Indian Teen Rides Her Boyfriend

The quiet slipped in like a thief in the night. We were both silent.“Tired?”“Yes, Mom.”“We’re only going to get a couple of hours.”“What happens then?”“The sawmill starts at 7AM. The 6:30 whistle is unbelievable. I guarantee you’ll wake up.” She yawned. “You can hear the whistle half way to Ludington. Lake boats set their clocks by it.”“Why 6:30 if the mill starts at seven?”“If you’re late you’re fired.”“Oh.”“Every sawmill on the Michigan side of the big lake shuts down in 1942. Every mill hand under the age of 40 gets drafted. The work is deemed unsuitable for women, and not essential for the war effort. Pentwater wives and girls move across the water to Manitowoc and work in the shipyard. By the end of the war Pentwater is almost a ghost town.”Mom ... history nut.About the sawmill whistle? She was right. I swear my scream rivaled the whistle!Mom said, “We’re up ... breakfast. What are you cooking?”“Bacon ... bacon gravy. You’re making biscuits.” I grinned. Mom makes fluffy flakey. I was up that seemingly endless flight of stairs in about five seconds making me way into the mens room as well. No idiot, I looked down immediately to see which stall he had gone into. No feet under a single stall were showing which only meant one other thing, he was around the white tiled corner wall at one of the many urinals. As I walked hurriedly, but quietly to the urinals I could smell that distinctive public restroom smell. Not super nasty and super pungent as it could have been, but never the less that familiar odor was there just lingering, heavy like in the air. Air that was not nearly as ice cold as that of the air downstairs. Nothing like the wretched air outside though, thank god. Comfortable enough, I'd say. Though perhaps not for someone who might be doing something in there that might cause him to work up a sweat. I turned that corner and there he was standing right in front of the middle urinal. He was a tall drink of water, at least 6'3" I'd say. .
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