My First Time
By Scott Parkinson

I'm a typical college freshman at a big Midwestern university and I never thought I'd be writing you, but little did I know what Fate had in store for me.

It was an average Friday night and I was about to sit down and study for a mid-term when I heard the two gorgeous cheerleaders next door put on their dance music and start their routines. My mind began to wander from my studies and onto more interesting subjects as I was hypnotized by the rythmic pounding of their scantily clothed bodies grinding out dance moves only ten feet away in the other apartment.

I'm a serious student and don't often take breaks from the books, but the music, the pounding, and the half glass of wine I had with dinner all were making me act out of character. Before I knew what I was doing, I had walked out of the apartment and stumbled over to the cheerleaders' door. My conscious mind seemed to be on hold as I rang the bell and then reached down and pulled out my enornous (10 inches), purple-headed pe... hey, this isn't my letter to Penthouse, this is supposed to be my column to Matt, fuck... pen and stood there waiting.

The music stopped and I could hear them coming towards the door. My heart raced as I stood there exposed with my pen out in front of me. The door opened and I could see two cute (one blonde and one brunette) heads peering out at my enormous pen. Much to my suprise they opened the door fully and without a word, pulled me in.

Their world was lit by candles and scented with the wine they had been drinking to slack their thirsts from practicing their moves. I, still in a trance, was led to the couch and pushed into it. The soft velour enveloped me as the cheerleaders sat on either side, one with a glass of wine and the other with a joint. I took what was offered from each, and without a second thought, I plunged into this new world of forbidden delights.

The blonde leaned over, ran one hand through the back of my hair and the other lightly over my pen, and whispered into my ear "Do you know how to use it?"

I nodded dumbly, awed at what was happening. I'd had that pen for as long as I could remember, but it always just sat around taking up space-that is until now.

"Good," said the brunette, then she bent over and pulled out some white, satin pa... whoa, ease up there chief, remember where this is going... paper and laid it down in front of me. "We've been watching you for awhile and we always hoped you would be a writer, but we were too shy to ask. So use that big pen of yours and write something for us, Stallion, write like you've never written before!!"

I don't know if it was the wine, the weed, the girls, or a combination of all three, but whatever it was I took my massive pen-a pen I'd never used before-and began to compose. And I composed for hours.

I've always heard about virgin writers having a fear of the blank page, but that first night-that glorious first night-I was filled with the spirit of a thousand scribes and entered into that empty space like a bull into a new pasture. My pen strokes were bold and brilliant. My hand caressed the page sometimes and spanked it others. I was a maestro who conducted his orchestra superbly with his mighty purple wand and held his audience captivated.

The gentle cries of "Punctuate... Punctuate... Punctuate... now... now... now... yeeeeeesssssss!!!!" and "Oooohhhh, you turn a phrase soooooo goooooood," rang in my ears through out the night. Their provacative encouragement kept my mind off of how much my back was aching and myshoulders burning. They wiped the sweat as it dripped off my face. Hunched up, all that I could concentrate on was the wielding of my incredible purple monster so that it could release all the pent-up joy it was meant to bring.

Somewhere about dawn, after many, many pages of writing, we collapsed into an exhausted sleep; our arms and legs entwined, the reams of our effort draped all over us from the explosive conclusion that finished the piece. The sweet scent of wine, weed, sweat, ink and awakened desires filled the little room. I can still smell that heady musk to this day.

I woke early and gently pulled myself free of the literary mass we had become. I scooped up the pages of our nights work, arranged them correctly, and then lay them between the sleeping cheerleaders, where my body had previously been. I then picked up my pen and headed back to my apartment.

I haven't spoken to the girls since, but occasionally I see them, and we just look knowingly at each other and smile. I often wonder what would have happened to me if I had not followed the pull of my sub-conscious over to their door. Would my pen still be sitting unused and untapped? Would I ever have become a writer? Would I find as much joy in what I do as I find now? I guess only Fate knows the answers to these questions, I am just glad she chose to encourage my Muse this way.

Scott Parkinson is a free-lance writer who calls Seattle home, at least for the next month or so.

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