Friday, August 14, 2009

Sometime In July, 1994

We fucked under the hot July sun, as god intended. Ninety-five degrees Fahrenheit and so humid you could have swum through the air. We did it whenever we could, wherever we could. That included the hot, humid woods behind our high school. I wasn’t especially skilled at it and needed all the practice I could get.

Ferns, sweat, cum, mosquitoes. Wearing sweat-soaked, grass-stained cotton clothes that would be washed by our mothers. Good kids. Good grades. Good families. She had been born with crooked legs. Bent slightly inward. As a young child the doctors had broken them and put them in braces to correct them. By the time she was a teenager, the time I met her, they were essentially straight. She was simply ever-so-slightly pigeon-toed, barely noticeable. By then, her legs were actually very muscular from running and they seemed to go on for miles. They looked especially good over her head, lying in the ferns that covered the hill just off the path through the woods. She also happened to be a hemophiliac, so she had to be on birth control pills or her periods would last forever. Thus we had no need for condoms. When we finished, my semen spilled out of her, into the leaves and soil. We walked back through all of the rusted, old, empty beer cans that littered those woods and talked about our future.

On numerous occasions, we screwed in her parents’ basement. We did this once or twice every weekend for the length of our relationship. Her parents were upstairs but generally left us alone, for whatever reason. I’m still not sure if they trusted me or just didn’t care. Regardless, on one summer day her period had just ended, and we assumed it was safe to do our thing. After we finished, I hurriedly pulled up my pants.

Later when I undressed to shower after the bike ride home, I noticed that the front of my underwear (tighty-whities) was blood-stained. Alarmed, I pulled the waistband forth to see what had happened. My dick looked like a blood sausage or a murder weapon, and I immediately started combing my memory of the day’s events, trying to determine when I had so grievously injured my dick. I inspected it thoroughly, looking for the injury that must certainly have produced all that blood. Then I realized the blood wasn’t mine. I knew where it had come from and I was relieved. At this point, though, a new problem immediately presented itself. How would I dispose of the blood-soaked underwear? I decided to just throw them in the hamper with the rest of my clothes. I’m not sure why I thought that would be a good idea, but that’s what I did. My mom must have washed them without noticing, and the blood must have come out. They found their way back into the clean laundry pile. Nothing was ever said.

Our senior year, we broke up. I believe that girl from my high school days has since finished her doctorate and is much happier and more successful than me. I recently heard from her, after a long period without contact. Apparently she lives down south somewhere. She’s an engineer of some sort doing quite well for herself.

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