Feedback, please

This is a VERY early draft of the opening part of a book about Orange County. From time to time I'll throw up more stuff that will eventually mesh into the book. To those of you who know me and are reading this, give me some feedback here. Also, by way of disclaimer, obviously not all of this happened and none of the names are real. That is not to say that all of it didn't happen, because those of you who know me well will probably pick up on other stuff later.

Kristin Trelawney is unfastening my belt buckle in the middle of the sixteenth green, smiling her toothpaste-commercial smile up at me and saying, "Relax, baby." I think of Vanna White, wide-eyed and grinning while she spins around five "N"s. I can't relax. The night is cold for August, and I'm new to outdoor sex. Her hands cool against my stomach, she looks up. "Relax." She smiles again, wider.

Her teeth are flawless. Nobody's teeth are that white. They look like they're illuminated from within.

Bleaching teeth is a horrifying process. The dentist carefully scrapes all the crud off the surface of your teeth with a steel hook and then spreads carbamide peroxide all over them. It makes your teeth whiter than a Vermont snowfall, but at the same time it eats right through your enamel and after the procedure whenever you drink anything with ice in it a harsh little shiver runs up your spine.

Carbamide peroxide is also one of the primary chemicals in semen.

It's been two days since I last rubbed one out. That means I have maybe 17 or 18 calories waiting for her in the tubes. She could probably use them. At school, Kristin likes to chew food and spit it back out into her brown paper lunch bag.

Her arms wrapped around me, Kristin presses her cheek to my stomach. I can actually feel the tiny layer of makeup separating her skin from mine. I'm still nervous. I begin to think about her teeth again, big, serrated words. Chew. Gnash.

Kristin Trelawney the soccer player drooling all over me. What would Jesus do? She breathes out and wets her lips expectantly. Just below the point of no return she stops and gives me one more smile. The big beery pupils look up at me and for just a moment I see a forlorn little puppy. Then I am greeted by the real meaning - "I am about to inhale your cock like it was made of Belgian chocolate," and then oh wet perfect melting heaven.