The first time, she peeked out only moments later, her smooth skin covered in droplets of water: “I’m sorry – does that bother you? I’m so used to like, well, living with a bunch of girls.” Christy had been in a home. Or rehab. These were the things we didn’t know about her, because she never talked about anything but the immediate present.
“Um… no,” I said, maybe too enthusiastically, and she grinned.
“I didn’t think you minded.”
But that was the closest I got to sex. Instead, I fumbled around with the breasts of my bright girlfriends, trying to get someone into bed before graduation. Even in the thrust of high-school love, I thought of Christy.
It occurred to me once – maybe she got naked for Jason, too? But I could’ve thought about that until it split me open, so I chose not to.
An hour later, Jason’s here, in sweatpants, grinning.
“Get ready for the best hour of your fucking life, dude,” he says, pushing past me to the living room.
“Can I see the cover?” I ask. “Is she on the cover?”
Jason hands it to me as he clears a spot on the couch, fiddling with the remote.
She is on the cover. Christy. Christy-of-the-shower, Christy-of-the-white-tank-top, Christy-of-my-wettest-wet-dreams. Honour Roll Cocksuckers. Christy, clad in a plaid skirt and saddle shoes with suspenders tight across her new boobs. Her face is covered in come and her hand is down her skirt.
“Hot, right?” Jason asks. “I always wondered what happened to that girl.”
All the time, I want to say, I wonder about her all the time. “Yeah, me too. Kinda makes sense, y’know?”
“Yeah, especially if she’s still into drugs.”
I brush off his accusation. “You’ve already seen the whole thing?”
“Nah,” he says. “I watched like, the first five minutes. I thought – uh – I should save the rest to see with you.”
A silence. We’re men now, I think, but weren’t we men then? In college, a buddy and I bought blow jobs from the same hooker, and I waited in the room during his and then he saw me get mine, and wasn’t this like that, except less so? And why should I feel unsettled anyhow, with the object of our desire so clearly a woman? But I prefer him being here. I’m drawn to that nakedness, that vulnerability that feels like family.
“Cool, cool,” I nod.
Honour Roll Cocksuckers is the opposite of seeing a movie star on the street. Christy, in pigtails and a skirt with breasts straining against her selectively buttoned shirt, is “taught a lesson” by the principal and then the janitor, and then both at once. The film unfolds at a pace that’s like your train charging past when it’s supposed to stop, like watching a game that you wish would go into a third overtime just to see if he can score like that again – over, and over, and over.
Bend her over, I yell silently. Bend her over and fuck her everywhere. I wanna see that round white ass, the same ass that lazed around the house on Sunday afternoons in boxer shorts, the ass connected to those legs laid absently across my lap as we watched TV.
The janitor bends her over the desk and yanks her panties off. She yelps. He smacks her ass and she yelps again.
A close-up: beneath the thicket of black hair that once coated her pussy lies a shaven, beautiful hole, lips like a canoe around the slippery line of her clit, better than I imagined. The janitor rubs his dick against her and slips in. She yelps again, and he smacks again. Then he fucks her madly, pounding her – it cuts to her face, her intense eyes and her skin still white as soap.
The principal approaches the front of the desk, fitting his body between her arms and shoving his dick into her mouth. She moans and tightens her glossy lips around him.
I look at Jason but he won’t look at me. Maybe this is too much, I think, maybe this isn’t right, Jason with a dick like the Hispanic janitor’s, and me skinny and white like the principal, me at her front and him at her back, me fucking Christy’s throat and him, now, pulling his dick from her cunt to tickle the rim of her asshole, which flexes, eager for penetration.
When he breaks into that tiny hole, cupped by her perfect cheeks, I can’t take it any more. I slowly unbutton my pants and extract my dick… and rub. I have no inhibitions now; just a kind of drunkenness.
Out of the corner of my eye I see Jason doing the same.
The janitor lies on the floor and Christy mounts him. The principal takes her from behind while her ass bounces over the janitor’s dick.
“Double penetration,” Jason says. I smile too, and feel better everywhere.
The moment I pop is bright white, like Christy’s spotless ass.
I look at Jason smiling at me, his hand unapologetically smeared. He goes to the bathroom, and I’m limp, rendered half conscious by the power of porn. By Christy and the Honour Roll Cocksuckers.
The movie moves on to other girls, other scenes, as Jason and I navigate the tender terrain of our situation. He brings washcloths and we clean up. He sneaks me another smile and I feel okay, a safe distance from our frightening adolescent desires.
When Jason speaks it’s like the end of a football game: “Some good shit, man, right? She did good.”
“Hell, yeah, she did.”
Jason nods solemnly. I zip my pants.
“But dude – I didn’t even tell you the best part.”
“I don’t think I can handle anything else,” I say, laughing. I’m in a dark room surrounded by ghosts, and naked girls are fucking on television.
“OK. I’ll call you tomorrow,” Jason says. “Get some work done, schoolboy.”
Jason takes the movie with him, and I’m back in my apartment feeling like I’ve just had the best sex of my life. I dream of smacking Christy’s ass, of punishing her with her skirt over her head. I wake up wet and alone.
Jason picks me up after the exam. “We’re going on a road trip, my man.”
“A road trip?” I’m groggy, half awake. “Where?”
Jason grins. “You’ll see.”
The rocks in my head knock around wearily, too worn out to imagine anything. I fall asleep.
I wake up as we pull up to a nondescript office building. Jason calls someone as we lumber out of the car, and I fix my hair in the window’s reflection.
“Where the fuck are we, dude?” I ask. It’s painfully sunny. I’m thinking of Christy, of all the bodies that came in and out of our house, no one ever sticking. I feel the emptiness that pounds when I think of her, of Jason, of my mother, of the difference between knowing where you’ve come from and knowing you’ve come from nowhere.
My mind is still murky as we ride the elevator up to “Untitled Scream Productions”. Jason’s grinning like a kid on his birthday.
I rub my eyes. Is this real? Will I see her, knowing now what it’s like inside that quivering pussy? Will I slide my hand along her taut stomach, tickle the Playboy bunny in her bellybutton?
There’s an empty desk and Jason buzzes in. We’re greeted by the principal. He and Jason are – apparently – friends. I’m dizzy, everything in slow motion like an acid trip. It’s one of those moments where life slows down and opens itself up like an orgasm and everything in you turns into so much air.
I am following Jason, feeling like I’m in a children’s book, the kind where you feel three times smaller and follow imaginary friends into strange rooms.
This sparse room, with black leather couches and a view of the Hollywood Hills, is strange. Because Christy is in it.
Right there. There she is. She’s wearing grey sweatpants and a white tank top, her full breasts peeking out of the sides. I liked her real tits better, but I don’t care; being near her is more than I can bear. I don’t know if I’m going to get a hard-on or throw up.