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High School Reunion Hookup Stories: Coming With My Head On The Tracks

I’m definitely thinking about high school reunion hookup stories. It’s about 2002 and I’m near the end of 25 years of age. My high school skwod was tight and it’s not been long enough that we have stopped regularly seeing each other. This high school reunion is a chance to all clique up and travel a short spell down memory lane.

I’m between relationships. Fizzling out slowly with Tommy Boom-Boom, letting him go but still holding on to that good, good chemistry.

Technically single, though.

Eager and young and doing weird stuff at my first high school reunion. I talk to many and experience for the first time what I then experience again at so many high school reunions: that those that I was close with in high school I don’t have as much of a connection with as those I barely knew or didn’t at all.

One of these has the name of a Hindu God. He has also escaped our cold hometown for California and we talk about having that in common. He has sandy blondish brown hair and a slight build. He reminds me of another gawky hometown lover I’ve had, only far less awkward. Still the association has me behave familiarly.

He’s upfront. He tells me he enjoys our conversation and straight up asks for my numbers. I’m not used to this, in my mid-20’s. This is not yet the day and age of consent, of kneejerk understanding of overt communication. Not in even the most progressive of pockets of the Westernmost West is it, like, regular, at this point.

But for this Hindu God it is, and he bluntly shows his interest in me at the reunion. We stand awkwardly in the hallway of our old high school, talking about how it was for us and how it is for us.

And then when it is time to go he gets my digits and compliments me and gives me a lingering hug, with eye contact to gauge my interest. It’s piqued.

The beginning of all high school reunion hookup stories start with a text. Mind you this is 2002 so we are both early adopters. Kachunking our way through the alphabet three letters at a time. High school reunion hookup stories didn’t always start with texts in 2002. But ours does. Ours is over the line into the now normal. 

It’s just a “hi” the next day. I smile and send the same back. It’s on.

One of my dearest friends from high school, the one of 7 threesomes in 7 days, she tells me that my itinerary will include a schoolmates wake.

One of our high school friends has thrown himself in front of a train in California.

So many of us moved to California. Some of us didn’t make it.

I knew the guy, distantly. I remember a school camping trip to Boston with him. Particularly remember him snapping action photos of another mutual friend, one of the kings of the punk world. He did this to him as king punk was experiencing the wicked seasickness that also afflicted me. 

I couldn’t even look at the outcome of his art puke action shots, displayed at our alternative school for credit – but I remember well him snapping them, grinning and chuckling, and making everyone else laugh who was sick – even pathetic, miserable me.

That day stands out as one of the worst in my life, and he, the man who threw himself in front of a train in California, he added at least one light spot to a dark day. I remember that I couldn’t possibly conceive of being so lighthearted about it all. But he could. And so a tribute to the young, lost lives of my hometown, those who brought me and mine joy even so briefly in passing.

Though the closest friend I’ve had who killed themselves was made and had in California – most of the people I know who have taken their own lives are from my hometown. It’s depressing, tolerant and rife with opiate addiction. Such is the underbelly of its soft acceptance.

And so I ask my partner in high school reunion hookup stories if he’ll be at this wake and he indeed will be, though he’ll arrive late.

I enlist my former best friend in the mission of the gussy-up and we get cute and only slutty enough to be this side of appropriate for the occasion. 

It’s summer and the wake is held at a building now owned by some friends of mine, but at the time of my childhood it housed the private Waldorf school for a few years that I attended for first through seventh grade. 

The memories and stories and myths and hauntings of grade school surround me here at this event. 

Some of the punks and former punks take sledgehammers to some dumpsters to work out their grief about our fallen brother. I take a couple turns too, feeling the impact of the head of the hammer on the side of the dumpster reverberate through my arms and body. Metal on metal.

I run my fingers proudly over the dents I’ve made as I hand the hammer off to a long time friend of mine – a tall as fuck former punk who used to tear shit up but now gave up drink and drugs and simply lives a off grid life.

I look around in anticipation, awaiting my high school reunion hookup stories. 

Eventually they arrive. The Hindu God does the rounds, saying hello to me and hugging me, eyes moving in appreciation over my body in the clothes I wore to woo him. A low cut dark green shirt that compliments my peaches and cream coloring. He drops his eyes back to my breasts in a way that I almost find too much. I can see how hypnotized he is.

This surprises me. Rumor on the street and roster tell it – he’s into Asian girls. Flat chests and straight lines. I try not to make meaning of it and just take it in. Don’t really know what to do with his fascination or that of any man who can’t take his eyes off my boobs.

After we’ve both mingled a little at the party, he does a beeline for me and asks me if I want to take a walk.

I do.

I know my way well around the property and suggest a walk along the railroad tracks. He smiles at that.

We make our way down to them and walk on the wooden railroad ties a ways away from the party until it is dark and the distant hum of the partygoers is barely audible. 

On this walk he tells me of his obsession with the on-again, off-again girlfriend of the ex-punk that I just handed a sledgehammer to. 

She’s about five years younger than I am, and probably seven years younger than either of them. Anyone into her has a savior complex. She’s a constant tragedy and they are moved to save her.

Oddly, I have dated and fucked and broken up with her brother, by this point.

The target of my high school reunion hookup stories tells me that he isn’t sure he can be interested in anyone, and here he stops and stops me, looking into my eyes, isn’t sure he can be into me… because of his interest in her. He just hasn’t lost hope even though she has given him a somewhat clear no.

He’s looking me in the eyes when he says this, and now that he’s been honest his arousal for me breaks through. 

“That’s too bad.” I say, ready to pull away… but he catches me in a kiss. There with the light of the moon through the trees shining off of the steel tracks.

And of course before I know it his hands and lips drop to my breasts, kneading them and kissing them and moaning. He is lost and reached the promised land, he’s finally in the place he wants to be. Pressing flesh, bouncing back against his pokes. Suckling, pulling me out of my bra. Ravenous for them, softly devouring me until I can barely stand.

He senses it.

“Do you want to sit down?”

I look around and into his brownish hazel eyes, and then plop myself down in the middle of the tracks.

And even though there’s a young woman’s voice in my ear spewing crap about worth, value, competition with a younger woman, and fuckability – I believe him. Because he tells the truth, and that is louder, and I have learned already not to listen to my own insecure bullshit.

Even if high school reunion hookup stories involve this other girl, the Hindu God clearly wants to touch my boobs.

I note he’s lost his steam but he doesn’t stop, he feels my body everywhere and soon I lie back and just take it. Let him discover every contour with his hands. Running his palm along my belly to where it curves over into the underside of my breast. Sliding fingertips along my leg from ankle to thigh, barberpoling a spiral around them.

Hands on my sides, and arms, massaging my palms and fingers. He’s focused on me.

Not long before I am head upon one track, naked ass against the other, legs bent over it with my panties around my ankles. 

The Hindu God is slowly, slowly stroking my clit. When I open my eyes, I see literal stars. The corridor the trackside trees make with their dark green foliage against the blue-black sky open before me, an arm of the milky way bisecting it not too far to my left.

His finger, moving so slowly even when I whimper

“Faster”

But no, slow it goes, and he watches me writhe and buck, head bumping against the steel of the track, gravel stones skittering as I dig my feet in. Expanding, quivering runs of tension radiate from my clit through my body.

I want to come and I am young and worried about how long it is taking, with the tension of his uncertainty and the other woman and the faint knowledge that these tracks are still used.

It’s been known to happen that an errant train graces them outside the two times a day they’re used for coal in, salt out.

And as the tension builds I turn my head and the surprisingly warm track. Press my face and ear into the metal and conjure the dicks of Hindu Gods as trains. Metal on metal.

Pressing sacrum into the slats and he feels it coming and quicks his pace just a little, just enough. Perfect little circles on my clit and the Hindu God fingers me at my opening, just teasing, not penetrating. That’s something he wouldn’t do without permission. 

I don’t need it. The hint is enough, I come loud under his fingers, screaming the name of a Hindu God and banging my head against the train tracks.

When I come to from my pleasure coma I see him looking anxiously back towards the party to see if anyone heard me.

“I don’t think anyone can hear.” I say, not really caring either way. I sit up and pull my clothing back on, reaching for him. “Do you want to fool around more?” I ask.

“No, that was really amazing, but honestly hooking up with you has made me realize I’m just not over her.”

I want to tell him he was never with her, but instead I tell him I understand.

I’m not particularly hurt, he gave me a great orgasm because he wanted to. How could I complain? The awkwardness and “will he or won’t he” faded quickly, but the memory of the pleasure and the tracks and the stars and the moon remain.

My high school reunion hookup stories are over. We walk back to the party together.

Within a year, the other woman is dead at 21 from suicide. 

There is cocaine addiction and enabling by the Hindu God involved. I feel sad for everyone involved. That night at the wake for our other friend’s suicide is the last time I saw her. She was BBQing. She looked happy.

Yet another victim of my hometown blues. So many lost that I see one for the last time at another’s wake.

Many years later the Hindu God marries an Asian woman. Glad to see he finally moved on.


Another Hookup from my Twenties:

The 7 Threesomes in 7 Days:

The Brother of the Other Woman:


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