad's. "For a while now, I was wondering if you were really gonna come."

"Sorry," he said, tiptoeing into the room, as if worrying that one wrong move would alert the entire house what they were planning to do, and shutting her door behind him. "My mom and dad were awake. I think they were . . ." He blushed. She got the idea. "Anyway, they're right across the hall from me, and I just wanted to make sure they were asleep before I came."

She nodded. Good thinking, she supposed. But the waiting had been torturous. She'd masturbated several times, came twice. She was so horny. She hoped he was, too. No time like the present to find out. . . .

"Lock the door, Jeremy," she said. As soon as he did, she was upon him. She put her arms around his neck, ran her fingers through his wavy, jet-black hair, looked into his eyes. They were hazel, like autumn, like acorns lying in the dew of an October morning, like cords of wood stacked for an evening fire.

She kissed him, softly, not a probing French kiss, just a whisper, a taste, a message from her lips to his that this would be a memorable night.

She pulled away. He was breathing rapidly, too rapidly, almost as if he might hyperventilate.

"Here," she said, and took his hand, leading him to the bed. They sat down, leaning against the headboard. "If it makes you feel any better, I'm nervous, too," she said, and kissed his ear.