Friends with Benefits

We had a deal. No cuddling. No terms of endearment. No possession. No tender words. Well, maybe Good head. Friends with benefits. It was half day; his mother worked until six. Still, I gave my first blow job on the checkerboard floor of his roach-infested closet. He was the dirtiest pop punk with the biggest sixteen-year-old dick. Although sex was the intended benefit, what I reaped was much different: friendship. Long phone conversations into late school nights: from family to sex to dreams to silly things. Free rides anywhere in a beat up 70s hand-me-down from his dad, a stick shift he could hardly drive. Someone to sit with at lunch, meet in the morning before class, go home and jam with after school. Company: a close warm body, a gruff hand in my hair, a contagious laugh, a shared cigarette. The blowjobs kept him coming. That afternoon in his closet, and thereafter, I stopped him from going down on me because my bush was bushy, and I thought of a story he told me about his friend PJ who reached inside panties to find a hairy peachfish and ran for the hills.