The mother was, understandably enough, absolutely hysterical but, while I opened up my airway bag and began setting up to put in a breathing tube, she was able to tell me that she’d heard a strange noise and had entered the room to find her son seizing on the couch. It had gone on for a considerable time and then he’d simply stopped just before we’d arrived. His breathing hadn’t started again. She told me he had no known medical problems. He’d had no fever, had in fact been perfectly fine when she’d talked to him less than ten minutes before she found him seizing.
While I pulled out my breathing tube and a laryngoscope-a lighted instrument used to peer down someone’s throat prior to placing the tube-the firefighter began bagging the child, forcing air down his throat and into his lungs. While she did this, my partner had hooked the child up to our EKG machine. I took a quick glance at the reading. His heart was only beating thirty times a minute and was slowing further with each passing beat. What the hell?
The firefighter who was bagging seemed to be having trouble. “The air won’t go in,” she told me. “It just blows out the side.”
Armed with that information I took another look around the room. The television was on, tuned to a cartoon show. A half-eaten hot-dog was sitting on a plate on the coffee table. The light bulb suddenly went off above my head.
“Was he eating?” I asked the mother.
“Yes,” she sobbed, wringing her hands. “I’d just given him his lunch.”
“Shit,” I muttered, everything falling into place. “Stop bagging him and let me in there,” I told the firefighter. She stepped aside and I picked up my laryngoscope. Lying on the floor near his head I inserted the blade into his mouth and lifted the tongue out of the way. The light bulb on the end of the blade illuminated his airway for me. It was blocked solid by a chunk of pink hot dog.
“Matt, give me the Magills,” I told my partner.
He slapped a long set of forceps into my hand, an instrument designed specifically for removing foreign objects from airways. I’d never used them before-true choking calls are rare-but they worked just exactly as I’d been promised. I grabbed the chunk of meat and pulled it free, revealing his vocal cords and trachea behind it. I gave him a second to see if he would start breathing on his own. When he didn’t, I picked up the breathing tube and slid it through his vocal cords. The firefighter attached her bag to the top of the tube and began forcing pure oxygen down into his lungs.
By the time I got the tube secured his skin had pinked up considerably and his heart rate had increased to more than a hundred. By the time we loaded him into the back of the ambulance his eyes were open and he was gagging violently, no doubt upset to wake up and find a large tube in his throat. By the time we got to the hospital I’d been forced to remove the tube and he was breathing well on his own. He was a little confused and dopey but awake and able to talk. When we brought him in to Nina’s emergency room I was positively glowing with the satisfaction of a job well done, convinced that out of all the times I’d been needlessly called, for once I’d actually been needed, that I’d actually made a difference.
And what did Nina, the good doctor have to say to me after she heard the progression of the call?
“You’re supposed to try abdominal thrusts on an unconscious choking victim before you resort to the Magills,” she said icily. “Did you miss that part of the class back in ambulance driver school?”
She actually wrote me up for this, making me answer to our county emergency medical services authority. I was given a written reprimand in my file for failing to try a less invasive method of clearing the airway first. The medical director, to give him credit, was at least apologetic as I signed it. He mumbled something about how the ends don’t justify the means and then explained that “certain doctors” seemed to have a problem with the whole world.
Though I’d been pissed at her-she had after all turned one of the high points of my career into a disciplinary procedure-I understood even then that I was partially responsible for what had happened. I understood even better looking at her now in the cafeteria, sitting alone and reading a book while she picked at a plate of cafeteria spaghetti. After all, the experience with Richie was fresh on my mind. Had what she’d done been much different than what I’d done? We’d both attacked visible symbols of past torment. We’d both given in to basic human nature.
Was it too late for Nina? I wondered, looking at her. Was the damage to her already done?
I took a deep breath and headed her way.
“Okay if I sit here?” I asked her when I arrived.
She looked up at me with suspicion plain in her eyes, perhaps wondering if I’d come to renew the teasing she’d been so familiar with in grade school. While waiting for an answer I looked at her, marveling over the power of suggestion. Nina had been called ugly since the third grade. It was an accepted fact among everyone that she was ugly. But the funny thing is, she really wasn’t. She was skinny and had small breasts, a late bloomer as I’ve mentioned before. Her face was without any make-up but it was smooth and actually sort of pretty. Her brown hair was unstyled but looked just like everyone else’s hair all the same. She was called ugly and probably felt ugly because we’d all agreed back in third grade that she was ugly.
It was also assumed that she was dumb, a natural conclusion based on the fact that she never said anything to anybody. It had been assumed of me on my first trip through school too. Obviously she was far from dumb. One did not make it through four years of college, four years of med school, and two years of residency if one lacked intelligence. Could there be meaningful conversation here perhaps? I saw the book she was reading, 1984 by Orwell, a very deep book.
“Please?” I asked again, “I won’t bite you.”
Her eyes softened a little, as if to say that she was reserving judgment for the moment. “Sure,” she finally said.
I took the bench across from her, setting down my food, drink, and napkin. “That’s a good book,” I offered, nodding at the cover. “I’ve read it quite a few times. Very thought provoking.”
She nodded, not saying anything, keeping her eyes firmly on the page. Suspicion was radiating off of her in waves. Maybe it was too late.
“Its also,” I went on, “the most depressing book I’ve ever read. Is this your first time reading it?”
“No,” she said softly. “I’ve read it five or six times.”
“Then you probably know what I mean,” I said. “The thought that everything is controlled. Everything. The entire war is just a production to keep the masses from bettering themselves. The entire writings of history are rearranged on a regular basis to control the way people think. Even the resistance doesn’t really exist. When you get to the point where they are captured and you find out that they’d been known about the entire time.” I shook my head. “It’s just a depressing thought, a depressing book. But also one of my favorites.”
She was looking at me now, confusion and a little curiosity shaping her features. “It’s one of my favorite books too,” she said carefully, as if expecting me to start laughing at her or speaking in a fake lisp.
“Have you ever thought,” I said, “that all of that stuff in 1984 could actually be happening now? That we, as proles, wouldn’t even realize it? I mean, think about it, with today’s technology how hard would it be to re-write history, or to control the media, or to keep track of everyone?”
“Not very hard at all,” she said, putting the book down for the first time. Careful interest was visible now. “Sometimes I swear that it’s really happening to some degree or another. Maybe I’m just paranoid.”
“No.” I shook my head. “I’m sure most intelligent people know that you can’t possibly know what’s really going on, how things really work. I’m pretty certain they don’t really work the way we’re taught in government class though.”
She smiled, revealing white, perfect teeth. Strange I’d never noticed that before. Probably because I’d never seen her smile before. I wondered if anyone else had.
We continued to talk about 1984 and other books by Orwell. The only other one that I’d read was Animal Farm but she’d read them all. She explained the basic plots of them and the underlying message with animated clarity. Once she started talking to me I found her conversation intelligent and her insights well thought out. I almost forgot I was talking to a teenager. Before I realized it lunch was over and it was time to head for the next class.
“Nice talking to you, Nina,” I told her with frank honesty as I stood.
“Thank you,” she squeaked, her face blushing, her eyes confused.
“Maybe I’ll see you tomorrow,” I said with a smile. “It’s nice to talk to someone who thinks like you do, wouldn’t you say?”
“Yes,” she agreed with a nod. “I’ll be here tomorrow if you want to, you know, talk some more.”
“I’d like that,” I said, giving her a wave and heading for the door.
I was cheerful as I walked alone through the crowded halls, making my way through kids in groups, heading for driver’s education. I was thinking that maybe Nina could be softened a little bit after all, and I’d truly enjoyed talking to her. What was that they said, still waters run deep? It seemed that was true in her case. If only I could figure out a way to reach Mike. If only meaningful conversation could be the key to derailing him from his path.
My thoughts were sidetracked as I found myself walking behind Richie Fairview. He was with two of his cronies and was trying, in his idiotic way, to strike up a conversation with a group of cheerleaders who were walking the same direction. The cheerleaders were trying there best to ignore the trio of thugs and Richie, deciding to up the ante a little, began reaching for their skirts, trying pull them up.
At the sight of this all of my anger at Richie and bullies in general came flooding back. He didn’t know I was behind him but he was about to find out. I kicked out my foot, catching his back leg just as he was stepping forward. He stumbled forward and crashed to the hallway floor, scraping up his elbows and hands and sending up a chorus of delighted giggles and laughter from the cheerleaders.
Richie rolled over and jumped to his feet in an instant, his fists raised, an obscene epitaph on his lips. And then he saw who had tripped him. He stopped.
“You oughtta be more careful, asshole,” I told him conversationally, continuing to walk by. “You can get hurt falling down around here.”
I didn’t look back at him, just continued to walk down the hall towards my class. Behind me the cheerleaders were still chuckling. I wasn’t attacked from behind. I knew I wouldn’t be. A smile was on my face as I found the right classroom and went about the task of learning to drive a car.
________________________________________
The next day as Mike and I entered the school there was no Richie Fairview positioned out front, nor were there any of his goon squad. It seemed they’d finally learned the lesson. So I’d succeeded in clearing out a threat to helpless freshmen and sophomores everywhere. Richie would probably fade into joking obscurity, I figured, robbed of his most potent weapon, his reputation. In a way I was somewhat disappointed. I had actually been kind of looking forward to another confrontation with the dumb slob.
Oh well, there were plenty more bullying assholes I could deal with. I was actually starting to see myself as some sort of superhero, fighting for the rights of the oppressed, battling the forces of evil, my very name revered by all. I wondered if I could force Richie to start paying back the kids he’d ripped off. I could picture it, ordering him to give a dollar a day to every kid he’d ever robbed. And if he ever gave them any shit, they could come to the GREAT BILLY for help and justice.
I was standing at my locker, Mike beside me, running these amusing thoughts through my brain when my instinct alerted me to danger. Perhaps it was my peripheral vision, catching just a glimpse of a dark figure moving towards me, maybe it was my ears, hearing the advance of a footstep, perhaps it was some sort of sixth sense, but suddenly all the instincts I’d developed from my years on the streets told me something was coming from behind me. I reacted quickly, but not quickly enough.
I turned, raising my hands into a defensive posture just as Richie Fairview swung at me. I raised my arm to protect my head, automatically assuming that’s where he would strike me. Because of that the blow that was aimed at my body struck home, hitting on my left flank and driving the wind from me. My first thought upon being struck was that it hurt, but it wasn’t that bad. I was still standing and it was time to play some catch-up.
His right hand pulled away from my body and prepared to move forward for another blow. I stepped forward and grabbed at his wrist just as he started the second swing. I caught his wrist neatly in my hands and started to pull it forward, intending to spin him around and push him against the lockers where I could batter his vulnerable back and kidney region. Maybe I could put the fucker into renal failure. But as I started the maneuver that would have put this plan into motion I looked down for an instant at his hand, the one I was holding.
The hand wasn’t empty. There was a buck knife in it. The blade, which was about five inches long, was stained with blood.
The implications of this hit me immediately. I’d been stabbed in the abdomen! How bad was it?
Mike, noticing at about the same time as I did that Richie was playing for keeps, stepped behind him and threw his arm around Richie’s neck, choking him, pulling him off balance. His other arm pulled at the knife hand, keeping it well away from me. The priority of the battle had just changed. The goal was no longer to beat the crap out of Richie, it was to get the knife out of his hands and end the confrontation as quickly as possible. I’d been stabbed!
I saw the best way to do it right before me. Richie, off balance and struggling against Mike had his legs spread wide in an attempt to keep his feet beneath him. I let go of the wrist, trusting Mike to keep the knife away from me and stepped forward, bringing my knee up into his crotch with all the force I could muster. I kneed him so hard that pain went shooting up my leg from my kneecap.
Richie squealed so loud I’m surprised nearby windows didn’t break. He began choking and gagging, the knife dropping forgotten from his hand, clattering on the cement floor of the hall. Mike, seeing the knife drop, kicked it clear and then let go of Richie, who dropped to the ground in a most ungraceful manner, curling immediately up into a ball. He began vomiting.
I backed up a few steps until I was against the locker. I leaned against it for support, feeling a deep, burning pain in my side now. I looked down at my left side, seeing nothing but a tear in my down jacket and a few feathers floating away on the air currents.
“Are you okay, Bill?” Mike, trembling with adrenaline asked me. “Did he get you?”
“Yeah,” I said, trying to remain calm. The halls around me were awash with excited conversation. I saw several teachers heading for us. I unzipped my coat and let it drop from my body. There was a small hole in my flannel shirt, the edges tinged with blood. I lifted the shirt revealing my bare skin.
“It don’t look that bad,” Mike said hopefully, examining the wound.
“Uh huh,” I said, looking at it myself. It was about an inch in length, a slight amount of blood oozing from it, just below the bottom of my rib cage on the left side. Sure it didn’t look bad from the outside-stab wounds rarely did-but what was damaged inside?
“You okay?” Mike asked me again, not liking what he was seeing in my face.
“I think I should sit down,” I replied, doing so, my mind recalling the structures in that part of my body. The spleen was the first thing to come to mind. If my spleen had been lacerated I could bleed to death in a matter of minutes. My left kidney was also in there. Depending on how deep and at what angle the knife had gone in, it could be in peril. If there had been an upward angle, could he have gotten the left lung? I had been stabbed! My mind kept yelling at me. Stabbed!
“What’s going on here?” A teacher demanded after pushing his way through the crowd of kids. He took in the sight of Richie barfing and holding his damaged testes and of me sitting against the lockers with my shirt pulled up and blood oozing from a wound. He saw the knife sitting on the ground about ten feet away. Richie’s friends had already made themselves scarce.
“He’s been stabbed, Mr. Johnson,” Mike told the teacher.
“Stabbed?” Mr. Johnson said, alarmed, shocked. Remember, this was 1982, long before such things became commonplace in schools. “Are you all right, young man?”
“No,” I said, looking up into the teacher’s face. “I want you to listen to me very carefully, okay?”
“What are you…”
“Shut up!” I told him. “I have been stabbed in the left upper abdominal quadrant. I need to get to a hospital immediately. Please go call for an ambulance.”
“But who…”
“Never mind that shit!” I yelled forcefully. “Go call a fucking ambulance. Now!”
That got him moving. By that time more teachers had reached the scene anyway.
The ambulance showed up and I almost got the screaming horrors when I saw who the paramedic was. It was Ken Tully, who would be operations manager from the time I got hired until a national corporation purchased our small company four years later (at which time he would get a severance package along with the rest of the old management). Ken had been the biggest prick on two legs, serving as hatchet man for the owner of the company. It had never occurred to me he’d once been a field paramedic. I didn’t think he could possibly be a good one. This was a freaking nightmare.
But much to my surprise and delight, he was competent at his job. He dressed the wound and started two large bore IVs on me on the way to the trauma center. He even had a decent bedside manner, continually telling me I’d be all right, explaining that he was just taking precautions by cutting off all of my clothes and plugging two garden hoses into my veins. If I hadn’t been so scared I might have taken time to wonder what would happen to him in the future to make him such a dick.
But I was very scared, shaken to my very core by the incident. I could die from this, I kept thinking. I could be bleeding to death right now. But the thought that kept recurring most was: This didn’t happen before! I had never been stabbed. I’d never been close to death. What did this mean? I couldn’t die could I? I’d already lived to 32! I couldn’t die as a teenager! Hadn’t the cards already been dealt?
As I was wheeled into the trauma center resuscitation room and surrounded by doctors, nurses, and various other technicians, as I had my wound poked and prodded, as I had needles jabbed into my femoral arteries to check blood gases, as I had a slimy finger shoved up my ass to check for sphincter tone and bowel perforation, the thought kept recurring over and over: This didn’t happen before! X-rays were shot of me, a catheter was rammed up my penis by a nurse who looked old enough to have assisted at the delivery of my father and still I kept thinking: This didn’t happen before!
“Billy,” the doctor in charge told me, “we’re going to give you some medicine that’s going to make you sleepy. We need to put you out for a little bit so we can do a little check on you, to make sure you’re not bleeding inside your stomach.”
“A peritoneal lavage,” I said numbly, making the doctor blink.
“Why yes,” he said. “Have you had it done before?”
“No,” I answered. “Never before. Never.”
The doctor gave me The Look for a moment and then said to a nurse, “give him the Versed.”
A minute later I began to feel very sleepy and very stoned. It did little to allay my fear. I knew that they were going to put me unconscious, install a breathing tube in me and hook me up to a ventilator. They were then going to cut open my abdomen, squirt saline into it, and then suck it back out again to see if there was any blood. If there was blood I would be taken to the operating room and sliced open where they would attempt to repair whatever damage Richie’s knife had inflicted upon me. If they couldn’t, I would die without ever regaining consciousness. I was quite possibly experiencing the last few moments of consciousness I’d ever have. No matter how stoned on narcotics you are, that is a scary thought.
“Let’s put him out,” a doctor said and an anesthesiologist put something else in my IV.
I had time for only one more thought. This didn’t happen before!
________________________________________
Pain. That was my first waking thought. It was coming from multiple sources. My throat was sore, as sore as the time I’d had tonsillitis. My lower abdomen was sore too, right near my belly button. My dick was burning uncomfortably, like I had to pee and couldn’t. And there was a faint ache in my left side. I felt groggy, like I couldn’t quite drag myself out of sleep. And someone was calling my name over and over again. What was going on?
“Billy, can… ake up?” a broken voice, fading in and out asked. “… illy? Breathe… this.”
Something was sitting on my face. It was hissing and tasted like plastic. Breathing it made my throat hurt worse. What was going on?
Finally I opened my eyes, wincing as my pupils reacted to the bright light. I was looking up at a set of fluorescent light bulbs on the ceiling. A hideous yellow curtain was drawn around the area I was in and a young, pretty face was looking down at me. I realized after a moment’s thought that she was a nurse.
“How are you feeling?” she asked.
“Like shit,” I muttered, wincing in pain as my vocal cords rebelled at their premature usage.
“Aptly put I’m sure,” she said with a smile. “Just keep breathing that oxygen and you’ll feel better in a few minutes.”
Oxygen? What was going on? Why was someone giving me oxygen? I tried to concentrate and finally remembered what had happened to me. I’d been stabbed! They’d put me out to give me a peritoneal lavage. That was why my throat hurt so badly, from the breathing tube that had been rammed through my vocal cords. Was I okay? How much time had gone past?
“How am I?” I croaked to the nurse, every word an agony, but I needed to know. “Am I going to live?”
“I think so,” she told me. “It looks like you’re going to be just fine.”
It took me a few minutes to come fully awake and they gave me some Demerol to take the edge off my various pains. A doctor filled me in. Apparently the knife had severed a couple of minor veins but other than that, had touched nothing important. My spleen, kidney, and lung were all fine. My large and small intestines were fine. I was, in short, very lucky, suffering little more than a flesh wound. I would be kept in the hospital overnight for observation and released the next morning. After a week or so of taking it easy, I could go back to school. He then suggested I stay away from knives.
“You’re parents and your sister are outside,” he told me. “But before they come in the police would like to speak with you for a few minutes.”
“Okay,” I told him, nodding, examining the catheter protruding from beneath the sheets with distaste. How long until they took it out?
The police officer was older. I didn’t recognize him. Probably he’d retired before I made my debut on the streets of Spokane where I would, over time, get to know most of them on a first-name basis. He was wearing a uniform that would be changed to a different color and style in a few years and carrying a .38 in his holster, a gun that would be exchanged for nine millimeters soon. He looked me up and down for a moment, his gaze telling me he’d seen it all and heard it all. I was familiar with the gaze. I’d acquired it myself.
“So, Billy,” he said, opening a notebook. “Suppose you tell me what happened today?”
I knew what he was expecting. He was expecting me to say I had no idea who had done this to me or why. That I hadn’t so much as caught a glimpse of the person responsible. That I couldn’t identify them in a line-up. In short, he expected me to act like a typical teenaged victim.
“Well, Officer… Morgan,” I said, reading his nametag, “I was stabbed by a kid named Richard Fairview.”
“Really?” he said, looking at me.
“Really,” I said. “He came up behind me at my locker and just as I turned around, he stuck a buck knife in my side. I fought back and managed to keep myself from getting stabbed twice. In fact, I kneed the motherfucker so hard in the balls that I think I dislocated my knee in the process.”
Officer Morgan chuckled. “Well well,” he said. “This is different. So tell me, why did Mr. Fairview stab you?”
“Because he’s a piece of shit thug and I’ve been screwing with him for the last few days.”
“Screwing with him?” he asked, making a notation on his pad.
“I’m sure you’ve got reports of his little trip to the hospital the other day,” I said. “He’s a shake-down artist at the high school, ripping off kids as they come in. Perhaps your department has had dealings with him before?”
“Oh yes,” Morgan said, looking at me as if he was seeing an optical illusion. “We have quite a file on Mr. Fairview. Are you telling me that you sent him to the hospital the other day? Because if you are, I think you might want to get your parents in here and have me advise you of your rights. What happened to the gentleman the other day was a felonious assault.”
“He tried to rip me off,” I said. “And when I refused to give him money he tried to assault me. I simply took defensive measures. Very stern defensive measures.”
“I see,” the cop said, looking at me now with something like respect. “Please go on.”
“Well, after that I’ve been making a point to tease him every time I see him.” I shrugged. “I guess I went a bit too far and he decided to take action.”
“That’s a delicate way of putting it,” he said. “It’s hard to believe a little guy like you did all of that damage to that big asshole.”
“I know a little karate,” I lied. “Are you going to arrest me?”
“No,” he told me. “I ran your record and Fairview’s record while I was waiting to interview you. Fairview has got multiple arrests for everything from assault to drugs to attempted rape. He’s a pukebag in the making. You, on the other hand, come from a middle-class family, have no arrest record whatsoever, and in fact you’re not in our system at all. All of the witnesses, and there was a surprising amount willing to talk about this thing, say that Fairview came up from behind and struck you with the knife and that you were acting in complete self-defense. Your friend Mike confirms your story. Fairview’s story is among the most ridiculous I’ve ever heard. He says that you attacked him with the knife as he walked by and that he took it away from you and stabbed you in self-defense.” The cop gave me a sly smile. “He’s a couple of rooms over you know.”
“Yeah?” I asked.
“Yep.” Morgan nodded with satisfaction plainly visible on his face. “Don’t tell anyone I told you but you seem trustworthy. The docs say he might lose those testicles, you got him that hard. Even if he don’t lose ’em, it’s doubtful he’ll ever have kids.” The cop looked to the heavens. “Imagine that, that little shitbag won’t get to breed more little assholes. Goddamit sometimes there is justice in this world.” He gazed at me. “So here’s what I’m gonna do. I’m gonna write up your story pretty much as you told it. But I would suggest highly that you profess ignorance to the little incident the other day. You’re the only one who has told me about it. Even Fairview himself didn’t mention it. So, to avoid complications, how about we just leave that little tidbit out of the story? Makes things much easier for everyone. You don’t know why he attacked you by your locker, he just did. Okay?”
“Okay,” I agreed, fascinated by the way he was talking to me.
“Good. I’m gonna charge him with assault with a deadly weapon. In light of his previous record he’ll get a year or so in juvie. It goes without saying that he’ll be expulsed from school. So congratulations, hero. You got rid of one first class, A-number one dirtbag. I might put you in for a goddam public service award.”
He took another twenty minutes or so to interview me thoroughly about the incident. He thanked me again and then left the room. A few minutes later my parents came in with Tracy in tow. Mom looked as if she’d been crying. So did Tracy I saw. Even Dad looked as if he’d aged since I’d seen him that morning. I felt sorrow and shame for having put them through this ordeal.
“Billy?” Mom said, coming forward and stroking my hair.
“Yeah, Mom?” I asked. “I’m all right, really.”
She gulped. “This isn’t because of, well, drugs is it?”
________________________________________
So that is how I spent the one-week anniversary of my recycling in a hospital bed. They kept me doped up throughout the night but I still found it hard to sleep. My mind kept turning back to the fact that I’d been stabbed in this life but that I hadn’t been stabbed in my previous life. The implications of that were starkly frightening. I was not invulnerable. All bets were off. I could just as easily be killed here as I could have in my own when. I could die before I turned 32! Since I’d come back and changed things from their natural order anything could now happen. Anything. The risks I’d taken so far now gave me the shivers. Riding in Raisin and later Mike’s car without a seatbelt on with an intoxicated driver at the wheel. Playing games with dangerous bullies at school. Even playing mind games with my teachers. How could I have been so stupid? How could I have really thought that I was safe? Had I actually been thinking of myself as a superhero before Richie had struck me?
I made my second solemn vow since returning. I vowed that I would be careful. I was having too much fun to die.
________________________________________
“Are you sure you’ll be okay, Billy?” Mom asked me for perhaps the fiftieth time. “We can still cancel our plans.”
“No no, Mom,” I insisted once more. “I’m healing up just fine. I get to go back to school on Monday. Really, I’ll be fine.”
It was Saturday night. I’d been home from the hospital for a week and a half, bored out of my mind, unable to leave the house or do much of anything besides lie in bed and let my wounds heal. Mom had taken off work to take care of me and had fawned over me for the past nine days. I had soup and sandwiches delivered to me in bed. I had sodas brought to me whenever I wished. I was surprised I was allowed to go to the bathroom by myself. I love my mother dearly, I really do, but after nine days she was starting to get on my nerves. Saturday night was the night of her company’s annual awards banquet, an event she and dad attended every year and would usually come home from in the wee hours of the morning in a cab they were so drunk. The last thing in the world I wanted was for them to stay home. I needed a little peace.
“Well,” she said doubtfully, “if you’re sure.”
“Absolutely, Mom. Besides, Tracy’s here.” I nodded in my sister’s direction. “If there are any problems, she can handle them.”
“Yeah, Mom,” Tracy readily agreed, too readily some would say. “I can take care of him.”
She seemed satisfied. She headed upstairs and began to get ready. Two hours later she and Dad were out the door.
“Thank God!” Tracy said once their car had disappeared from sight. “How the hell could you stand it having her home all the time?”
“Mom’s all right,” I said. “It’s just parental authority that gets old.”
She smiled, not bothering with The Look. By now Tracy was used to my odd sayings. “Whatever,” she said. “Can you keep a secret?”
“Of course,” I told her, offended she felt the need to even ask that.
“Cindy scored some killer buds. She’s gonna bring ’em over and we’re gonna get stoned while we watch Saturday Night Live. If you can keep your mouth shut, maybe she’ll share with you.”
I smiled, knowing I’d made great progress with my sister since returning. I’d never even been aware that she smoked grass in my previous life. Now she was offering to get stoned with me. Sure, it wasn’t exactly a blood oath of loyalty, but it was a start. “Suppose I told you I couldn’t keep my mouth shut,” I asked. “What would you do then?”
She gaped at me for a moment and then laughed. “You’re an asshole, Billy,” she said, shaking her head. “Do you want to get stoned or not? I’ve never done it with you before, you should think of it as a privilege.”
“It sounds like a plan Trace,” I said. “And it is a privilege.”
________________________________________
Cindy came over at nine o’clock. She was wearing the obligatory tight 501’s and a sweater that accented her pert tits nicely. Her blonde hair was tied in a ponytail and her blue eyes sparkled. My loins stirred at the first sight of her, my dick threatening to harden by visual stimulation alone. I’d found over the past week that, injuries aside, my libido was that of a fifteen-year old. I needed to have an orgasm at least once a day. I seemed to go into physical withdrawal symptoms if I didn’t. I’d jacked off so much there were actual abrasions on my dick. And Cindy had been a star player in many of the fantasies.
I was heartened by the fact that, after a quick greeting to Tracy, she rushed over to my spot on the couch and planted herself next to me. My dick stirred again as I smelled the scent of her perfume. It was heavy upon her skin but it was feminine and went right to my brain.
“You poor thing,” she said with syrupy sympathy. “How are you doing?”
I smiled. “Everything that’s important still works,” I told her.
She giggled. “I guess Richie Fairview can’t say the same,” she replied. “Can I see where you got stabbed?”
“Sure,” I told her, while Tracy stared in disbelief at her friend. I raised up my shirt, showing her the jagged wound. The stitches had been removed leaving only a healing line on my side. A similar wound, where they’d done the lavage, was just below my belly button.
“Ohhh,” she crooned, looking at it. “You poor thing. Does it hurt?”
“Not too bad.”
“Well here,” she said, kissing her finger and then touching it to my bare skin, just atop the scar. “That’ll make it better.”
My flesh jumped at her touch, feeling the slight wetness of her saliva transferred from her fingertips to my side.
“You missed one,” I told her, pointing at the surgical incision. She gave me another smile and then repeated the procedure for that one.
“Hope that makes them feel better,” she said, eyeing the bulge in my sweat pants.
“It does,” I assured her. “It really does.”
Tracy seemed in shock as she watched her friend openly flirting with me. When they walked into the kitchen to fill the bong with water I saw a quick, whispered conversation that ended with Tracy glancing at me and then shaking her head in disbelief. I was in disbelief as well but fully prepared to take advantage of the situation. Why was Cindy acting this way with me when she’d treated me with quiet contempt before? I didn’t really care but I was curious.
“You like to smoke buds?” Cindy asked me as she pulled a small baggie from her pocket.
“I love it,” I told her, staring into her eyes hard enough to make her blush.
Tracy looked at us uncomfortably.
Cindy began loading up the bong, which I insisted, in the interests of safety, we take out into the garage to smoke from. I knew the smell of pot lingered in a room for hours and I’d recently learned very graphically that all bets were now off. I was being careful. The girls whined a little at my suggestion but finally agreed to it. So we got stoned amid my father’s tools and boxes of motor oil, in the unheated garage where we could see our breath misting into the air.
“Now don’t you feel safe?” I asked the two of them once we were back inside. “If Mom and Dad come home unexpectedly now, all we have to worry about is pretending we’re not stoned. We don’t have to worry about them smelling it in the house.”
“Mom and Dad never come home early,” Tracy scoffed, taking a swig from a Coke. “You’re just paranoid, Billy.”
“Tracy,” I told her, “if there’s one thing I’ve learned in this life, it’s to expect and plan for the unexpected. Sure, they probably won’t come home early tonight, but it’s within the realm of possibility, isn’t it? If you work to eliminate all risks you’ll usually be pretty safe. If you go through life assuming the worst will never happen, someday you’re gonna get fucked.” I stared directly at her as I said this and it was clear she got my message. Her arms broke out into visible gooseflesh and she trembled uneasily for a second.
“I guess you’re right, Bill,” she allowed carefully, no doubt thinking about the conversation I’d had with her not too long ago.
“That’s some pretty deep shit,” Cindy said, scooting herself a little closer to me. “Is there anything to eat here?”
While Tracy was heating up some frozen burritos in the microwave, Cindy and I continued to sit on the couch.
“So where’s your boyfriend tonight?” I asked her.
“You mean Jeff?” She shook her head and made a sour face. “I’m not going out with him anymore. He’s an asshole.”
“I could’ve told you that,” I said.
“I made out with him a few times and he was telling everyone he was screwing me. Do guys really think that we won’t hear about it when they say shit like that?”
“Sometimes I’m not sure what they think,” I replied. “I think that think is probably too strong a word for what they do. It seems to me that girls should stick to a general rule when deciding who they are going to, well, have fun with.”
“Oh?” she asked perkily.
“The more a guy talks about having gotten pussy, the less pussy he’s actually had. Now Jeff probably told you he’d screwed plenty of girls, right?”
“Oh yeah,” she said. “As if that’s going to impress us.”
“Exactly. On the other hand, the guys that never tell pussy stories are usually the ones getting all the pussy. You see, they are smart enough to realize that discretion is the better part of valor. It’s a pleasant cycle. You don’t talk about it, you get more of it, you get better at it. Your best lovers are gonna be those guys who have never told a pussy story in their life.”
“Like you?” she asked, twirling a lock of her hair with her finger.
“Perhaps,” I agreed. “But of course there’s only one true way to find out how good someone is in bed.”
“Really?” Cindy smiled. “And what is that?”
“Extensive personal research,” I told her, letting my fingertip glide over the back of her hand. “Do you like to research?”
Tracy’s return kept her from replying. She had plates of burritos and fresh cokes in her hands. Her eyes saw my fingertip caressing Cindy’s hand and she shot another puzzled look at her friend. I could understand the source of her confusion. Cindy had always gone for the football player types. The good-looking, rich boys from good families, and always older than her. Now she was shamelessly flirting with me, her brother, who was not only not rich, not a football player, and not blessed with the rugged good looks of a Ken doll, but was two years younger than her as well. To Tracy it was probably as if the fabric of existence had suddenly developed a tear.
I got up to go take a leak (and to adjust my hard-on a little, it was bent at an uncomfortable angle). When I returned I could see that the two girls had been discussing something. Cindy was batting her eyes at me and Tracy was staring at me, as if she was seeing a completely different person.
When Cindy got up to go pee a few minutes later, Tracy waited until the bathroom door was closed and then turned to me almost angrily. “Do you know what Cindy told me?” she asked.
“What?” I said mildly.
“She heard you screwed Steph Massie over by the falls last week. Is that true?”
“No,” I said. “We took a walk is all that happened. Talked a little. I was trying to get somewhere with her but she wouldn’t go for it.”
“That’s not what Cindy heard,” Tracy accused.
“Oh?” I asked. “And what did Cindy hear? And what does she care about Steph anyway? They don’t exactly hang out together.”
Tracy scowled at me. “Who do you think Cindy got the buds from, you idiot? Everyone knows that Stephanie’s brother is the biggest pot dealer in school.”
“Oh,” I paused, reaching back in my memory. Now that she mentioned it I did remember that little piece of trivia. “Well, what did she hear?”
“Steph told her that you took her into the woods and gave her the best lay she’s ever had.” Tracy shook her head in disgust. “And believe me, that bitch has had quite a few lays. Did you really fuck her?”
“No,” I said. “I didn’t.”
“Well why would she be telling people that you did?”
I shrugged. “She’s just telling dick stories. You know how women are always doing that.”
“Dick stories?” Tracy asked. “Girls do not tell dick stories!”
“Tracy,” I finally asked, “what possible concern is this of yours?”
“What?”
“Why are you grilling me about this? What business is it of yours?”
“Because Cindy thinks you’re some kind of great lover and she wants to… you know? That’s why!”
“Wouldn’t that be Cindy’s business?” I asked.
“I just think she should know the truth,” Tracy said indignantly.
“Okay. Tell her. Get her alone and tell her that I said I’ve never fucked Steph or anyone else. Tell her I’ll deny fucking anyone, anywhere, at any time to my dying day. I’ll go to my deathbed swearing that I’m a virgin.” I smiled. “Maybe that will get her to back off.”
Tracy opened her mouth to say something and then stopped, staring at me, her mind turning over what I’d just said. Her exasperation with me slowly turned into something else. It was the same change of expression I’d seen on the cop’s face in the hospital. The expression became one of respect.
“You see, Trace,” I continued. “I might try to get somewhere with Cindy tonight. I might even get her to come to my room with me. But I won’t get anywhere with her. Even if we’re up there for an hour. Even if Cindy comes down and tells you I fucked the shit out of her, that I was the best lover she’d ever had, it would only be a lie. I will never get anywhere with anyone. I guess I’m doomed to just keep trying forever and ever.”
“Wow,” Tracy whispered, in awe. “Do you know anyone else like you?” she asked.
“Unfortunately, no,” I replied. “All of the guys I know get pussy all the time. I should know, they tell me about it.”
“A shame,” she commented as the bathroom door opened and Cindy emerged again.
“Have you guys been talking about me?” she giggled, seeing the serious expressions on our faces.
“No,” we both answered together.
“We were just talking about brother/sister stuff,” Tracy added.
We went out to the garage and smoked a few more bowls. When we resumed our places on the couch, Cindy proclaimed she was cold and asked if there was a blanket we could cover up with. Tracy retrieved a large blue comforter from the linen closet and threw it over us. Under the cover of the cover I went to work.
While we watched TV my hand found its way to the tight denim of Cindy’s leg. I caressed it for a few minutes and, when she didn’t object, began to slide it upward. My fingers slowly traced over the material between her legs and continued to the waistband. I deftly unbuttoned the first two buttons of her jeans and slid my finger in the gap this created, the pad of my finger touching the soft skin of her lower stomach. She settled into the couch a little more, opening her legs for me.
I undid the rest of the buttons and slowly slid my hand into her jeans, my fingertips gliding over the silky material of her panties, staying on the outside of them. I probed further down while she spread her legs even wider. Beneath my hand I could feel the cushion of her pubic hair and, further down, the outline of her lips and dampness seeping through the cotton. I found the spot just below her clit and began to apply pressure, rocking my hand back and forth.
Though I kept my eyes on the television and my face expressionless, I heard definite change in Cindy’s breathing pattern as I caressed her. I wondered if she’d ever been stimulated like this before. Probably not. The first instinct of a guy when getting his hands down a girls pants is to drive his finger into the pussy and thrust it back and forth. Now there’s a time for doing that of course, but the beginning stages of foreplay are not it. Females like a slow build-up to passion, a gradual rise in excitement.
Cindy’s hand came sliding across my lap. Her fingers closed around the bulge of my cock through my sweat pants, feeling the length. She gave a little coo as she felt me and I had a difficult time keeping a straight face. She was, to my pleasant surprise, pretty good at what she was doing. My dick was straining, eager for release, and the touch of a female hand upon it felt heavenly.
Next to us, Tracy continued to stare at the television, either oblivious to what we were doing or pretending to be. It didn’t really matter. I slid my hand upward a few inches and then let my fingers slide beneath the waist of Cindy’s panties. My fingertips felt soft, feminine skin and then kinky, curly hair. I continued downward, having to push harder now, until my fingers were sliding across wetness and slippery warmth. My middle finger curled downward, sliding between an unseen set of lips that gripped eagerly back.
“Ahhh!” Cindy uttered, jumping a little at the contact.
Tracy glanced over at her, a knowing expression on her face. “You okay, Cindy?” she asked sweetly.
“Yeah,” Cindy answered, a little breathlessly. “Just a… oooh…” she shivered a little as I began to move my finger, “… a hiccup.”
“I should get those kind of hiccups,” Tracy commented and then went back to the TV.
Soon her hand crept under the waist of my sweats and was digging through my underwear. Her cool, soft fingertips closed around my shaft and began to glide up and down. It felt great, to be gripped by a hand other than my own, but she was doing it with such enthusiasm that the comforter was noticeably rising up and down. Tracy couldn’t have helped but see it, though she said nothing and pretended not to notice. With my free hand I grabbed Cindy’s wrist and forced her to slow down a little.
I continued to finger her, feeling my hand get wet from her juices, feeling her jack my aching cock up and down. I was trying to think of a way to get her up to my room when I received help from an unexpected source.
“TV sucks,” Tracy suddenly proclaimed. “It’s more than an hour until Saturday Night Live comes on. Let’s listen to some music.”
“Uh, okay,” I agreed, not caring if she wanted to put on a polka album at that point.
“You just bought a new album a few weeks ago, didn’t you?” she asked me.
I looked at her. Had I? I supposed I had if she’d brought it up, though, of course, I had no idea which band it might have been. “Yeah,” I said. “I did.”
“Well why don’t you go up and get it for us?” Tracy asked. “I’ve been dying to hear it.”
“Uh, why don’t you go get it?” I asked.
“I don’t want to go in your room,” Tracy explained, smiling. “How about you get it. Maybe Cindy can go help you look for it. She can pick out some of your other albums she wants to listen to later.” She turned to Cindy. “He’s got a great collection.”
“Okay,” Cindy said immediately, her hand shooting out of my sweats so fast it was like it had never been there. She extricated my hand from her pants and buttoned back up, making no particular effort to hide what she was doing from Tracy. When her pants were fastened she stood up. “C’mon, Billy, let’s see your albums.”
“And take your time,” Tracy said. “Look at them all real carefully while you make your decision.”
“You bet,” Cindy said, heading for the stairs. She looked over at me. “You coming, Billy?”
I looked at her seductive smile and started to rise, stopping when I realized that my sweats were probably poking out before me.
“Well, Billy?” Tracy asked, looking at me. “Are you coming?”
I looked in my sister’s eyes and saw only amusement there. “Yeah,” I said, throwing off the covers and standing up. Tracy’s eyes dropped to the tent at my crotch.
“Looks like you dropped something in there,” she commented. She then gave me a meaningful look. “You owe me one.”
“I suppose I do,” I agreed and then headed for the stairs. “Even though I won’t get anywhere.”
Cindy was waiting for me at the top of the stairs. She took my hand in hers and led me to my own bedroom. I was glad I’d taken the time to clean it up. Had it been its former self, the encounter might have ended right there. We entered and she closed the door behind her, she then turned to me. Despite her aggression, her eyes were showing nervousness; her body trembling a little.
“You’re very beautiful,” I told her, my eyes roaming up and down her form, knowing that I’d be kissing it and tasting it soon.
“Thank you,” she said softly. “I can’t believe I’m up here with you.”
“Do you want to leave?” I asked.
“No,” she said, stepping forward, putting her arms around me. I returned her embrace, already giddy at the feel of her against me. She leaned her mouth towards me. “I want to stay.”
Knowing I had a reputation to live up to now, I gave her my best. I was helped by the fact that she was a girl I’d often dreamed about, both in my first trip through school, and after my return. I stood near the door with her for more than five minutes, just kissing her, letting her taste my tongue, letting me taste hers. She was a good kisser, much better than I’d expected, although not quite as good as Anita. But she excited me more than Anita, aroused my hunger more. As I began kissing her neck and her ears and undoing the ponytail to let her blonde hair cascade free, she put her hands into the front of my sweats again, grasping my cock, fondling it urgently.
“Come on,” she said eagerly. “Let’s do it!”
I nipped at her nose and then planted a soft kiss on her eyelid. “Patience,” I told her. “This is an experience to be savored.” Little did she know that it was taking all of my willpower to keep from throwing her to the bed, stripping her pants off, and pounding away like an animal.
Instead I led her to the bed, or she led me I guess since she refused to remove her hands from my cock.
“Do you want me to blow you?” she asked, kissing on my face, squeezing my cock.
“Sure,” I said, kicking off my shoes. Although I hadn’t planned on that, I certainly wasn’t going to refuse it. And if she could make me come it would give me more staying power for my later work.
Slowly she sank to her knees at the foot of the bed, dragging my sweats and underwear down as she went. My cock popped free, slapping her across the cheek as it was liberated. She giggled and then slowly ran her tongue up the shaft from the base to the head.
“Ahhh,” I groaned, pleased at the sensation. I was even more pleased when she took me into her mouth and deep throated me, her lips slowly sliding down until they were nestled in my pubic hair. With exquisite slowness she pulled back up, applying suction as she went. “Gods,” I breathed. “Where did you learn that?”
“You like that?” she asked, planting little kisses. “You ain’t seen nothin’ yet.”
She took me back in her mouth and began to bob up and down on me. Her hand locked around the shaft and began to jack with the rhythm of her head. Her tongue swirled round and round, wetting me and sending saliva dripping down into my hair, her mouth applying a pleasant amount of suction. My hips began to rise and fall immediately from the bed. My God it felt good. This seventeen-year old girl knew how to give a blowjob. I would put her up against a twenty-year whore in that department.
She slurped and sucked and made little grunting noises for only a short time before the first orgasm came straining up my spine.
“I’m gonna come Cindy,” I warned her, in a voice that wasn’t steady.
“Mmmmm,” she moaned around my cock and picked up her pace.
I began to ejaculate a large, pent-up load into her mouth. Her hand continued to jack at me throughout it and her mouth sucked my come from the head. She gulped and gulped, swallowing every drop. When she pulled her face from my crotch, my dick was wet and shiny but clean as a whistle. She smiled up at me, licking her lips.
“You’re not the only one who has some talent you know,” she said, standing and pushing me back onto the bed. “Now what are you gonna do to repay me?”
“I’ll think of something,” I said, pulling her face to mine and putting my tongue back into her mouth.
I pulled off her sweater and then her bra, baring her gorgeous breasts. There is something sensuous and indescribable about a set of tits that belong to a seventeen-year old. They are so fresh, so firm, so visually stimulating. Could there be anything on earth more appealing? I had to taste them so I rolled her over on the bed and took one into my mouth, working the nipple, teasing it, making her sigh in pleasure. I worked on the other nipple for a while and then stood and reached for her waistband.
She watched me, her face flushed as I unsnapped her jeans and pulled them from her body. Her legs were long and lean, smooth to the touch, with just a few light hairs on the upper thighs. Her panties were dark red with white polka dots. The crotch of them was darker red, made so by the wetness that had soaked in there. I ran my index finger up and down her spread legs a few times, relishing the feel of that soft skin, that youthful skin. Finally I continued to her crotch and hooked the finger through the elastic of the panties. My knuckle was against her lips, feeling damp heat. I tugged and she lifted her hips, allowing me to drag them free and off of her body.
I couldn’t have imagined a sexier looking vaginal area. Her pubic hair was blonde, only slightly darker than that on her head. It was sparse, revealing two very swollen lips and one very erect clit. I don’t believe I’ve ever seen a finer one.
“You like what you see?” she asked me, opening her legs more, obviously knowing that her crotch was one that men dreamed of.
“Very much,” I said, picking up her legs by the calf and placing them on my shoulders. “I think I’ll eat it.”
“Ohhh,” she moaned as my head went forward.
Though she was a teenager, her smell was of a woman. Sharp and musky, dripping with pheromones. My dick sprang back to life as her odor hit me. Her taste was tart as I slid my tongue between those pouting lips and plunged it in. I drove it in and out, drinking from her, enjoying my feast, feeling those soft blonde hairs tickling my nose. When her crotch began to rise and fall and her fingers began to pull strands of hair from my head, I attacked her clit, taking it between my lips. She screamed as she came in my mouth.
When her gyrations stopped she hooked her hands into my armpits and pulled on me. “Fuck me!” she commanded.
Quote:
Originally Posted by
whiskynaam
hehe.. of course got pts gd la.. but most impt is u guys like the story… that one better than anything else
more!! im replying to show im still reading!!!
“I want to eat you some more,” I told her, trying to pull back.
“Fuck me!” she growled. “Fuck me now! And then, after you come, I want you to eat me again.”
So she had fantasies. But I imagined it would not be as enjoyable as she imagined since I intended to wear a condom. “I need to get a rubber first,” I told her, trying to get up.
Her strong arms pulled me back down. “I’m on the pill,” she told me. “Now fuck me! And then eat me!”
“Are you really on the pill?” I asked, hesitating.
“Yes Goddamit!” she whined. “I’ve been on it for a year now. Now fuck me, Billy! Fuck me now! Get your ass up here!”
I figured, through my haze of lust, that she probably wouldn’t lie about that. So I climbed aboard, sliding up her sweaty body and putting the head of my dick against her wet lips.
“Do it!” she yelled, putting her legs around my ass and pulling with them. “Fuck me!”
I thrust forward into her tight slit, going in in one smooth, gripping motion. We sighed together as our pubic bones met.
“Fuck me hard!” she panted, thrusting her hips up at me. “Come on!”
I fucked her hard, pounding into her body and establishing a rhythm that got my heartrate well into the aerobic exercise category. Sweat began to form on my face and drip onto hers. When the droplets landed near her mouth she would lick at them. She kept chanting “yes, yes, yes, fuck me” as my cock assaulted her tight pussy, making wet, squishing sounds and pouring her juices out onto the bedspread.
I angled upward with my thrusts, making the shaft rub forcefully against the top of her vagina, where the clitoral nerves were. I made sure my pubis ground into hers with each thrust, which served both to pleasure her, driving her towards orgasm and served to pleasure my cock. I squeezed her tits, tweaking the nipples. I felt her tight ass as it moved beneath me. I gave her my fingers, allowing her to suck on them. I felt vague pain both in my side and in my stomach as my wounds were stretched and pulled by my frantic action but it was unimportant, overridden by the pleasure her young body was giving mine.
She came again, screaming into my ear and then biting down on the lobe. I was right behind her, pumping out another load into her gasping chasm.
My thrusts had barely stopped before she pushed me downward. “Now eat me,” she said. “Please? Eat my pussy now that you’ve come in it. Please?”
Obviously this was a long-held fantasy of hers. Though she had definite experience, I doubted she had ever gotten someone to do this act for her before. Teenagers and even college age men would be disgusted by the very thought. Hell, most fully-grown and matured men were. Though it wasn’t one of my favorite activities, it wasn’t repulsive either. It was something I’d done before (I’d found that many women shared Cindy’s fantasy of having sperm licked from their vagina). My policy had always been to do whatever it takes to insure future copulation. I gave her a smile and then slid down her body. I spread her sweaty legs wide and looked at her pussy. It was drooling juice and sperm, oozing it onto the bedspread. I hesitated just to make her ask again. I didn’t have to wait long.
“Come on?” she begged. “Do it, please?”
I lowered my head and went to work.
It took her only a short time to come again but still I ate her until yet another orgasm came through. I then rolled over onto my back and pulled her on top of me. With a few adjustments her pussy was soon clamped down on my cock once more and I was thrusting up into her. She didn’t want me to come in her pussy again though. Instead, she pulled herself off of me and took me into her mouth once again. She put her impressive blowjob abilities to work and soon I was blasting another load down her throat.
She crawled up onto my body and collapsed atop it, kissing my cheeks and my lips. “God almighty,” she proclaimed. “That was the best sex I have ever had. Stephie was right about you.”
“Stephie?” I asked. “Do you mean Stephanie Massie?”
“You know damn well who I mean, Billy.” She smiled, nuzzling me a little. “She told me you could eat a pussy like there was no fuckin’ tomorrow. And Goddam if you can’t.”
“I certainly wouldn’t know how she would know that,” I told Cindy.
“You’re full of shit,” she said affectionately. “She gave me every stinky detail. You fucked the shit out of her.”
I shook my head, smiling a little. “Nope,” I said. “I most certainly did not. She let me kiss her a little but she wouldn’t let me do anything else.”
Cindy stared into my eyes, trying to read what was behind them. “Are you for real?” she finally asked.
“As real as I can be,” I said, sitting up. “But you know what? You and I didn’t do anything either.”
“We didn’t?”
I shook my head again. “Nope. We looked at records, I tried to put a move on you, and you shot me down. Hell, you can’t blame me for trying, can you?”
She looked at me grinning. “I guess I can’t.”
“But if you’re ever with groups of girls and you want to tell them some dick stories about how Tracy’s little brother ate your pussy until you screamed, or about how he fucked you until you clawed marks in his back, or about how he licked his come out your still-twitching pussy afterwards,” I licked my lips. “Well, there’s not much I can do about that now, is there? I’ll deny it of course, but you know how girls love to listen to those dick stories? Hell, people believe everything they hear, don’t they?”
“I guess they do,” she said teasingly. “But I’m not that kind of girl. Suppose I promised to keep my mouth shut about what happened here today?”
“Oh I don’t expect you to,” I said. “I guess I’ll just have to live with the reputation your lies will give me, won’t I?”
“I guess you will,” she said, giggling now. “It’s a tough life, isn’t it?”
-————————————————
To be cont… I hope this story not too long winded! Let me know if want me to cont or stop…
Quote:
Originally Posted by
whiskynaam
To be cont… I hope this story not too long winded! Let me know if want me to cont or stop…
more pls!
Time continued to go on, as it does. I was pleased to see that it passed at an adult’s pace instead of a child’s or a teenager’s. I went to bed each day and I woke up each day still in my new life. Gradually I became convinced that I was there to stay, that I wouldn’t suddenly wake up again back in 1999. This was an idea that used to terrify me once I became used to being back in my teens.
Of course there were things I missed. Modern music for one. I longed painfully sometimes to hear a little alternative rock or modern heavy metal instead of what I considered to be golden oldies. I missed some of the conveniences I’d become accustomed to in the nineties that weren’t commonplace in the early eighties. Video recorders and rented movies were a prime example. My parents would not own a VCR until late in 1984. Even then video stores would not begin to crop up until early in 1985. But most of all I missed Becky. There were times I cried in my bed at night as I lay sleepless, feeling condemned to the knowledge I would never see her again, never hold her again.
As I’d vowed after Richie Fairview put his buckknife into my side, I was careful what I did. I went to school each day but I did not torment any more bullies. Of course if they had decided to come looking for trouble with me I would have returned it to them in spades but none of them did. My encounters with Richie forever sealed my reputation as someone you did not fuck with. The bullies had much easier targets than I to occupy their time.
I tormented no more teachers as I had my history and A&P instructors. I replied politely to their questions when I was asked with whatever answer they were looking for. I brought up no controversial subjects to them. I did my homework each day the moment I got home from school (except on those days that Anita had something for me to do; something that began to happen with increasing frequency). As the school year wound on and as winter became spring my grades improved greatly all across the board, dramatically some would even say, unbelievably a few uneasy teachers even noted. By the time the school year ended my grades were straight A’s and my overall average had moved up considerably.
I similarly took no further chances with my skin. As a paramedic I used to shake my head sadly at how stupid teenagers were, assuming their own immortality. After Richie I realized that I’d been even worse than they were. At least normal teenagers will acknowledge the possibility that they can die, even if they think it won’t happen to them. But I had assumed that I couldn’t die, that I was safe until 32. That, despite eight years of scraping up the broken remains of idiotic teenagers off the streets of Spokane. I still shudder when I think of how easily I’d climbed into the car with Mike that night of the kegger, of how easily he might have drunkenly driven over the edge of the levee, dumping us both into the Spokane River. How ironic that would have been, for me to come back and save Tracy from that fate only to suffer it myself, to put my parents through the same grief with a different child.
I avoided riding in cars with teenagers when I could. When I couldn’t, I snapped on my seatbelt and pulled it tight. Most of the time it was the first time the seatbelt in question had ever been fastened. I could tell that the driver’s and other passengers of these vehicles wanted to deride me, call me a pussy, and apply the other forms of peer pressure that teens use for their bizarre purposes. But they never did. Again, Richie Fairview kept them from speaking their minds. Occasionally someone would ask however, why I was doing it.
“Well suppose we crash?” I’d ask.
“We ain’t gonna crash,” was the inevitable reply.
“Probably not,” I’d say. “But it’s possible, isn’t it?”
“I guess,” they’d say with a shrug.
“Well,” I’d theorize, “if we do get into an accident, I won’t get hurt as bad if I have this seatbelt on. It doesn’t inconvenience me in any way to have it on. It doesn’t hurt, it doesn’t restrict my movement, so why shouldn’t I have it on?”
They usually had no answer for that and would let the subject drop there. But they never put on their own seatbelts in response. They didn’t want to be called a pussy when I’d gone.
One thing I absolutely refused to do was to get into a vehicle with someone who’d been drinking and/or getting stoned. And since I didn’t enjoy walking home from places like the falls, I just avoided going with anyone where that was a possibility.
This policy led to problems between Mike and I, and we already had more than our share of problems. Our relationship had changed since my return and Mike didn’t care too much for it. I was no longer his trusty sidekick, willing to go along with everything he wanted to do. I no longer smoked pot with him on the way to school because I wanted my head clear for classes. He tried every form of peer pressure he could think of to get me to change my mind but when I continually refused he blew up at me one day and stormed off. He didn’t speak to me or walk to school with me for three days and surprisingly, though it had been a childish outburst over a ridiculous subject, I was very upset by the episode.
I cared for Mike and I desperately wanted to pull him off of the path he was on. My conviction to do this became even stronger after the Richie Fairview incident. He had jumped in, without the slightest hesitation and grabbed hold of the hulking asshole, pulling him off of me. He had done that despite the fact that he’d been terrified of Fairview and that Fairview was holding a knife at the time. He had cast aside his self-protection instinct to come to my assistance and I could not forget that. Maybe if he hadn’t done that, maybe if he’d simply stood there during the attack unable to move, I could have simply let the friendship die and let him go about his life. But he hadn’t. He’d jumped in there without a second thought. Goddamit I owed him something. I had to try!
As was his nature, he offered me no apology for his outburst. He simply showed up at my door for the walk to school the following Monday and acted as if nothing had happened. He pulled out a joint as we went along but did not offer any to me. I suppose that was as close to saying sorry as he could come.
So I continued to walk to school with him each day even though I didn’t really have to. Cindy, who had her own car and who took Tracy to school each day, had offered to give me a ride if I wanted. Her invitation did not include Mike, who she couldn’t stand, and so I declined it.
After school I would go over to Mike’s sometimes or he would come over to my house and then, if I’d finished my homework, I would smoke some pot with him. I learned to drop myself down to the level of a sixteen-year-old during these times and even managed to have a good time. I did not, however, go out on weekends with him anymore, always pleading other plans, which was usually true. I’d found some interesting ways to spend my weekends that did not involve putting my life at risk with intoxicated drivers. Anita figured heavily in these plans most of the time. So did Cindy.
Mike always seemed upset that I wouldn’t go out with him on the weekends but didn’t make a big deal of it. A status quo developed in our relationship, one that was due to break before long.
In April of that year Mike’s dad, a mechanic, fixed up a two hundred dollar Volkswagen Bug and gave it to Mike to drive full-time. I remembered the car well. It was a 68, the heater didn’t work, the upholstery was ripped and shredded, and the engine would constantly require attention from his dad. Mike and I had had some good times in that car during my first trip through. We would go to keggers, to parties, just out cruising. We would use the car to cut school with, driving to the river to go fishing.
Though I had no plans to do most of the stuff we used to do in the car, I figured that simply driving a few miles to school would be safe enough. I was wrong.
Mike’s driving in that Bug used to scare me even before being recycled. It absolutely terrified me afterwards. It only took me one trip with him to realize I was never going to set foot in it again. He picked me up for school the first day he had it and as soon as we were out of sight of my house, he pulled out a joint and lit it up.
“You sure you should be doing that while you’re driving?” I asked nervously.
“Doing what?” he replied with genuine confusion.
I pulled my seatbelt tighter and braced myself.
In the course of the short drive to school he weaved recklessly in and out of the morning traffic. He rode up on the rear of vehicles when he had no room to weave, getting so close to them that, had they stopped, he would not have had time to even apply his brakes, let alone stop in time. He ran through one red light and three stop signs, giving only a careless glance as he did so. He smoked on his joint the entire time. By the time we pulled into the school parking lot I was trembling with fear.