Age Twenty, by Joseph Allan

We gathered that night in Dan's basement, friends from high school
tethered by family elastic, sprung back to our native suburb for the
holidays, and struck sparks off each other around Dan's dad's pool
table, drinking soda amid the shelves of solvents and the old camping
gear.

Gabrielle was almost as I remembered, my tiny quiet mouse in the
corner by the washer and dryer, waiting and watching for her shot. One
detail caught and held my focus, with a ridiculously gratifying
pleasure for such a small thing: instead of her battered everyday
jeans she wore pinstriped wool suit pants that I had never seen on
her, and never saw after. And each and every time she leaned across
the edge of the table to try a long shot she obliterated my
consciousness, just straight-up blacked out my higher mental
functions, with the perfect tight fuzzy flannel curve of her
pinstriped ass. Here's a truth that was designed entirely for my
entertainment: every shot's a long one when you're barely five feet
tall.

And she was still, as before, the willing prey of my lust. She nodded
and smiled at the inanities I deployed to get her to myself, and
smiled and accepted my offer of a ride home, and smiled and agreed
that it was far too early to call it a night, and smiled and took off
her seatbelt while I parked the Civic in the gravel lot facing the
municipal airstrip.

How she writhed on my fingers, sopping and swollen in the passenger
seat, lit all in yellow by the trail of runway lights! My hand
slippery under the opened flaps of those lovely pants, and under the
white cotton beneath, as she wriggled and gasped like a happy minnow
on the pavement, mouth and greedy lips on my cock, our twin
concentrations blissful and indivisible, until the high beams of the
airport patrol truck lit the condensation on the rear window, and it
was time to move on.