There i stood in the deserted playground, rubbing the throbbing side of my face, looking expectantly at Linda,
wondering what violence she was going to deal out to me next.
There she stood in the deserted playground, her fists on her hips, staring balefully at me, no doubt wondering exactly the same thing.
She was so beautiful. I just wanted to cry out for the sheer glory of her.
Her hair was a species of brown that could almost have been a mutation of red, and she wore it in two thick and indignant pigtails high on her head, her fringe hanging down and framing her chubby-cheeked face. Her eyes were permanently half-lidded, suggesting seductively that she’d just woken up after a night of shared passion, and her lips were poised for the delivery of some sexual favour or other. I could see that she still hadn’t developed much in the way of her boobs, but that didn’t matter, not at all.
In fact, none of that really mattered. That physical stuff wasn’t why i loved her so.
Linda, you see, was the girl in my Lit class who knew all about things like allegory and denouement and narrative structure.
I knew all about them, too, which was why i was in Lit class.
But she made a very specific and oft recurring point of letting me know that she knew about things like that, that it was her business - as a girl - to know all about things like that, and that - as a boy - it was my business to know nothing at all about anything to do with literature, and to be instead off playing football or something with my stupid boy mates. In the mud.
I spent the entire Senior year in Lit class far, far beneath her contempt. She would always huff indignantly for all to hear if i showed the unmitigated temerity to answer a question in class, and she would then go on to delicious pains to point out how i was either patently wrong, pathetically misguided, or ignorantly missing a much more viable interpretation than the one i had drivelled out. And shouldn’t i be off somewhere, playing football with my stupid boy mates?
In the mud?
As you can imagine, i wanted her so badly that i always came out of Lit class with a near-fatal case of blue balls and nursing a glowing-hot stiffy that i had to hide with my strategically-held three ring binder.
She was so mean to me all the time in Lit class that it became A Thing.
Even the teacher noticed.
One day we were discussing La Belle Dame Sans Merci, and she took such a strong and affronted exception to what i’d put forward as to the overall meaning of the poem that she stood up, turned around, and threw her copy of the poetry text book - The World’s Contracted Thus - right smack at me.
I saw it sailing towards me, in slow motion, turning over and over in the air. I didn’t know quite what to do. Should i take it between the eyes? Would that be chivalrous? Would that win her heart? My penis was still wondering what to do to turn this opportunity to its advantage when my brain turned my head shamefully to one side, to take the missile with at least some diminished damage.
In the astonished silence of the classroom, that heavy book hitting the side of my face was a cannon blast.
I staggered, but didn’t fall off my chair. Neither, i was glad to note, did i whimper or cry out in an unmanly way, despite the bone-crunching force of the impact.
The teacher, used to dealing with classrooms comprised entirely of quiet, bookish girls, didn’t know what to do. So she did what teachers always do when they don’t know what to do: she threw us both out of the room and told us to work it out between ourselves.
So there we were, me and Linda, in the playground, her still steaming, her shoulders rising and falling with rage, and me sporting a nasty graze and a percolating bruise on the side of my face where her anthology had punctuated my idea.
“Why did you have to do Lit?” she asked, exasperated, her voice echoing off the distant metal cliffs of lockers. “You didn’t do it last year, how can you even do it this year? You have no idea of how to behave in class. You have no idea of how literature works. You’re just… you’re just a stupid… stupid… boy.”
If only i could have slid my glowing-hot stiffy into her right there and then, i would have been the happiest stupid stupid boy in the whole world, contracted thus.
“I’m entitled to an opinion,” i said, since it was clear that i wouldn’t be nut-deep in her anytime soon, and having nothing to lose meant there was a faint possibility i had something to gain. “I just have different opinions to you. That’s what’s making you so upset.”
“Your opinions aren’t different,” she explained, still furious. “They’re wrong. All wrong. Why don’t you just shut up and let us girls discuss things without your... idiotic... boy... interruptions?”
I could see her bra straps through the fabric of her school blouse. I wanted to be taking that bra off, nuzzling those meagre boobs, discovering whether the skin of her nipples matched the colour of her lips…
Done with telling me off, she tossed her head and suggested, “Well, i suppose we need to go to the co-ordinators now, so you can get into trouble properly and then apologise to me and the whole Lit class.”
“You,” i pointed out, “were the one who threw the book at me.”
“Yes,” she smiled, “and now the co-ordinator’s going to throw the book at you again.”
In fact, it turned out that we both got detention, despite her presenting a very convincing case that i was to blame for everything, and my non-existent defence of standing there silently, looking as if i had just murdered the Principal.
Still. It turned out that detention wasn’t such a bad thing.
I was assigned to sit at the table right behind her, which meant i was able to gaze upon her as she breathed in and out, all through detention. It was meant to be a punishment, of course, but i was so rapt in the vision of her shoulders rising and falling slowly as she breathed that the detention seemed to last only a few seconds, not an hour.
We were supposed to write an apology to the teacher and the class. I scribbled that down quickly (i only had a few seconds, after all), and then i wrote a love poem. For her.
It was terrible. I understand how poetry works, but i’m not a poet. My poem was heartfelt and earnest, though, which made it even worse. I gave it to her after detention, despite the fact that she was storming away from me. I had to run after her to catch her up and hand her the poem.
She was so surprised by me handing her something that she took it, almost by reflex. She stood stock still and read it with disgust, and then she told me everything that was wrong with it. That critical analysis took her a full ten minutes, despite the fact that it was only sixteen lines long.
By the time she had finished i wanted her to have my babies. I would gladly have started that process right there and then. Her top lip was shining with perspiration from the passion with which she had attacked my poem.
“Linda,” i said to her disgusted, scowling face, “Like the poem says, i think you’re beautiful, smart, intriguing, magnificent. Would you like to go with me? Be my girlfriend?”
Her disgusted, scowling face blanched. The flush of fury literally drained away in a second, like someone had pulled a plug, leaving her white and ashen.
“This is about... me?” she asked, horrified, her voice cracking with disbelief.
She tore the paper up and threw it in my face.
“Don’t you ever... ever...”
But she didn’t finish what she was going to say before she continued her storming off on me. She didn’t really have to finish; i got the general idea.
As she stamped off, i couldn’t help but notice how sensuous the backs of her legs were.
It was year 12, so everyone got invited to any and all parties that were held; we’d finally put all that nasty clique stuff behind us and grown to be all collegial and such. This intermingled air of glasnost and perestroika was the only reason why i found myself in the same room as Linda at a party, something that would never have happened just a few months earlier, when we were in Year 11 and cliques were the principal demarcation lines of our political world.
It was the sort of party where the mum and dad had conveniently gone out, and someone had already thrown up in the punch by the time you arrived. AC/DC was playing enthusiastically and with a bit of a crackle through the tape deck, and couples were filling up the dark corners of dimly lit rooms with the soft, liquid sounds of kissing and fingering.
Linda was with Kate, standing near the turned-off TV, talking. I walked up.
“Go away,” Linda said. “I’m talking to my friend.”
“Yeah,” Kate reaffirmed. “Piss off, pimplepuss.”
“Can i get you a drink,” i asked Linda, ignoring Kate, who had easily three or four times as many pimples as i had, and at least i hadn’t tried to conceal mine with clumps of ‘skintone’ Clearasil.
“No, i can get my own drinks, thank you.”
“Maybe,” Kate suggested, “you could go get yourself an ice cold glass of rack the hell off.”
I didn’t leave, though. I just stood there, and none of us said anything; they just stared blankly at me, daring me to speak. The dead air hung between the three of us right through the lead guitar solo for Given the Dog a Bone.
“Can i talk to you,” i finally dared ask Linda as the drum and rhythm guitar took back over. I glanced at Kate’s lumps of Clearasil and specified, “Alone?”
She said no. Just flat no. I stood there a while longer, and they made a big show of ignoring me, returning to a conversation about how stupid boys are, and how boys should all just die. I stood there, resolutely and awkwardly, but they walked away in the end, and i didn’t follow.
Two weeks later, another party. It was in a shed, a big shed, with heat blowers to keep us all from freezing solid in the shrivelling mid-winter night air. I found Linda Kateless and alone, standing out of place by a stack of apple boxes, holding a drink that was such an unnaturally bright red it made her hair look quite naturally brown.
She smiled. I saw, once i got up close, that she was crying beneath that smile, or possibly over it, the tears running over her chubby cheeks and swollen lips.
“Oh, hey,” she said. “It’s you.”
Yes, i thought. It’s me.
We walked out into that mid-winter night air and sat on a rusty 44 gallon drum that we found lying on its side, back amidst the darkness and clutter behind the big shed. Through the corrugated iron walls came the muffled nostalgic singing of Greatest Hits ‘81.
Her mouth was warm and her lips soft and slippery. Her tongue had a flickering mind of its own. Her hair smelt like pasta. Her breasts felt like holding little plastic fruit bags full of warm pudding.
I had no idea what was happening, apart from the obvious, and even less of an idea why.
She obligingly slipped her undies out of the way for me, and swung her thighs far enough apart for me to be in no doubt as to what was happening next.
“Don’t tell anyone,” she whispered, and led my hand to where the fingering goes on.
I’d barely gotten my index finger up to the first knuckle inside of her before i came in my pants. I didn’t know whether or not to mention this to her. I decided not to, and hoped the cum wouldn’t soak through my cords.
I couldn’t get her to orgasm; i knew that i was supposed to, so give me credit for that, but i had no idea how to even start, other than generally wiggling my finger around inside her snug, downy purse of slippery flesh. She didn’t seem to mind that i was totally inept. After a while, though, she gently pushed my hand away and adjusted her undies back into place.
I like to think that it was the cold, rather than my pointless stirring, that had brought things to a close.
“That was our time,” she explained, sadly, closing her thighs. I noted the past tense. “It won’t happen again.”
I nodded, although i still had no idea why what had just happened had just happened. I figured i would have had to have understood that before i started making plans for it to happen again.
She reminded me not to tell anyone, and then she straightened her skirt, did up her blouse, rebuttoned her cardigan, and walked around the corner of the shed, back towards the party.
I stood up and checked my cords in the faint light coming greyly through the dust- and insect-coated louvre windows, and there was definitely a dark spot where the viscous clot of my semen had soaked right past my jocks and then on through the cotton trousers. I took off my jumper despite the cold and tied it around my waist, arranging the flopping arms over the wet spot.
No one noticed anything, from what i could tell.
I felt like celebrating whatever it was that had happened with Linda by toasting myself with some punch, but then i remembered that someone had thrown up in it.
In class, on Monday, i brought up an idea i’d just had about the poem we were studying, William Blake’s Sick Rose, and Linda turned on me, asking me how dare i intrude upon a poem that was clearly about a woman being despoiled by a man, and how it sickened her to hear me even trying to understand what it was like to be ruined sexually by the insolent burrowing of a man’s impudent appendage.
So everything was back to normal. No one suspected a thing.
We’d gotten away with it.
The class moved on. As girl voices quietly and calmly discussed symmetry and metaphor and metre, i thought of the smell her hair, the unpredictable flicks of her tongue, the pudding-in-plastic texture of her breasts, the grip of the walls of her own, quite healthy rose on my impudent appendage...
She never threw another book at me, sure, but i never saw her cry again either.
And no matter how much i wanted it to, what happened that night never ever happened between us again.
© Copyright 2016 lobsterpotmayhem. All rights reserved.
Short Story / Erotica
Short Story / Erotica
Book / Erotica