“I heard it hurts for guys to have sex the first time too.”
“What? Why?”
I asked.
“Cause all
the pussy juice gets into your dick-hole and it stings,” said some friend.
This is the first and last time I heard this. I am a child with the donkey of adulthood kicking at my walls.
It hurts? I figure pussy juice must be acidic, like orange
juice, not as bad as lemon juice, but like orange juice.
“But you probably get used to it,” I reply.
There's dried Elmer's glue inside my locker from the last person who used it. I pick away at it but try to hide doing it cause I don't want to switch lockers.
In math class, the girl in front of me knows stuff about
other people. Her acne and straight teeth make her look older.
“Hey, do
you know who Stacey Carson is? I heard she likes me,” I say.
“I’m Stacey Carson.”
“Oh.”
We look in opposite directions.
I get off the bus and walk home. The garage door is louder and
scarier than a toilet flushing at night. I stop for a second to make sure I can
hear my dad on the phone in his office. He is. I sprint upstairs.
There’s a little spot underneath my desk where the vent
blows warm air. I like to sit under there with my toys. Today I had to free one
of the plastic army guy’s heads from the ectoplasmic prison made from my mom’s
glue gun glue. Blink-182’s Enema of the
State hasn’t stopped playing on my stereo for two weeks. I don’t hear it
anymore. The phone rings. It’s for me.
“Hello?” I
answer
“Hey, Evan,
it’s Sharon. I hate you.”
“What?
Why?”
“Because
you never say ‘hi’ when I see you in the halls.”
“Well, what
the fuck, why don’t you say ‘hi’ to me?”
“Because
you should think I’m cool enough that you should say ‘hi’ to me first.”
“Okay,
let’s just say hi at the same time then next time we see each other.”
“Deal. I
bet you’re still not going to.”
“Did you
talk to my mom?”
“Yeah I
just asked if you were there.”
“What did
she say?”
“She just
said ‘yeah, hold on.’ She seems nice.”
“Oh. She’s
not. What are you doing?”
“I’m
soaking my hands in wax.”
“You’re
soaking your hands in wax? What do you mean?”
“Yeah. It
makes them soft. It’s just one of those things girls do when we don’t have
anything else to do.”
“Right. Wax
probably works like lotion.”
“What do
guys do when they don’t have anything to do?”
Under my desk, I strum the ribs of the heat vent, slid shut
so glue-head’s head wouldn’t fall in incase I decided to lop it off that
afternoon.
“I don’t
know. Download music and stuff or read a magazine.”
“You read
magazines?”
“Yeah.”
“Like
what?”
“Like
Maxim, or The Robb Report.”
“My brother
reads Maxim.”
“There's
some good stuff in there. A lot of guys I know don’t read the articles and just
look at the pictures but they just like don’t get it you know?”
“Yeah,
totally.”
We talk about nothing for a while. She asks if I would
rather have a car all riced out or all muscled out. I don’t know what she
means by either of those so I say all muscled out.
“You should
talk to Brianne.”
“Brianne?
Is she that girl who cuts up the bottom of her jeans?”
“Wait, what
do you mean?”
“She has
black hair and she cuts the sides of her jeans, like both sides?”
Sharon tells me some girls do that so their jeans fit over
their shoes. I figure out Brianne is who I think she is, and Sharon and I talk
about how we want to be rich when we grow up, and how black guys are always
cool. She asks "how far I've gone." I tell her I've made out a couple times, but really it was once, on a dare, and it lasted five seconds. She doesn't answer for herself.
We hang up and I find Brianne on AOL Instant Messenger. I
don’t know what to say so I make fun of her for cutting up her jeans and riding
horses. We talk about people and things we hate for about two hours and plan to
hang out soon. I jerk off to a Photoshopped nude photo of Jennifer Aniston I
think is real.
I’m at the movies, watching Zoolander with a group of fifteen or so middle schoolers and about
eighty other people who want their money back. Sharon and some other girl made
sure Brianne and I sat next to each other. She looked like a 13 year old
Shannyn Sossamon – black straight hair, too much lip gloss, and too much makeup
overall. And big bulging eyes. She smelled like candy and makeup. She wore a yellow hooded sweatshirt
and jeans, not cut up at the bottom. We had only spoken to each other that one
time online and never hung out before.
Somewhere around the second act of Zoolander (which Brianne would refer to as “Zoolanders” in the
following weeks) I put my arm around Brianne because Sharon told me to. She
relaxed her shoulder into the crook of my arm.
Every time I rub her shoulder with my thumb she runs a
finger down my arm. I lower my hand to around her waist. I wait for her to
adjust somehow. I move my hand onto to her stomach and graze the peachy skin
under her shirt. Nothing but her breathing changes. I slide my finger along the
inside of her jean’s waistband, ready to pull my hand away before she does. She
doesn’t. I make sure she’s not asleep or hypnotized by Zoolander. I pull my hand away.
A few minutes later I put it back. I figure this is how that
story I heard about Kyle getting a high school freshman naked started. I hang
out there for a while, getting more creative and adventurous with all one can
do with one’s fingertips wedged in the waistband of another’s pants. I take a
break. We adjust closer to each other. I go back and dig a little until my hand
slides deep enough to pinch the elastic band of her thong. I am one hundred
percent positive if not her, someone will approach me with a flashlight and
politely ask I remove my hand from this girl’s pants. It does not happen and I
the only reason I know she’s not dead is because her breathing is accelerating.
I try to pay attention to Zoolander.
My hand becomes prosthetic right on the flesh above her pubic bone. It might as
well be a new kind of girdle to block blows to the pelvis. At this point, I am
willing to admit I could be totally wrong about what I think is down there.
I plunge further. And just when I think the lights will come up, alarms
will go off, and we must evacuate the theater – wetness. Gushing, waterfalling, Return
to The Blue Lagoon, Six Flags Waterpark wetness. To this day it is the wettest
orphus I have ever encountered. Every organ in my body looks at each other
waiting for the other to know what to do. I have my hand on what I assume is a
shaved pussy. A squishy little hedgehog drooling like a madman. I go deeper. I
guess it becomes what I imagined it to feel like from the fake Jennifer Aniston
pussy, but softer, warmer, and of course, wetter.
I cup my hand around it for the remainder of the movie. No
diddling, no tapping, no thrusts or clenching or whimpering – just soaking my
fingers in the crotch Jacuzzi. I imagine any cuts or abrasions I might have had
on my fingers were healed by the time I pulled out. I wipe my fingers on her
pants and wait a few seconds to bring them to my nose. They smell cleaner,
which surprises and mildly disappoints me. The lights come up and I look at my
fingers. They’re pruney.
A few days later I sit under my desk. I pick up glue-head
guy, ready to chip the glue off with my butterknife-dull pocket knife, and freeze - I wonder
how the toy is made, and how those plastic flaps around the edges get
there. I put the pocket knife to the glue head but something is different, and,
well, I just feel silly. I look at the rest of my toys on the floor. They look
like plastic but act like wood. I put them back in the box under my bed with a
mechanicalness I am aware of. A few years later I will remember this exact moment
– I’m waking up on Christmas morning with, for the first time, the urge to
spring out of bed and wait by the tree, gone, and I can’t stop noticing how
gone it is, and how I want it to bother me but it doesn’t, and I travel back to
the time I put my toys back in the box under my bed.
Brianne is my girlfriend. She leaves notes in my locker. She
will call soon, but I don’t want to talk. I don’t want to talk to Sharon who’s
suddenly getting hotter every day, I don’t want to talk to my guy friends who
think I’m David Blaine Mindfreak since Zoolander,
I don’t want to talk to anyone downstairs, I don’t want to talk to anyone
and I don’t want to go anywhere.
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