Wrestling, a leather belt, and Colleen m/f

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calebtras
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Wrestling, a leather belt, and Colleen m/f

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Wrestling, a leather belt, and Colleen

Every time I saw Colleen, she was surrounded by boys, playing stick-ball or ringalevio. Her flashing green eyes and the carefree way she walked and laughed like she owned the block made boys want to go out with her to show everyone they had her. I was drawn to her, admiring her from afar. Even though we'd kissed [my story posted here, “Captivated”] I was afraid to ask her to come with me to the roof or the vacant building at the end of the block, where other fourteen-year-olds went to make out.
I watched Colleen flick her bottle cap weighted with asphalt skittering across the sidewalk, knocking Frank's cap out of the chalked box to land in the middle square. She threw up her arms and said in a radio voice, “Winner and still Bay Ridge skully champion, Colleen O'Brian!”
Frank cursed. In our Brooklyn Irish neighborhood, losing to a girl in front of the men swapping out a transmission, women gossiping through open windows, boys playing stoop ball, got around and haunted you for a week. I waited until Frank and all the boys making fun of him left, then said to Colleen, “Goin' clammin' and fishin'. You wanna come?”
“Don't know how.”
“I'll teach ya.”
“Sure.” (In our accent back then, “Shoo-uh.”)
I got my gear and met her at the bus stop. We took the bus down Flashbush Avenue, which runs all the way from the Manhattan Bridge to the Atlantic Ocean, getting off at Marine Park. I led her across a golf course, over a chain-link fence, to a sand and mud beach on a channel off Jamaica Bay.
We took off our sneakers. She was in a t-shirt and blue short-shorts, the style girls wore then, her brown hair in a long rubber-banded ponytail. The tide was going out, and we walked onto the mud flat.
I pointed to the middle of the murky channel. “They say Tony Bugs, one of Joe Banana's boys, is down there in cement shoes.”
“I ain't eatin' no fish what ate a mobster.”
“Sharks got him when he was still alive. Just bones now.”
I handed her one of my burlap sacks and taught her to find the holes surrounded by a pile of muck, dig with both hands, and rake up the clam. She immediately started searching and digging, saying, “I'll get the most!”
By the time the tide turned, she had thirty-four to my twenty-seven. “Winner!” she shouted.
“Beginner's luck,” I said. “Try and catch more fish than me.”
I'd brought two fishing lines wrapped around wood slats, sinkers and hooks on the end. I cracked open a clam and baited both hooks. I taught her to swing the line over her head, letting out line with each swing, and toss it far into the channel. I caught four flounder and three porgies and she caught only four, but she got the biggest flounder, almost fish market size.
“Tide's down. Let's go swimmin',” I said. I buried the bags of fish and clams in wet mud, stripped off my t-shirt, and waded into the water. Neither of us had been taught how to swim, so we stroked overhand with our heads out of water like they did in the movies, kicking and dog-paddling to the fallen wood piles that had once been a bridge. We dove and swam around. I splashed her, trying to start a play-fight that could lead to chicken fighting in the shallows with her on my shoulders, but she couldn't tread water without sinking.
“Dare you to dive off the top,” she called, shinnying up a ten foot pile. Without a pause, she jumped in. When she came up, she shouted, “Somethin' bit me!” and started swimming frantically for the bank.
I caught up and pulled her to her feet in the shallows. She had a cut the length of my hand down her thigh.
“Not a bite, a scrape,” I said. “Pro'bly on rebar from the broken bridge. I'll clean it so you don't get lock-jaw.”
“What's that?”
“The poison in rusty nails freezes up your jaw and you die slow of starvation.”
I saw fear in her eyes. I put my mouth on her wound and gently sucked, spitting the blood into the water. I led her by the hand to the bank, sat her down, and held her thigh tight between my hands until the bleeding stopped.
“You got goose-bumps.” I rubbed her legs up and down, warming her up. For the first time she wasn't trying to beat me at something, and looked so sweet and vulnerable. Something about being cared for by a boy brought back the fight in her, because she suddenly tackled me and scrambled on top. We wrestled on the mud. I was stronger, but she was quick and wiry. I got her in the figure-four leg-bind I'd seen Buddy Rogers do on Saturday Night Wrestling, pulling on her ankle. “Say, Uncle,” but she slipped right out and got back on top of me. TV wrestling is so fake.
I grappled until I straddled her, pinning her wrists to the mud. Her wet t-shirt clung to her body, and I felt her squirming under me. Even with her hair plastered across one eye, she looked so beautiful I bent down and kissed her. She returned my kiss. Tough and lovely, my Colleen, whom I'd yearned for all summer, pinned down beneath me, lips soft and moist. But as soon as I relaxed my grip on her wrists she bucked me off and jumped on top again.
We wrestled, but now she was laughing and play-fighting, slapping at my face, tickling my sides. Every time I tried to pull her close to kiss her, she pushed and wriggled away, poking and taunting me. Finally, I got her on her stomach, straddling her butt. I pulled her arms behind her. When she realized what I was doing, she stopped struggling, lying still, hands crossed on her back while I slid my leather belt from its loops. I wrapped the belt around her wrists and buckled it tight.
I rolled her on her side and lay beside her. I was full of emotions I couldn't tell her, so I stroked her cheek and gently loosened the damp tangles in her hair. This time when I kissed her, she returned it with feeling.
She nudged me over with her shoulder and lay on top of me. She always had to be the one in control, but I felt her legs pressed against mine, her chest through her t-shirt up against my bare chest. I reached around and took her hands, and she gripped mine back as she kissed me.
Our clothes were dry and the sun low over Coney Island by the time she raised up off me. I helped her to her feet. In brushing the sand off her, I did what I was afraid to do when we were kissing. I ran my fingers through her hair, stroked her t-shirt and shorts, front and back, ran my hands down each leg, kissing the cut on her thigh. She had a half smile, knowing what I was doing with her hands tied, maybe liking it, at least not upset. I dusted each foot and between her toes. I tickled her sole and she giggled. I slipped on her high-tops and tied them. When I unbuckled her hands, she threw her arms around my neck and kissed me.
We retrieved our bags of fish and clams, tossed them over the fence and climbed over. On the backseat of the bus, Colleen let me hold her hand, and the #41 up Flatbush became my horse-drawn carriage taking us home.
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Canuck100
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Post by Canuck100 »

What a cute, lovely tale!
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redtogo
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Post by redtogo »

great story
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CaptorDM
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Post by CaptorDM »

This is so sweet. You've really got a way with words
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