Today's chapter in the sexual education of La Bev is from the early teen years. It's no erotic journey from Milan to Minsk, but it's my story and I hope you like it.
Growing up in northern Vermont was pretty far from city living. Aside from Burlington, a small city for which I have infinite fondness thanks to the time I spent at UVM, the closest city within driving distance happens to be in Canada.
As luck would have it, the drinking age in the province of Quebec is 18 and the bartenders were notoriously lax about checking IDs, a fact which meant that Sherbrooke won over Burlington every time we decided we needed a bigger night out than our po-dunk town could offer. As teenagers we would make the 90 minute trek up I-91 North to Sherbrooke whenever possible. Back in those pre-9/11 days, one needed just a drivers license and a smile to get through the border, and I'm still amazed to this day that 3-4 giggling teenagers with several contraband cases of Molson Ice in the trunk routinely made it back across the border to Vermont in the wee hours of the morning.
Montreal is an even larger city, and at 2 hrs and 40 minutes away, it was closer to us than Boston. Combine proximity with the fact that the U.S. dollar used to dwarf the Canadian dollar and you can see why school officials chose to send us to the "world next door" for field trips. We'd go see plays, have special weekend trips, and go to amusement parks. We loved us some Montreal.
On one of these trips we took a big yellow school bus (no, not a short bus) up to Montreal and saw Les Miserables. After the show we were turned loose on the city for a couple of hours before we had to head back to VT. Since I am now and have always been a rather... ahem... lascivious gal, it didn't take us long to locate one of the city's finer sex shops.My little gaggle of girls and I poked around (heh heh) the shop for quite a while, ogling the multicolored dildos and vibrators, daring each other to touch things that oughtn't be touched, and giggling like mad. When it came time to leave I decided to be very daring and buy a souvenir, so I went to the magazine rack and picked the first glossy magazine with a naked dude on the cover that I saw.
Clutching my smut to my chest, we boarded the bus and sat way in the back before furtively examining the contents of the magazine. It came as a bit of a shock when we realized that the magazine was not intended for us at all; not "us" as in teenagers, but "us" as in females. We hadn't made it past the table of contents before realizing that I had accidentally purchased a porno mag for gay men.
We still read it, of course. ;) The pictures were still nice, and the stories were... enlightening, but it really wasn't a turn-on in the slightest, and before we had reached our home turf we had already grown tired of it.The problem was, how to get rid of it? I couldn't just dump it at school for some poor custodian to find, could I? So I took it home and hid it carefully until I could find a way to surreptitiously dispose of it.
Days and weeks went by, and I sort of forgot about my dirty mag, but never completely. One day my parents left me alone for an afternoon and I realized that this was my chance! I seized the thick magazine along with some wooden matches and went out to the back yard, where my mother kept a large metal trash barrel. She used the barrel to burn junk mail and bank statements, so I took my private shame and threw it into the barrel, then lit a match.
The colorful pages began to blacken and curl and I stood back to allow the thick plume of black smoke to escape. It was a windy day, and suddenly the wind picked up and a gust blew a wall of smoke directly into my face. While I coughed and sputtered and examined myself for bits of burning material, I realized with horror that the wind had caught chunks of the burning magazine and they were fluttering out of the barrel... fluttering away in the wind.I panicked and raced after them, but there were too many! It was raining penises and waxed chests and lusty chiseled jaws. I stomped out a full page of flaming peens before finally getting on my hands and knees and seeking out all of the smaller pieces that had scattered hither and yon. Just when I thought I had it all picked up I'd find another dick just lying there, smirking at me.
It took several hours but I finally got everything properly destroyed and picked up, but I had learned my lesson well: next time, just throw it away in the McDonald's bathroom or something.
Oh, and get better porn.