The obligatory disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. As such, all characters are figments of the author's twisted and deliciously dirty mind. Any resemblance to actual people is strictly an unintentional coincidence. If you are under eighteen or are offended by things of a decidedly sexual nature, you shouldn"t be reading this. For those under eighteen, experience has taught me, as it will teach you, that life will mess with your mind enough after you reach adulthood. You really don't need a head start.
Now, without further delay, back to the story!
8
Meet Frank, the Leapin' Lesbo
I have this friend named Frank. She's a fine, red-headed Irish lesbian whose actual name is Francine O'Shaunessy. She was, at the time, a bright, witty, fast on her feet, fireball of a 23 year-old woman/girl. I adored her then, and I adore her now.
She is quite nice to look at with these gorgeous nipples on her tiny breasts and a delightful, one-in-a-million heart-shaped butt. I would classify her as cute & hot, kind of like an auburn Anne Heche with a "cute" face and something in the eyes that says: This girl might get freaky.
On that day, she had her long hair in a pony tail and wore her usual wife-beater tee shirt with no bra over a pair of semi-tight short-shorts. I suppose her body could have been more on display had she been naked, but maybe not, and in any event, the effect proved to be stupendous.
She and I have had sex, of sorts, but it's not what you think. And yes, I'll get into more detail later – after all, everybody likes a good lesbian story. Let's just say she and I are familiar with each other and move on.
On the day following my initial foray into the magical world of homosexuality, I asked her to explain how I, out of all the "men" in her life, had been the only one to have ever slept with her (and yes, we did sleep).
She said – and I remember this clearly because it so flabbergasted me at the time – "It's because you're not a guy."
We were in the bedroom of her apartment in the too-granola-to-be-trendy part of town. She'd decorated the place in typical lesbo heaven style (the apartment, not the neighborhood; although...), right down to the side-by-side Lilith Faire and Dinah Shore Classic framed posters on her livingroom wall and the fully displayed collection of L-Word DVD boxed sets next to her TV. The walls of her boudoir featured an even dozen pictures in varying sizes with a single common theme: women kissing other women.
"Thanks a lot, Frank," I replied, certain I should feel insulted, but loving her too much to care. "You're lucky I just had my male ego in the shop for its ten thousand mile checkup. Otherwise, we'd be in serious trouble here."
"Did they give you free coffee while you waited?"
"And a calendar," I nodded.
"Bonus," she replied.
"So what the fuck do you mean, I'm not a guy?"
She grabbed me by either side of the face and squeezed until my lips popped out like a grouper, and then gave me a nice wet kiss.
??
I love her.
??
"This," she said, shaking my face back and forth, "is far too pretty to belong to a man." She gave me another kiss. "And this," she continued, nudging my package with her knee, "is far too large to belong to a woman. And this," she concluded, spinning me around and swatting my behind, "is just too sexy for words."
"And it has what to do with Global Warming?"
"Not a single thing," she said, pushing me away like I had somehow been the cause of all this nonsense.
"Okay...Good. 'Cause, you almost lost me there."
"Keep up."
"The Flash couldn't keep up with you."
"That's because I'm Wonder Woman," she said, twirling around and getting in my face. "I'm the baddest bitch in town."
I sat onto her bed. Somehow, she ended up over my knee. Not quite sure how that happened, but one must deal with circumstances as they arise.
I smacked her on the bottom a couple of times (and yes, she actually squealed in delight) and then pulled her pony tail (as gently as one can do such things) until she looked back over her shoulder at me. I gave her one last playful swat for general principles, and said: "How am I not a man?" My hand slid between her legs. "Rather warm down there," I observed, mainly doing it to annoy her. It's a fun little game we play.
?? In case you were wondering, Frank had (and thank God still does) a fondness for being spanked. I, in return, had a fondness for spanking her delicious butt. Ain't symbiosis grand?
??
"You're neither, dumbass," she replied. "And you're both."
"And you're psychotic," I retorted, spanking her a few more times for good measure. It was fun, and Frank seemed to be enjoying the benefits, but it wasn't helping me with the problem at hand (pardon the pun), so I unceremoniously dumped her onto the ground at the foot of her bed.
"Don't blame me if you're a genetic freak," she said, extricating herself from the tangled mess of my legs and a single shoe that had somehow found its way out of her nearby closet. Things like this happened frequently in her bedroom and her apartment and her life.
Frank's a bit of a mess. I kinda like her that way.
"Look who's talking, mutant lesbo," I replied, not lifting a finger to help her up.
"But you like that I'm a lesbo," she retorted, standing on her own.
"Yes I do," I agreed. "I myself am a lesbian. I love the girls."
"And that's exactly my point," she declared, getting a questioning eyebrow from me in return. "You are lesbo – and straight and gay and transgendered and the whole shebang. You're everything all rolled into one. You exude sex. Hell, you probably are sex, like some modern day Pan; repellant, in a gorgeous sort of way, and yet freakishly attractive. It's not natural."
I had to let that one soak in for a bit. And then I apologized. "Sorry."
"For...?"
"Being a Sex God or whatever seems to be causing your mental malfunction."
"Fuck you."
I smiled, leaned back onto the bed and gave the mattress a welcoming pat. "Is that an offer or are you just wishing me something pleasurable and fun?"
"You're a pervert," she said, choosing to tackle me instead.
Somehow, she ended up on top. Not sure how that happened...
"No. I just have a really good imagination."
"And a dirty mind," she said, helping me finish the thought.
She folded her hands under her chin and stretched her lower back like a cat, grinding her hip bones into my solar plexus (she's quite a bit shorter than me) and digging her elbows into my collarbone.
"True." I grabbed her ass with both hands, just to be polite.
"I like your dirty mind," she declared.
"That's because yours is dirtier than mine."
"That's never been conclusively proven," she argued, jabbing her finger into my chin for emphasis.
"Neither has your sanity," I replied, trying to bring her back on point. "You compare me to the Elvis of fertility gods?" I carried on, and followed up with the obvious question: "Have you lost your fucking mind?"
"Frequently, but I always find it again," she parried.
"Yeah, probably in your closet," I replied. "And speaking of which: if you ever find Jimmy Hoffa in there, I really don't want to know."
"Bite me, Freak Boy." It seemed like an order and so – being a good soldier – what else could I do but obey? With a quick (and dare I say, deft) move, I rolled her over and regained the top position then slid to one side and flipped her onto her belly, thus once again exposing her object of my admiration. Orders having been both given and received, I proceeded to chomp upon her left butt cheek.
This resulted in a further bout of all-star wrestling in which I once again ended up on the bottom. How this kept happening is beyond me, but in any case our position had changed somewhat in that now, somehow, someway, my face became trapped beneath her short-short-covered Holiest of Holies. An interesting development, to be sure, and not one to be taken lightly, so I availed myself of the opportunity and kissed her square on the pearly gates – or as square as I could given the fact of her clothing.
Damn the luck!
This soon changed, however, when – by pure coincidental accident – her hand inadvertently slipped down and brushed the material aside as one might do to flies at a church picnic (shoo-fly-shoo), providing me access to her warm and moist goodness.
Several minutes of heavenly deliciousness later, she flopped back onto the mattress, adjusted her clothing then reached out and smacked me upside the head.
"This is all your fault," she said, as if providing me with an explanation.
I, for my part, felt both pain and confusion, and indicated such with a perhaps understandable exclamation. "Ow!"
She slid off the bed and walked to her dresser, showing me her back. As this also provided me with a nice view of her heart-shaped wonder, I focused with near-hypnotic intensity on what any man would, and so did not at first notice her glaring at me through the mirror.
"When was the last time you were rejected?" she asked, and the not-happy tone of her voice shook me out of my inappropriate ogle.
"By...?" I queried, blinking and smacking myself upside the head in an attempt to remove the vision of her Globes of Glory from my mind's eye as she turned to face me.
"Woman...man...goldfish...whatever..."
"I had a serious disagreement with a trout once," I offered, but it didn't seem to help.
"When was the last time anyone said no to you when it comes to sex?"
"Uh..." I thought of Izzy's Mom and her age-restriction, but didn't say anything.
"You can't answer that, can you?" she asked in an annoyingly self-satisfied way. "Has anyone? Ever...?"
"Well, you haven't let me fuck you."
"Says the man who just had his tongue in my snatch," she countered.
This took me back a bit. "Snatch?" I asked. "That's about one step away from the C-Word. You must really be serious."
"Of course I'm serious, Nimrod," she said. "And I'm irritated, and I'm turned-on, and you just gave me an orgasm. That wasn't supposed to happen – ever. You're a man, I'm a lesbian... What's wrong with this picture?"
A glimmer of her malfunction began poking away at my walls of basic male stupidity. "Okay...It's this again." I made the idiotic comment because the issue of her sexual confusion had surfaced before. Not that she felt any uncertainty whatsoever about her orientation. She was (and is) an absolute lesbian, with one – and only one – exception: me. Her befuddlement resulted from this exception.
Don't get me wrong. We've never fucked, per se, in as much as my penis has never entered her vagina (or any other orifice). In fact, my penis has never gotten any action out of the deal, save the occasional contact (always through my clothes) that naturally occurs when either wrestling or turning her over my knee. I have spanked her, I have manually stimulated her, and I have gone down on her, but I've never fucked her (I cannot, as of this writing, say she has never fucked me, but at the time, this hadn't happened yet).
The distinction, however technical though it may be, had always been her way of drawing a line in the sand; like a moat preserving the one remaining fortress surrounding her unconditional lesbianism, a barrier to her sexuality, a wall. No other man had ever been allowed this close to her sanctuary, her tabernacle, her inner-sanctum, her snatch.
I, for one, have never understood it. But as I love her, and as I am attracted to her, and as I am the beneficiary of the whole mess, I've never questioned it too closely, either.
She, on the other hand, had, and therein lay her problem.
"What just happened is never supposed to happen. And every time it does, I swear to myself it never will again. And I'll be fine with that, and it'll work – for a while," she explained as she crawled back onto the bed and lay next to me. "And all this..." she continued, flapping her hand back and forth to indicate the two of us, "is just a friendship – and it's a nice friendship and I love you and I enjoy your non-sexual company." She sighed and buried her face in her hands. "And then the next thing you know I'll find myself grinding my pussy into your face and screaming `Oh God!'"
I did not, at first, respond, except to plant a gentle kiss onto her forehead. I got the gist of what she'd said, and even, I suppose, understood it, if only in a conceptual sense. And that was all fine and good, and I could sympathize, but I could not empathize. I did not – could not – know how she felt.
Understanding a thing and knowing it are as far apart as opposite sides of the Grand Canyon. You can grasp the concept that being a paraplegic sucks, but you cannot know it, unless you've lost the use of a couple limbs.
As I mentioned before, at the beginning of this literary journey through my dirty mind, gender and orientation mean nothing to me, because I don't see the world through those filters. I see people, not labels. That said, I get the idea of my uniqueness in this regard; I comprehend the notion that the vast majority of humanity – Frank included – does not think this way.
This didn't, of course, stop me and my masculine oafishness from trying to explain it to her. "You enjoyed yourself, did you not?"
"Yes," she grumbled.
"Good," I said. "That was my intent," I continued in my ever-so pompous and self-assured way. "I love you and so wanted to give you pleasure. You received pleasure, as you have before, and you did it on your terms."
"My terms?" she asked. "What part of having sex with a man when I'm not interested in men falls under the category of my terms?"
"You didn't have sex with a man,'" I replied, making air-quotation marks with my fingers. "You had sex with me," I added, as if the distinction might make all the difference in the world. "Only we didn't have sex' in the traditional sense," I continued with another flick of my punctuating digits. "You did not, have not, and from all indications will not let me fuck you."
"But we have had sex, President Clinton, just not that particular flavor," she said, and then added, "You haven't let me fuck you," and proceeded to hump my leg.
"Down, Fido..."
"Woof woof!" she barked as I threw her off of me. "I could, you know," she said, reverting to human-speech while rolling onto her side and fixing me with a dirty look.
This strangeness of her banter was pure defense mechanism – as, I suppose, could be said about her offer to fuck me. Rather than deal with the vulnerable position into which she'd placed herself by allowing my tongue access to her labia and clitoris, she deflected, turned it around on me, and became the aggressor.
"I have a strapon. It's very nice."
"I'm sure it is," I replied. "But for the record, you haven't asked."
She sat up in surprise. "Does that mean you would?"
"One way to find out," I challenged. "Does that mean you're done with your psycho rambling?"
"I'm serious."
"About which...?" I asked, ever-so innocently throwing down the gauntlet of put-up-or-shut-up. I swear I saw her blushing and told her so. She, of course, denied it.
"In your dreams, pervert," she rejected, stepping away from the bed as if I were diseased. "I'm serious about the whole mutant sex thing. You're weird and oddly-compelling and scary and hot. Half of my lesbian friends want to have sex with you and the other half don't want to admit it. Every straight girl I know has said something and I've seen quite a few guys checking you out."
"Can I have some phone numbers?" I asked, looking around for writing utensils. "Got any paper?"
"Shut the fuck up and listen for once," she snapped, crawling on the bed and straddling my lap. Pulling me in by the tee-shirt and giving me a head-butt, she continued her rambling unabated. "You know as well as I do that I would never even think of having sex with a man. It just doesn't interest me. You know this to be true," waiting for my nod, daring me to deny it, and then pressing onwards before I could reply. "But for some sick reason you absolutely trip my trigger. It's not natural. You're like an alien from the planet Sex-O-Tron."
"Take me to your leader," I demanded, tweaking her nipple through the tee-shirt molded around it. My other hand naturally slid onto her ass and gave it a couple of swats. She replied (with some justification) by slapping me in the face.
"Do you need more spankings?" I asked.
"Need? No." She replied. "Want? Yes. And therein lies the problem. You're a man. You have the wrong plumbing, the wrong gender, the wrong psyche, the wrong everything, and yet the thought of doing you with my strapon almost makes me cum again just lying here. I'm going to have to masturbate for at least an hour tonight before I can even think of going to sleep, and it's all your fault."
"I'll have myself shot at my earliest convenience."
"As well you should."
"There is, I suppose, another alternative."
"And that is...?"
I gazed into her eyes through heavy lids and gave her my best wicked smile. "Put up or shut up, baby."
It took a few moments to sink in. She's rather slow sometimes, but I make allowances for it, and did so at that particular juncture, gently rolling my fingers across her delectable buttocks.
She pushed her torso up off of me. "You mean... Really...?"
I smiled.
I hadn't yet told her about my adventure at Zebulon the previous evening. I did so then, concluding with: "As of last night, I'm no longer a virgin, as it were."
She leapt off my lap and jumped upon the bed, bouncing up and down on the mattress and somehow managing not to step on any of my more vulnerable body parts. She dove back down on top of me and began to wrestle. Somehow, I ended up on the bottom again. And again, I'm not quite sure how it happened, but this time it left me face-downwards with her giving me a spanking.
"Tell – me – all – about – it!" she demanded, punctuating each word with a swat to my posterior.
I'm not exactly certain why I hadn't told her right away. She knew about my desires, my curiosity, my willingness to explore, because I'd told her, just as I had told her most of my secrets. Losing my anal cherry had been a rather momentous occasion, and I should have shared it with her – her being my best friend and all.
Izzy and I go way back, and then there's that whole thing with Izzy's Mom, but intellectually, he and I are about as similar as dental floss and a '62 Buick. His heart's in the right place, but his brain (computer nerdishness notwithstanding) has done like Elvis and left the building. Frank, on the other hand, is one of those rare people who stimulate all my necessary receptors: visual, sexual, intellectual – Hell, she even smells good.
Did I mention I love her?
In any event, I must admit, the spanking, minor though it may have been, sent waves of pleasure emanating outward from my recently used anus, around my pelvic region, and straight to my not-so tiny soldier, which suddenly felt rather painful as it was at that moment trapped beneath me and growing thoroughly erect.
I bucked my lesbian friend off of me and spun onto my back, thus allowing her to see the obvious bulge in my trousers.
"You little slut!" she exclaimed, giving it a playful slap. "You're turned on by this!"
"When am I not turned on?"
She pondered the question for a moment then replied, "That would explain your general idiocy. You can't possibly be getting blood flow to your brain."
"True enough," I conceded. "But since you're so fond of saying I have my head up my ass, it still means I'm getting blood to the general vicinity, which tosses your theory right out the window."
"Fuck you," she countered, apparently unable to come up with a better retort.
"Promises, promises."
She grabbed me by the ears and pulled my face to within an inch of her own. "You'd really let me?"
Prior to this moment, I hadn't seriously thought about the possibility of Frank doing me with her strapon, but right then, it seemed like a great idea! "Absolutely!" I replied.
She released my ears and resumed bouncing up and down on the bed, causing my head to bounce along with her. "When? When?" She asked excitedly.
Here was the rub, as it were. I wanted it – damn, did I want it – but my current physical state was such that... "I want to do it now – right this second – but recent events have left me in a rather tender condition and so discretion being the better part of valor..."
She eyed my still-prominent bulge with suspicion (and a curled lip of mild disgust). "Part of you doesn't look too tender."
"That part of me is just fine, thank you very much. But a certain other part of my anatomy isn't exactly used to being used." I confessed. "A little time would probably be a good idea."
"Hmm," she replied, still apparently unconvinced. But then her face brightened and a grin spread across it, at once both wicked and a little frightening. "Okay. Have it your way," she said, none-too innocently. "It'll give me time to get ready."
"For what?" I asked, now more than just a little frightened.
"Never you mind. You'll just have to wait and see."
9
Izzy (as usual) Needs Help
So Izzy was getting the shit kicked out of him at the mall.
This was the Monday following my first sojourn to the bookstore on Friday, and I'd only seen him for a few scattered moments since that night.
Izzy is Izzy; there are no two ways about it. He is his own creature following a mad drummer. He's also one of the nicest guys you'd ever want to meet, right until he opens his mouth. Somewhere deep within the recesses of his cerebellum, there's a switch that doesn't work, or a fuse with a short in it, and so words come out of his mouth that some people – okay, most sane people – might find offensive.
And if the words are about a certain Neanderthal's girlfriend...
We'd been wandering through our local indoor version of retail heaven; he searching for computer items and sneakers, and I ostensibly along for the ride. Granted, as we perused the various shop windows and displays, I snuck clandestine peeks at certain items of women's clothing, both in the stores and on the female patrons (Frank having let me in on the costume portion of her evil plan – and I found the fact she knew I had the desire to wear such things even before I did a bit disturbing, but not germane to the topic at hand, so moving on...), but for the most part, my purpose in being there was to provide security for my socially-challenged friend.
Izzy is one of those people who should never be allowed in public without close supervision. He's not a klepto, or a fire bug, or a mad bomber, or in any way a danger to others, but he can be a danger to himself if his mouth is allowed to roam free and unfettered.
The Neanderthal in question was a motorhead we'd gone to high school with named Rick Santorini, a mindless but good-looking brute with the IQ of a dirt clod and the body of a middle linebacker. He dated this vapid but gorgeous former-cheerleader named Vicky, whose butt – in certain circles (namely, males with their eyes open) – was legendary.
I had become distracted by an interesting little red and black bustier and garter belt number adorning a manikin in the doorway of one of those chain lingerie stores, and so didn't notice our former school chums strolling by until Izzy broadcast to the greater metropolitan area: "Goddamn, Vicky, you've got the nicest fucking ass in town!" at a volume ordinarily reserved for use at kegger parties.
??
In the interest of full disclosure, it should be noted that Vicky and I were, shall we say, familiar with each other. On one fine spring day at the close of our senior year (by which point she and Rick had been going steady for a year or more) we found ourselves alone in a storage closet. Not sure how this came to be, but these things just seemed to happen – to me, anyway.
Somehow her lovely, yet understated, shocking-pink panties had fallen to the floor and she'd bent over, perhaps to retrieve them. Her reasons for this were and are known only to her. That this placed her glorious globes of posterior feminine pulchritude in a rather inviting position was, I'm sure, pure coincidence. Fucking her silly had seemed the least I could do.
??
Casting aside (however unwillingly) Miss Vicky's floor-puddled panties, let us carry on with the original tale of inappropriate comments and their consequences. Let us forget the way the light twinkled amongst the moist folds of her dripping wet labia. Let us block from our minds the way her twin moons looked as they called to me from beneath her pleated cheerleader skirt. Let us bypass all memories of the adorable "Ooh-ooh-ooh," she chirped as my cylindrical ruler measured the depths of her soft cave over and over again. Gone are all mental images of adolescent glory; of pushed up skirts and pulled down undergarments; of perky breasts and pointy nipples peeking through the open buttons of her blouse; of the warm enveloping sensation of cock inside pussy. Let us forget these things and move on.
??
Yes, I am patently full of shit.
??
So there we were in the open promenade of the mall, outside of a lingerie store, with various and sundry shoppers milling about in our general vicinity suddenly stopped dead and staring – many with shocked and open mouths – at my brain-dead friend, the object of his public pronouncement, and her potentially future axe-murdering boyfriend. I suppose things could have been worse, but for that to happen we'd have needed to be in Afghanistan or Somalia or some other foreign war zone, and so the alternative possibilities are best ignored.
Vicky seemed to bask in the sudden attention, accentuating the topic of Izzy's accurate, yet inappropriate comment by ever-so sensually caressing her own white lycra-covered backside (beneath which could be seen in intimate detail her black thong underpants) with both hands while arching her back and pushing her posterior outward with as much nuance as if she'd painted a day-glo bulls eye upon it. She tossed me a wink and a smile and a non-verbal call me later, and then went back to preening for her public.
Izzy remained wrapped in his own oblivious world, leering at the former cheerleader and ignoring the Neanderthal. I have often wondered at this innocent ability. If ignorance is bliss, then my friend must be the happiest person on the planet. He certainly appeared to be at the moment, in any event, and so was caught wholly unprepared for the ensuing vicious roundhouse.
There is a famous cliché moment in any number of action films where some poor unfortunate finds themselves the recipient of a slow-motion juggernaut-like punch to their jaw. The sweat is propelled off of them as if seen through the lens of a nature photographer, their skin rolls outward like waves upon the shore, their facial bones are shifted in mechanically impossible directions, and all of this cinematic carnage is accompanied by a deep and buzzing, yet phonetically-warped roar.
Rick's initial strike was nothing like any of that. He hit Izzy and Izzy crumpled like a puppet with its strings cut – flop, right onto the ground in a heap of soon-to-be-pounded arms and legs and head and torso. My friend may or may not have been unconscious, but it didn't matter in the least to our former classmate.
Normal human beings – those not destined for maximum security prison – when faced with a physical altercation in which their first blow proved sufficient enough to incapacitate their opponent, will generally wait a bit to ensure the dumb bastard doesn't try to get back up and come at them for more of the same, and then they'll walk away, especially if said fracas occurred in public in front of witnesses who might identify them later in a court of law. As might seem obvious from the caveman epithet with which I have hypocritically, yet accurately labeled Mr. Santorini, Rick did not fall into the category of "normal."
Instead, he fell upon Izzy with a fury for which anyone who suggested massive doses of Thorazine would not be accused of crazy talk. The resultant pummeling could very well have caused the most hardened Ultimate Fighting enthusiast to cringe, had any been in the vicinity. Such considerations were secondary – perhaps even tertiary – however, because the subject of said pummeling happened to be my friend, thus requiring an immediate and aggressive response on my part.
"Rick...Dude...What's up?" I said, catching him in mid-beating.
He was about to add color to Izzy's already red and swollen eye.
The intellectually questionable Rick paused long enough to look at me and bark the highly original "You want some of this too?" before resuming the beating.
"If I must," I said with an exaggerated sigh.
He stopped in mid-swing but didn't immediately look at me. I think all his mental effort was busy trying to wrap its head around the concept that I'd actually said what I just said. Fearing the pressure on his brain might cause permanent damage, I took pity and helped him out.
"In other words, Nimrod," I said. "Leave my friend alone."
It had the desired effect of stopping any further mangling of mi amigo's face, but created a whole different set of problems, when Rick released Izzy like a gym bag and turned to face me. I wish he had said something witty or pithy or consisting of more than single syllables, but "Fuck You" was apparently the extent of his verbal repertoire as he started toward me.
I leaned into a relaxed stance and waited.
??
I started kissing girls at the tender age of eight. Karen Swenson was her name and she was a cute blonde tomboy with laughing eyes and enthusiastic lips. We used to give each other "Hollywood" kisses (long and deep lip-locks of a fairly impressive manner, provided one understood we didn't know what the Hell we were doing) in the alley behind her house. Our torrid affair lasted all of three weeks before tragically ending after the "Cap-Pistol Incident." I think I broke the thing, or some transgression along those lines, but we had already been changing from the happy-go-lucky couple of three weeks gone by. The seeds of relationship doom had already been sewn, and so the incident became a peg on which to hang her hat.
Alas, young love.
I started playing Doctor that same year: Second Grade. Built myself up a nice practice, too, during both Third and Fourth, so that by the time I reached Fifth (at the ripe old age of ten) I had a number of pre-pubescent patients in need of regular exams.
And then Debbie O'Connor's father caught us in his garage. It stopped short of physical violence, but not by much. My own father reacted in a calmer but no less extreme manner. Bless his heart, but somehow he got it into his head that my boyish energy and enthusiasm needed direction and some physical form of release, and so he signed me up for Tae Kwon Do.
You can get pretty good at anything if you practice it for eleven years.
??
Taking down a larger opponent is no great feat if you know what you're doing and he doesn't. It's mostly a matter of balance and leverage and knowing where and how to hit and having the control and discipline to do it well. And there are all sorts of nifty blocks and defensive moves and ways to get out of a wide variety of situations, but my very first sensei – a mad Chinaman named Lu Pao – always held that a well placed spin kick to the temple of someone who has no idea it's coming, would achieve excellent results.
In the case of young Mister Santorini, he was right.
??
After escaping the mall and leaving behind the stunned audience (and potential charges of aggravated assault), I escorted my battered friend to his house, where Izzy's Mom promptly freaked out upon seeing his condition.
"What happened? Who did this to you? Why didn't you stop it from happening?" This last exclamation was for my benefit, presumably naming me to the post of designated asshole. It took a while for us to correct her error, and when we finally did, her response – albeit somewhat delayed – took me by both storm and surprise.
"Izzy, go take a shower and change your clothes. You're a mess," she said, and then proceeded to nonchalantly putter about the kitchen as he departed to do so. I watched her with curiosity, but without comment.
Upon hearing the bathroom door close and the shower begin, she spun like a top and rushed to engulf me in a lewd embrace, grabbing my ass and pulling me into her loins.
"You brave, brave young man," she said, all-but fucking me through my clothes as we stood there in the middle of the kitchen. "You deserve a big reward," she declared, and in virtually one motion undid my pants and yanked them to the ground around my ankles as she knelt in front of me and scooped my hardening penis into her mouth, and then proceeded to give me my reward: another one of her patent-pending Sloppy Wet Blowjobs.
I thought it was quite nice of her.
??
"Izzy...Dude...You need to learn when to shut the fuck up," I said after he'd finished his shower and I'd finished receiving my "reward."
"It ain't like what I said was a lie," he defended himself. "She really does have the nicest fucking ass in town." His left eye had swollen to the approximate size of an apricot and his lip was cracked and had puffed up like Angelina Jolie on collagen.
"Yes she does," I agreed, mainly because he was absolutely right. "But broadcasting this fact to the general populace when she has a boyfriend previously known to have enjoyed picking the wings off of small freshmen was just plain stupid."
"But Dude—"
"Shut up," I cut him off. "Just shut up and promise me you'll refrain from any further stupidity. Okay?"
"Yeah, whatever," he replied. "Fuck off."
??
I wish it had ended there. I wish he had kept his big fucking mouth shut. I wish Rick Santorini hadn't been a member of Reverend Artemis Collingwood's goon squad. And while I'm at it, I also wish for world peace and good will toward men and hot, juicy, uncomplicated sex for everyone. One wish is as good or bad as another in this case, because in any event, none of them came true.
...To Be Continued...