Finding someone who is willing to be everything I want him to be is just impossible. Trying to decide what characteristics in a man are important enough for me to require - compared to what I eventually accept - is an ever changing list. It seems to me I am willing to forfeit some pretty important things to get a person who will provide me with a little bit of affection and a few kind words.

Tucker and I had been hanging out for about a month. He was older than me by seven years, which wasn’t that much. Meeting him seemed to produce one person, hanging out slowly produced another, and after we had been talking for about a month he became frustrated; producing what I expected was the real person. According to him we had reached a point that we needed to have sex.

He said it would show him how much I cared.

How much I loved him.

I am certain my parents raised me differently than any other girl in the entire state of Texas. I was twenty-one years old and still a virgin. Although Tucker didn’t know it, and I didn’t expect I would tell him, I had refrained from having sex with every boy I had ever been with. I imagine the lack of sex in my relationships was the main reason for eventual break-ups with boys in my past. Each boy had a different reason, but the common denominator was not having sex.

Sometimes I wished I would have had sex earlier in life. Hanging on to your virginity becomes similar to holding a treasure. After you reach adulthood, you’re reluctant to give it to anyone; because you have held onto it for so long. You cherish it. As time passes, it becomes more and more valuable. Eventually, you become the only person you know who has it. When it comes to considering giving up your virginity, you really want that person to be the person.

And so far, Tucker wasn’t the person.

“If you love me you would,” he pleaded.

“I just don’t know. I don’t give it to everyone who comes along. Isn’t that worth something?” I asked.

“That’s why I want it from you. Not because you give it to everyone, but because you don’t. Because you’re so sweet,” he sighed.

“You think I’m sweet?” I asked.

“I know you’re sweet. And I think we shouldn’t even be having this talk. Adults have sex. It’s what they do,” he touched my face as he leaned over and kissed me lightly on the lips.

“You’re fucking beautiful, Katie,” he said as our lips parted.

“Really?” I asked as I leaned my face into his open hand

“More than anyone else I have ever seen. I think I could be with you forever,” he said as he leaned forward to kiss me again.

“Forever? Really?” my voice cracked as I spoke.

He nodded his head and closed his eyes as he leaned into me.

We kissed a long passionate kiss. As he pulled his mouth from mine, I felt dizzy. I liked the way kissing makes you feel if it is a great kiss. A really fantastic kiss made me feel like I’m disoriented and a little dizzy for several seconds after it ended. This was one of those kisses.

I looked up, not quite realizing I had slumped into the couch as we kissed. As Tucker raised his chest from mine, he began massaging my breasts through my shirt and bra. I closed my eyes and began to moan as his hands squeezed more and more aggressively. I didn’t resist when his hand slipped behind me and fumbled with the clasp on my bra.

As soon as my bra was unhooked, his hand slid under my shirt and began to play with my nipples. As with most men, he obviously believed a woman’s nipples were a direct connection to her heart. I didn’t complain, kept my eyes closed, and moaned in pleasure as he pinched and twisted my hardening nipples, alternating from breast to breast.

I opened my eyes as his free hand slid into my shorts.

“You can play with the outside, just don’t put your finger in,” I whispered.

“Okay, baby. I’ll play with your clit,” he breathed.

I closed my eyes and bit my lip as he lifted my shirt and began to lick my nipples. His finger tip massaged my clit into a frenzy; sending a tickling sensation throughout my entire body. I enjoyed the feeling I received from clit stimulation, but wasn’t sure if it was actually having an orgasm or not. Generally, my body tingled all over, but it wasn’t as intense as what I expected based on what my girlfriends described regarding having orgasms.

I heard the jingle of his belt buckle as he fumbled with unbuckling it. He smiled as I opened my eyes.

“What are you doing?” I asked, still in somewhat of a euphoric state.

“I’m just getting it out to play with it,” he said.

“Okay, well…” I began.

His hand covered my mouth before I finished my thought.

“Shhhh. I know,” he whispered as he kissed my forehead.

He removed his shirt and tossed it on the floor beside the couch. As he lowered his bare chest to mine, I closed my eyes. Lost in the comfort of his bare body pressed against mine, I reached around his torso and massaged my hands along his muscular back. I twitched as I felt his finger against my pussy again, startled by the touch against my now over-sensitive swollen clit.

I inhaled deeply as I felt myself reaching climax. I opened my eyes and immediately realized the intensity of my moaning as it echoed in the sparsely furnished apartment. This, without a doubt, was going to be one of the types of orgasms all my girlfriends talked about.

Finally.

Oh God yes.

As I felt my breathing become short and choppy, I began to tingle from my clit to my nipples. This was going to be huge. I felt as if my head was going to explode. At that instant, I didn’t care, my head could have exploded and I would have not cared. I was ready.

Oh. My…

Instantaneously, his finger moved from my clit and I felt pressure against my pussy. The pressure increased. I opened my eyes and tried to sit up. His chest pressed against me harder, pinning me to the couch.

“What are you doing?” I shouted.

I felt the pressure of his penis against me.

“I just want you to see what it feels like. You’ll love it. You want it. You’re ready,” he whispered.

“No. No, don’t. Please don’t. No Tucker, No,” I pleaded as the pressure increased.

I squirmed and tried to sit up. His hand pressed against my shoulder and onto my neck. His palm pushed against my neck and forced me deeper into the couch. The pressure against my lady parts increased. I felt him begin to enter…

“Please. Please, Tucker. Don’t!” I cried.

“Nooooo…” I screamed as he forcefully tore into me.

“I’m…” I sobbed.

“I’m a…” the tears ran down my face as he raped me.

And then it was too late, he had taken it from me. From that moment on, and for the rest of my life, I would never be able to claim I was…

A virgin.

RIPP. “Michael, eat your potatoes, you’re pickin’,” my mother sighed as she pointed to my plate.

I haven’t taken shit from anyone since my first playground fight when I was twelve years old. From then until now, no one has ever picked a fight with me. Ever. If someone had fought me it was because they were either getting paid or were trying to see if they could take a shot at my undefeated record.

Taking shit from my mother is another thing all together.

“Mom, I’m eating them,” I said as I began to take another bite of the grilled chicken she had served.

Mothers in general can be funny creatures - but mothers born and raised in Texas always look at their children as just that, their children. I am my mother’s child, but I am not childlike in my actions. By watching my mother, you’d think I was ten years old.

“Michael, you’re not eatin’ ‘em. Is there something wrong with ‘em?” she set her fork down beside her plate and poked her finger into the pile of potatoes which sat on the edge of my plate.

“Mom, what the fuck are you doing fingerin’ my food?” I widened my eyes, dropped my chicken bone onto the plate and shook my head.

“Talk like that to your mother again, and I’ll slap your ass out of that damned chair, Mike. Eat your taters,” my father growled from across the table.

“I’m gonna eat ‘em. I didn’t know we had a fuckin’ time limit or a particular order we had to eat shit in. Damn, Pop,” as I turned to face my father he raised his hand in a gesture as if he was going to slap me.

Truth be known, my father had never so much as spanked my butt as a kid. Growing up was like something out of a feel-good movie. I was raised to act in a manner in accordance with what I believed God’s will to be. God wasn’t shoved down my throat, but I was constantly reminded of his existence. Religion, to my family, was a recommendation. God, however, wasn’t. A perfect house, perfect parents, and growing up with the feeling only a true loving, caring family could provide. Both my parents were like comedic actors. Always being funny, making jokes and never expressing anything but true love – in their own silly way. Coming home for Sunday dinner resembled going to the damned circus.

“You put ‘em on your plate, you better damned well eat ‘em,” my father hissed as he pointed at my plate with his fork.

“Son of a bitch, Pop. I’m gonna eat some of ‘em. I ain’t looking to eat ‘em all. I’m trying to save a little room. I gotta exercise in a bit, and I don’t want to end up fat from eating a bunch of god damned potatoes,” I explained as I forked some of the sliced cucumbers on my plate.

“Shane’s gonna be fightin’ for the championship. Look, he ain’t worried about a few taters,” my father said as he nodded toward Dekk’s plate.

“God damn it Pop, I ain’t Shane. And I’ll eat my food as I please. Can everyone just quit fingering and poking around on my god damned plate and let me eat some meat?” I looked up from my fork full of cucumbers and turned toward Dekk.

His plate was empty.

Fucking kiss ass.

Dekk shrugged his shoulders and smiled. Ever since he got an opportunity at the Heavyweight Championship of the World, my parents invited him every Sunday for dinner. My father always wanted me to go the distance and fight for a title fight, but I had never been that type of fighter. Under no circumstances did my father understand. To me, it had never been about a title, a place in a book or being on the news.

It was about beating another man’s ass and knowing you did so. I never needed a referee to tell me I had won a fight. From simply looking toward the other side of the ring – and seeing my opponent - everyone who witnessed my fights knew who won.

Long before it was ever announced.

“Shane and I got shit we gotta do tonight and I damned sure don’t need to be all bloated from eating potatoes. Mom, the food’s good as always, including the potatoes,” I nodded my head in my mother’s direction.

“The food was wonderful, Mrs. Ripton,” Dekk said as he stood up from the table and carried his plate to the sink.

“Get your nose out of my mom’s ass, Shane,” I laughed as I picked up another chicken breast from my plate.

“Michael!” my mother screeched.

“Damn it son,” my father complained.

“Well, he’s always kissing your asses. Great food, Mrs. Ripton, I like your truck, Mr. Ripton, Your hair looks great, Bug. I like your dress, Manda. It gets a little tough to listen to,” I laughed as I dropped the breast bone onto my plate and licked my fingers.

“Where’s the girl you’re seein’ Shane?” my father asked as Dekk rinsed his plate.

“I left her at home, sir. Ripp. I mean Mike and I have to go…” Dekk looked over his shoulder and paused.

God damn it, Dekkar.

“Have to go where? For what? What were you gonna say?” my father turned away from Shane to face me.

He looked toward Dekk for an instant, and quickly turned to face me. As he scrunched his brow and attempted to gaze into my eyes, I looked toward Dekk in disbelief and rolled my eyes.

“What? Have to what? What are you two heathens doin’? Mike, are you going over to Rundberg again? Or over to the east side? Damnit it Mike, I’ve told you about that,” my father shook his head as he stood from the table.

I stood from my seat.

“Pop…”

“Don’t Pop me, Mike. You’re going to get your ass handed to you one of these nights from some twenty year old kid wacked out on crack,” my father complained as he walked to the sink.

My mother looked back and forth at each of us as we stood; unaware of what was going on for certain. I suspect most mothers are, but my mother was exceptionally naïve to everything around her. If not, she did a good job of acting the part.

“Pop. You and I both know I don’t make any money to speak of by boxing. I do it because I am good at it. I can paint cars, but I fucking hate painting cars. Or. Well. You know what else I can do,” I explained as I followed him to the sink.

“And people don’t smoke crack anymore, do they Shane?” I laughed.

“You know what I mean, Mike. You’re not twenty years old any longer,” my father dropped his plate into the sink and reached for my shoulder.

Immediately, and in an exaggerated fashion, I leaned back, grabbed my father’s wrist, and twisted his arm behind his back.

“Damn it Mike. Turn me loose,” he demanded as I pressed his stomach into the counter top.

“Still lightning fast, old man,” I growled into his ear as I pushed my chest into his back.

“Let your father go, Michael,” my mother exhaled a half-whisper without looking up from her plate of food.

I laughed as I released my father’s arm.

“Pop, I’m thirty-one. You’re right. I ain’t twenty. But if my twenty year old self was here right now, I’d beat his twenty year old ass. I’m bigger, meaner, and quicker than I’ve ever been. I’ll be fine,” I raised both my clenched fists to my mouth and kissed them independently.

As I held my hands up at eye level, I flexed my biceps.

My father shook his head, trying to change the subject, “And where’s the girl you’re seein’, Mike?”

“Liv? I ain’t seein’ her, Pop. I’m screwing her,” I laughed as I patted Dekk on the shoulder.

“Michael…” my mother said softly as soon as I said screwing.

It had always amazed me my mother couldn’t hear, as hard as I tried to get her to. As soon as I talked about doing something with a girl, she could hear a mouse fart. Supersonic hearing when it came to my sex life. Both my parents had maintained a level of concern about my lack of commitment regarding a relationship.

I do relationships.

Just not for very long.

“Mom, Pop, we got to get. Come on Shane,” I slapped Dekk’s shoulder again and turned toward the garage.

“Thank you Mr. and Mrs. Ripton. And tell the girls I said hi when they get home,” Dekk nodded toward my father and leaned to kiss my mother’s cheek.

“Come on, Shane. God damn,” I exhaled and shoved my hands into the pockets of my shorts.

“Mom, Pop. Thanks. We gotta get,” I patted my mother’s shoulder as I walked around the table.

“You ain’t driving that car to Rundberg are you?” my father asked.

“Pop. Just leave it alone. Shane and I and the damned car will all be fine, huh Shane?” I chuckled.

“Mr. Ripton,” Dekk nodded as he walked through the kitchen.

“Don’t fuck my car up,” my father preached.

“It ain’t yours anymore, Pop. It’ll be fine,” I shook my head and walked toward the garage as Dekk following close behind me.

As we stepped into the garage, Dekk walked around me toward the rear of the car. Watching Dekkar walk took me time to get used to. When we met, after our first fight, I had challenged him about his way of walking.

“That walk of yours is either going to get you into a hell of a lot of trouble or keep you out of it, I can’t decide which,” I had laughed.

“I call it the Compton swagger,” Dekkar chuckled in reply.

“Living in Compton, you need to know how to fight or you need to act like you know how. I know I can fight, but I needed to try to keep people from challenging me. So, I developed this walk. A walk with an attitude. It’s habit now,” he explained.

“Well, it works,” I agreed.

And we remained best friends ever since.

“Son of a bitch Dekk. You know he hates me going to Rundberg and you know he always worries about his old car. Jesus, you let the cat out of the bag, bro,” I complained jokingly.

“And you know I hate you fighting these fights,” Dekk said as he walked around the car.

“It’s all I know. I ain’t painting cars anymore for money, it kills my lungs,” I said over the top of the car as I opened the door.

I had purchased my car from my father - a red 1969 Chevelle SS he had driven when he was in high school. After he graduated, he restored the car to near perfect condition. I bought it from him when I was twenty years old. Eleven years later, the car was still in perfect condition, red and race-ready. I had removed the original 396 cubic inch motor and installed a Chevy 502 cubic inch motor. The four speed transmission kept the entertainment value up, and made it damned intimidating in a street race.

As I fired up the motor, Dekk started to speak. I raised my hands and shook my head.

“You know I can’t hear you in this loud motherfucker while we’re in the garage,” I screamed as I pushed in the clutch and shifted the car into reverse.

I looked over my right shoulder and through the back glass. As I released the clutch the car started to surge backward. The whumpity-whump of the cam in the motor made it impossible to drive at low rpm or speed. I pressed on the gas to keep the engine from dying and backed the car out of the garage and into the street.

I pushed down on the brake pedal, stopped the car and made eye contact with Dekk as I rotated my head to look straight ahead.

I raised my eyebrows and smiled an evil grin.

Typically, I came to my parent’s house once a week at minimum. Sunday dinner at home had become a tradition. Although I used my truck during the week at times, I always drove the Chevelle to my parent’s house. Fifty percent of the time when I left, I left like I was in a drag race.

The two dozen sets of black marks in front of the house were a constant reminder to my father of the differences in how he drove this car, and how I drove it. I did it to torture him and remind him of the fact the car wasn’t his anymore.

As I pushed in the clutch and shifted it into first, Dekk began to speak.

“Dude, not again. Your father is going to kill you. He’s already pissed about you fighting bare knuckles in Rundberg,” he half yelled as he shook his head comically from side to side.

I pressed the gas pedal half way to the floor. The sound from the exhaust was deafening. I pressed a little further, and Dekk’s hands came up to cover his ears. I pressed a little further. As the motor reached the sweet spot - the one I used to launch this car from a dead stop - my cock started to get stiff.

I turned toward Dekk and smiled.

“I love this fucking car, Dekk,” I screamed.

“Don’t,” he yelled.

“Can I get a fuck yes?” I tilted my head back and looked up at the headliner as I screamed.

I rotated my head to the left and looked toward my parent’s house. As the exhaust bellowed from the back of the car, my father stared out the window of the living room into the street, his hands pressed into his hips.

This ain’t your car anymore, old man.

I slid my foot off of the clutch, mashed the gas pedal to the floor and launched the car from a dead stop like it had been hit from behind by a semi-truck. I glanced right. Dekk, pinned to his seat, unsuccessfully attempted to reach for the dash to stabilize himself.

Not in this car, you won’t.

The car slid sideways as I grabbed second gear. Half way through second the tires started to grip, pressing Dekk further into his seat. A quick glance in the rearview mirror confirmed the entire block was filled with smoke from my tires. Two one hundred foot long black marks in front of my parent’s house would remind my father for the next month I’m a little wilder than he was.

Just a little.

I shifted into third gear and let off the gas pedal. Dekk lowered his hands into his lap and exhaled. As I came to a stop at the intersection, I rotated my wrist and glanced at my G-Shock. We had thirty minutes to make it to Rundberg. Ten minutes to spare if traffic was decent. I lifted my hands from the steering wheel and looked at the scars which littered my knuckles and smiled. One more wouldn’t even be noticed.

The $2500 I’d win from knocking this punk out would last me over a month, and knocking motherfuckers out is what I do.

“You alright bro?” Dekk asked as he rubbed his hands together and looked down at his lap.

I thought of another bare knuckled match in Rundberg. The rush of the adrenaline, the smell of the sweat, my muscles becoming pumped, the blood, the screaming of the people betting on the match and taking the $2500 when it was over.

The smell of blood, sweat, and money.

Am I alright?

I gripped the steering wheel and nodded my head once.

Fuck yes.