walk is an exercise in masochism, much like having a knife buried into my gut, twisting sharply with each of her stilted steps.
I want to say it’s not as bad as when I initially realized it, that first day back at school. The way her hand supported her back as her hobbling gait carried her across the quad, right leg faltering with each step, it was undeniable.
That’s what I did.
I’d met up with Emory to walk to my first class and couldn’t force a single word from my throat the whole way. I wasn’t prepared, then. In photos, she looks perfect. And that day, standing in her window in nothing but a bra and panties, she looked... well, miserable.
Miserable, but also fucking breathtaking.
If fourteen-year-old Reynolds could see seventeen-year-old Vandy, he would have made a move so fast, her head would have spun. Of course, my crush on her back then was just a curious little hint of a thing. I never fully nursed it. Emory wouldn’t have even let me. He’s smart like that.
I expect it now, knowing exactly what it is to watch the consequence of what I’ve done. But in truth, even three days later, I still feel those vicious stabs just watching her.
My teeth are already tightly clenched when I finally find Emory’s table, dropping into the seat beside him. “Fuck.” I realize, “I forgot to get a drink.”
Emory uses my shoulder for leverage when he rises from his seat. “It’s cool, I need to get something from the vending machine, anyway. What you want?”
“I don’t know.” Choices, choices. Goddamn it. “Something wet.”
Emory shoots me two finger guns. “I don’t think they’re putting pussy in the vending machine yet, bro.”
I flip him a middle finger as he walks off. “Walked into it.”
“So, what’s the word on that?” Ben Shackleford asks through a mouthful of food. “You managed to score any yet?”
I don’t know any of these guys well enough to talk about pussy with them. Even if I did, I probably wouldn’t brag that there are a lot of choices. Well. Not too much. I’ve already gotten looks, had notes passed to me, girls asking for my number, girls giving me theirs. Paying dividends. It’d be like shooting cum in a barrel.
Uncomfortably, my mind instantly flashes to that moment of seeing Vandy in her window, the way her tits looked peaking over that bra, how soft her skin seemed in the evening light, the way my hands would probably fit perfectly on her narrow hips.
Even more uncomfortably, my mind flashes to how, thirty minutes later, I was in the shower angrily stroking myself off—gut-clenched and empty—just to make my erection go the fuck away. It was only a brief respite, because there’s plenty of girls around here I can look at without feeling like sewer scum.
All these girls.
And their thighs.
Dozens—no, hundredsof pairs of thighs. This school’s dress code might actually fucking kill me. Cause of death: erection lasting more than four hours. There are all kinds of girls here, in all shapes and sizes. Blondes, brunettes, redheads, even a few pushing the dress code with rainbow-colored hair. Everywhere I look, I see little hints of skin beneath skirts. The swell of perky tits under a tight button-down shirt. Firm asses swaying around all over the place. I feel like a pervert, twenty-four-seven.
It’s a miracle I’m able to be productive at all. What was my dad even thinking, putting me in here? I’d just spent three years cooped up with sweaty, smelly, hormonally repressed boys. Mountain Point had reeked of feet and dried cum. Here? Every girl that passes smells like unicorns and dreams. Restraint, and a constant hard-on, has become my new normal. All I’d need to do is choose one and go for it.
The thought makes the back of my neck feel clammy.
I swallow a particularly dry bite of potatoes. “Still checking out my options.”
“What was it like there, anyway?” Carlton Wade asks. He’s a junior who plays running back on the team with us. He’s also got this slimy grin that constantly makes me want to put a boot in his face. “Was it just a bunch of dicks all the time? Circle jerks? On a scale of one to ten, how homoerotic are we talking?”
I swallow a mouthful of mac n’ cheese and wipe my mouth. “Not half as homoerotic as the way you look at everyone in the locker room.”
There’s a chorus of loud whooping, but Carlton just shrugs. “I’m not ashamed. I might be pussy-eating straight, but my boys got some fine asses.”
Emory returns with two cans of Dr. Pepper, tossing one to me. “Hell yeah, I do, and don’t you forget it.”
“But come on.” Carlton makes a horrified expression. “Three years without any girls? That’s some cruel and unusual shit.”
“There were girls. Sometimes.” The school administrators weren’t idiots. They knew we had to be around girls occasionally or we’d burn that fucker down. “Few times a year, they’d bus in students from the sister school for social events. Plus,” I add, popping the top on my can, “I had like a million hours of community service, and trust me, the kind of girls who are on probation?” I give him a look.
“Oh, shit!” Ben looks absolutely delighted. I don’t know much about the guy yet, except that he plays drums in the marching band, and that’s only because he’s constantly got his drumsticks out, tapping them on everything. It’s either monumentally stupid or completely genius that he’s also an offensive linesman on the team. He almost never has to actually march. “You get some of that rough trade?”
I shrug, but that’s basically the gist of it. “Had a semi-regular thing going on with an arsonist named Melody.” By the looks on their faces, they can’t decide if I’m jerking their chains or not. I won’t bother saying one way or another. Quick, flustered hook-ups in bathrooms, utility closets, and port-a-johns aren’t exactly brag-worthy. And that was only the summer before junior year. It’s been a long time.