About J.

When I was 14, all my friends had called me a late bloomer.  I had never been as yet to third base with a guy, or even second, and I wasn't in a rush.  I didn't even think about sex.  I could french kiss my boyfriend, and I wouldn't feel that need.  It was just, nice. I wasn't even your typical pretty girl.  I was just five feet tall, chubby, but not fat. With medium length curly hair, light skin, glasses, light brown eyes. I had just started ninth grade, and I was having fun.  I hung out with a group of friends. Just recently, my best friend Kirsten had gone to third base with her cousin, and had cheated on my friend John. It was around this time that I met HIM.  He was an older guy, and my step fathers best friend.  My mother had just gotten a recent boyfriend and he moved in with us.  His best friend has just gotten out of jail, not too long ago, and was very good looking.  He was also living with us for a while, until he got on his feet.  He was 33, but looked 23.  He was about 5'7 light skinned, with dark blonde hair, long, to his shoulders, straight.  He had light brown eyes,and a dark blonde thick mustache, that made his lips look sensuous. He was thin with muscles, and his body had the potential to become very buff if he worked out.  He was a cool guy, always talking to me and my brothers.  At first I wasn't even attracted to him.  Even my friends thought he was a bit cute, but I hadn't noticed, at first. I mean he was 19 years older than me.  One night I was in my room, and he had gotten drunk.  Apparently he had been arguing with my mother, and she had left to her room with my step father. My brothers were asleep, and he was talking to me and I was listening.  His hand was on my thy, and he thanked me for listening, and then his hand started to slowly inch down, but then stopped. My heart was beating in my chest, he leaned forward and kissed me. And then backed away, realizing what he had done, apologized, and left. Over the next few days, I couldn't stop thinking about that, he had told me I couldn't tell anyone he did that, that it was a mistake.  But I wanted it to happen again.  My mother and step father went out one night a couple of days later and he was babysitting my brothers and I when I found a bottle of cheap wine.  I thought, maybe if I got drunk, or drunk, and  pretended to be drunk, and I kissed him, he wouldn't care, and maybe go along with it. I smiled, it sounded like a good plan to me.1