Thursday, June 27, 2013

Wednesday, June 26, 2013

BookSpin: Book Tour Review

BookSpin: Book Tour Review


BookSpin reviews A Masque of Infamy:
When I was asked to participate in the book tour for this novel, my inclination was to politely decline. I explained to the delightful lady who asked for my participation that I primarily read nonfiction and didn’t normally make time for fiction.
The few times I do dip my foot into the fiction pool is when the plot is unique or in some way appealing to me by piquing my curiosity. I re-read the synopsis of A Masque of Infamy and, for whatever reason, the curiosity factor kicked in.
Read the rest of the review here.

Monday, June 24, 2013

Friday, June 21, 2013

Thursday, June 20, 2013

A Masque of Infamy - The Website


I know you've been dying for it, so I'm finally collecting all the reviews, excerpts and interviews associated with the novel in one place:

http://thrashmetalpunk.wordpress.com

Dig it!

Monday, June 17, 2013

Tuesday, June 11, 2013

Stuffed Shelves: A Masque of Infamy Review

Stuffed Shelves: A Masque of Infamy by Kelly Dessiant

"I can't stress enough how much I enjoyed this book, it was a such a quick read too because I just couldn't put it down. I know once you pick this book up, you won't want to put it down either. Just because it's a coming of age story, doesn't mean it's a juvenile book, I would say everyone of all ages can relate and be entertained by the end of this book. It deserves a 5/5 rating."

The MC Press - Self-Publishing and Writing About People You Know

The MC Press - A Masque of Infamy

A Masque of Infamy' author Kelly Dessaint gives the MC Press an inside look at the world of independent publishing

my name is Sage: Blog Tour Stop & Book Review: A Masque of Infamy b...

my name is Sage: Blog Tour Stop & Book Review: A Masque of Infamy: By Kelly Dessaint

"Louis kept his composure and rarely showed a soft side, but when he did, it completely changed the mood of the book. It was a firm reminder that this story is real... I would give this book 5 stars all day long. It’s well written and captures your attention from the very beginning until the bitter end."

my name is Sage

Thursday, June 6, 2013

The Record Bar Punk - A Masque of Infamy Excerpt




THE RECORD BAR PUNK

from A Masque of Infamy
by Kelly Dessaint


At the Record Bar in the Oxford Mall, Clint and I shuffled through the racks of cassettes and whispered over the clicking of plastic. From the moment we entered the store, we were furtively eyeballing the vaguely punk looking clerk behind the counter with a Clash button on his black employee vest.

“I swear, that’s one of the guys I was telling you about,” Clint said. “The band that played at the skating rink a couple weeks ago.”

Before I went back to Birmingham, I was stuck at the Sheltons for a few more days, going out of my skull with boredom. So I decided to give Clint a call. He was psyched to hear from me. His first response was, “b-b-b-b-b-butane!” We had a good laugh remembering the fun we’d had that summer. He suggested we drive down to Oxford and check out the music store at the mall. I had twenty dollars burning a hole in my pocket. All the way there, he told me about a punk band he’d seen perform at the skating rink. They were the most amazing band he had ever seen up close. “In between songs, the band members alternated positions,” Clint said. “Switching from one instrument to the next.”

Now that we were mere feet away from one of the members, I suggested we go talk to him. 

Slowly, we crept up behind the guy and stood there for several seconds before Clint cleared his throat and said, “Hey.”

The guy turned around nonchalantly. “How y’all doing?”

“Didn’t I see your band play at the Oxford skating rink?” Clint asked.

“Yeah, that was us. My name’s Brian.” He pointed at his nametag.

We introduced ourselves and shook hands. 

“That was an awesome show, man.”

I cant believe they let you guys play punk.

“My friend Dave works at the skating rink," Brian said. "That’s how we got in. But we were playing Dead Kennedys songs and insulting people, so Dave pulls me over to the side and says we gotta tone down the profanity. Well, the next song we play is 'Nazi Punks Fuck Off!’ 

We all laughed. 

"Man, after that, we were shut right the fuck down! The crowd was yelling, 'You suck! We grabbed our shit and took off.

Thats so awesome!” Clint and I enthused. 

Well, I don’t think they’re gonna invite us back.

“What’s the name of your band?”

“That night we were The Whales. We change our name every time we play a show. Not that there are many places to play.” 

“I know. Nothing’s going on in this shitass town.”

“You guys always play punk?” I asked.

“We do a variety of tunes, some punk, some ska, a little rockabilly. Sometimes all within the same song.”

“Cool. I listen mostly to punk.” I showed him the tapes I’d found, stoked beyond belief to finally have albums by Social Distortion and Minor Threat. I held them tightly in my hand like trophies. “I’ve been dying to find these,” I told the guy. “Every since I saw that movie Another State of Mind. Do you know that one?”

“Yeah. That’s a cool flick. I just ordered those tapes a few weeks ago. I was hoping somebody would find them.” 

We talked about punk bands for a while. He recommended some albums, making me swear I’d check out Plastic Surgery Disasters by Dead Kennedys as soon as I had the money. He said it was their most musical album. A classic. I memorized every word he said. 

After we’d made our purchases, Clint and I walked down to the Orange Julius. He wanted to know what it was like being in a mental hospital. 

“Being locked up… man, it’s all a big joke. They didn’t know what else to do with me, and I guess if they didn’t know what to do with you, they lock you up.”

“When my dad found out what happened to y’all, he was rearing to go beat your dad up and that other guy. I ain’t never seen my dad so pissed off.”

“Everybody knows about it now, huh?”

“Well, yeah. It was in the paper.” 

“Crazy.” 

“So are you coming back to Anniston before you leave for LA?”

“Maybe for Christmas. I don’t know what’s happening yet, where I’m going to end up…”

“We should hang out if you’re in town. And hey, man… tell your brother…” Clint paused. “Tell him I said what’s up. Okay?”

“For sure.”




From the novel A Masque of Infamy by Kelly Dessaint.

Buy the paperback or the eBook on Amazon.com:




Friday, May 17, 2013

A Masque of Infamy Promotion


The Kindle version of A Masque of Infamy is free until 5/21.

A Masque of Infamy is a horrific and raucous story of teenage rebellion. But instead of "What d'ya got?" fifteen-year-old Louis Baudrey knows exactly what he's fighting against…

After moving from Los Angeles to small town Alabama in 1987 with his father, his younger brother and this guy Rick, a friend of the family, Louis tries to fit in at the local high school, but the Bible-thumpers and the rednecks don't take too kindly to his outlandish wardrobe and burgeoning punk attitude. At home, he defies the sadistic intentions of Rick, who rules the household with an iron fist. As Louis begins to lose all hope, he stumbles upon indisputable proof that will free him and his brother from Rick's tyranny. But just when he thinks his troubles are over, he's locked up in the adolescent ward of a mental hospital, where he must fight the red tape of the system to realize his dream of being a punk rocker.

"A Masque of Infamy captures the screaming, up-from-the-toes intensity and torment of the United States of Adolescence. No one who reads this book will be left unchanged by its savage and unforgiving beauty." – Jerry Stahl, author of Permanent Midnight

"The overwhelming rawness of Kelly Dessaint's story about children attempting to navigate a world completely fucked up by adults is like a punch to the chest." – Davida Gypsy Breier, Xerography Debt

"Kelly Dessaint twists the horror of growing up in a highly dysfunctional American family into a hilarious tale of survival. Detailing the trauma of being institutionalized as a teenager after having taken revenge against an abusive father figure, A Masque of Infamy is a story about stubbornly overcoming the odds to live long enough to tell the truth about just how shitty it is to be a kid in this country." – Lydia Lunch

Thursday, May 16, 2013

Gabby The Cutter

“I feel like a bug under somebody’s shoe.” The new girl was spread out on a chair, the scars on her arms like chaotic spider webs. When Ron called her out in group she made no attempt to hide her contempt for him, Hillcrest and the rest of us.
“Why do you feel that way?” Ron asked calmly.
“Why do you think?” She spit the words out, her ferocity like an unhinged shutter in a windstorm.
“Who are you angry with?”
“Everybody! Y’all think you can judge me, but you don’t even know who I am. So, FUCK YOU!” She stood up and kicked a table.
Those nearest moved out of her way.
Ron leapt to his feet. “This behavior is unacceptable.”
“Fuck you!” She screamed as she ran her fingers through her blonde hair, clenched her fists and pulled out two wads.
Rosie ran into the room. She and Ron grabbed the girl’s shoulders. She struggled violently in their grasp, throwing punches at Ron and clawing at Rosie’s face as they carried her down the hallway. She kicked her feet and gnashed her teeth like a feral beast. We listened to her screams until the door of the Time Out room slammed shut. After that her wail was muffled, like the ominous screech of an owl in the distance.
I looked at Alex in awe. This girl was the most exciting thing to hit the ward since Justin, the Bible eater. We were both impressed. Not only was she a total mental case, she was gorgeous.
She’d showed up a two days before. We were coming back from occupational therapy. Alex and I were charging up the stairs doing our usual routine: him growling in his best James Hetfield, “Back to the ward!” while I responded with a guttural snarl, “You will do! What I say!” And then in unison. “Back to the ward!” As we smashed through the door, we stopped in our tracks. There she was, in a Mötley Crüe shirt, standing at the nurses’ station with her head down. When she looked up through matted strands of hair, her face was feline. Alex broke the spell. “Rock and roll,” he said in his bad English accent.
On the ward, she kept to herself. In the common room she sat alone, barely registering anybody’s presence. During group she scowled and refused to participate. She marched along reluctantly through the various daily activities, never smiling or showing any reaction beyond a deathray gaze.
“She’s so fucking cool,” I enthused to Alex and the other guys. “What do you think she’s in for?”
“Murder?” Ryan suggested.
“You think so? That would be awesome.”
After her episode in group, she spent a day in the Time Out room. The next morning she was back in group. Ron wasn’t taking it easy on her.
“Would you like to talk about what happened yesterday, Gabrielle?” he asked.
“Don’t ever call me that. Nobody calls me that. I’m
Gabby.”
“Well, Gabby, I think it’s important to discuss what’s bothering you.”
“Do I have a choice? You gonna lock me up again if I don’t do what you say?”
“We’re only trying to help.”
“Coulda fooled me.”
“What’s upsetting you, Gabby. What are you feeling right now?”
“Right now?”
“Yes, this very moment.”
“I’m sick of hearing everybody whine about their puny little problems. Wah, wah, wah, my parents don’t love me. Wah, wah, wah, mommy didn’t put my math test on the fridge. Oh, woe is me, daddy didn’t come to my ballerina recital. Boo. Fucking. Hoo. I’d like to see you hafta deal with a real problem.”
“What do you consider a real problem?”
“I’m no expert.”
“Do you have a real problem?”
“I got no complaints. Next.”

Gabby seemed happy to be left alone, and everybody was more than willing to oblige. But I was desperate for any interaction with her. If our eyes just happened to meet for a split second, I tried to smile, though mostly I looked away quickly. Every conversation within her earshot was for her benefit. I spent hours thinking of witty things to say, hoping to break through her hardened façade.
After she’d been on the ward for about a week, Gabby sat down on the couch near the pool table while Alex and I were playing a game. She flipped through a tattered copy of People as we passed the cue back and forth to make our shots. I watched her in my periphery, racking my brain for a snappy comment.
When Alex sneezed, his whole body shuddered from the expulsion like he was having a fit. His convulsions usually came in triplets with a minute or so delay between each.
After the third outburst, I said, “Goddamn you!”
Gabby looked up as Alex stared at me in disbelief.
“Oh, man.” His voice was anguished. “I can’t believe you just said that to me. Now I’m going to hell.” He sobbed dramatically for effect.
I glanced in Gabby’s direction and shrugged. “He was gonna burn in hell anyway.”
She went back to her magazine, but not before I noticed a faint smile.

The next day, during free time, I gathered all my courage and sat down next to Gabby.
“What’s up?”
“Not much.”
“Cool.”
After a moment of awkward silence, she said, “I’m dying for a smoke.”
“It sucks, I know. I was there myself. For three weeks. They told you about the second level and all that shit?”
“Yeah, but I ain’t doing nothing for these assholes.”
“I don’t blame you. It seems like the worst thing in the world. I felt that way too, when I first got here. But you don’t really hafta give them what they want. All you gotta do is fake it. That’s what I’m doing. We’re all faking it. They think their system works, but it’s all bullshit.” I knew I was talking too much, but there was little I could do about it. I opened my mouth and the words just spilled out.
“These people are weirding me out,” she said. “I wanna get the hell outa here.”
It was hard to look her in the face. Her black eyes were like ink spots on parchment. There was a small mischievous sparkle in the onyx depth that transfixed me.
“Are you really from LA?”
“Yeah, my dad was transferred to Saks with the Army.”
“Oh, I’m from Ohatchee.”
“Really? Is Ohatchee close to Saks?”
“We’re practically neighbors. I drive through Saks all the time.”
“What a coincidence.” I smiled as I stared at my sneakers.
Alex joined us.
“What’s up?”
“I just took an IQ test.” He winced. “My brain hurts.”
“So now they’re finally gonna be able to prove you’re retarded?”
“I’ve killed enough brain cells over the years to qualify for the short bus.”
“I’ve given myself whiplash, like, twenty times,” I said. “That can’t be good for the ole noggin.”
As we laughed, Scott walked into the common room and made a beeline to where we were sitting. “What y’all talking about?” He plopped down on the couch.
I introduced him to Gabby.
“So who you for, Alabama or Auburn?” Scott asked her.
“What a stupid question.”
“What? I ask everybody that question.”
“I know. And it’s stupid.”
“I don’t really care for football,” Gabby told Scott nicely. “But my family’s Auburn.”
“Oh.” Scott was disappointed. “I like Alabama.”
“I haven’t been interested in sports since I hit puberty,” I pointed out with a nervous laugh. “By the time I was twelve, it was all about music.”
“What kind of music you listen to?” Gabby asked me.
“I used to be into metal, but now I mostly listen to punk.”
“I haven’t heard much punk.”
“I can make you some tapes,” I said. “I have a stereo with a double cassette deck.”
When Ryan showed up, he walked to the abandoned pool table and looked confused. He saw the four of us talking and slowly made his way to the couches.
“How was hypnotherapy?” I asked him.
“Relaxing, as always.”
“What’s hypnotherapy?” asked Gabby.
“Downstairs they got this room,” I explained to her. “You sit in a La-Z-Boy chair and listen to tapes on headphones.”
“What do they say?”
“Who knows? I always fall asleep.”
“Me too,” Ryan said. “I don’t wake up until the tape ends. Those chairs are really comfortable. They must cost a mint.”
“You can’t remember what the voice says?” Gabby asked.
“Nope.”
“They’re definitely brainwashing us,” Alex said.
We all laughed, including Gabby.

_____________


For the next few weeks, I followed Gabby around like a lovesick puppy. I sacrificed opportunities to smoke and eat in the cafeteria just to be near her. After a week of resisting the program, Gabby had learned to play along. She started sharing in group and participating in activities. She even began wearing dresses, to ameliorate her mother’s wishes that she look more feminine. It was hard to imagine she was the same girl who had thrown such a fit when she was first admitted. But everybody got with the program eventually. There was no other way to the second level.
As we sat around the common room, discussing everything under the sun, I waited for the green light that never came. I convinced myself that our bond was deeper than what most guys and girls experienced. It was pure. I read the scars on her body and interpreted her razor vocabulary. She told me the blade was about perfection. When she ran the edge across her skin, it was like polished steel. Razor sharp perfection.
“Who’s Shane?” I asked one day. I had intentionally avoided the question despite the name carved prominently on her arm.
“He’s this guy…”
“Your boyfriend?”
“It’s complicated.”
“Why’d you put his name on you arm?”
“Stupid, huh? I was in Florida with my parents. I didn’t wanna go, but they forced me. I hate the sun. I hate the beach. I was bored and pissed. So I wrote his name in my arm. I don’t regret it, even though I never showed him.”
“Do they ever go away? The scars?”
“I hope not. In fifty years none of this will matter, you know? But I’ll always remember what I went through because it’s carved in my skin. I see them as mementos.” She laughed. “Shit, if I had a razor, I’d probably make one to remember Hillcrest.”
“What would you write?”
“I don’t know…” She thought about it with a smile. “Maybe, ‘I want out,’ or something like that…”
“Oh.” I didn’t like to think about her leaving, but Gabby talked about getting out of Hillcrest all the time. She focused on her release more than anything else. That’s how she justified her conformity. She did it to beat the program and go home.
“I don’t think they’re ever gonna let me out,” I said. “But it’s not that bad here. Being at Hillcrest is better than a group home or some other fucked up place. Plus, I never had anybody to talk to before who wasn’t freaked out by the thoughts in my head. It’s like I fit in, for the first time… in a mental hospital.” I laughed.
“Eventually you’ll leave, right? You can’t stay here forever.”
“I guess. I mean, my life is determined by a judge now.”
“What about your brother?”
During group, I mostly talked about Joey, what he was going through and what the future held for the both of us. I knew he had to be on the verge of losing his shit at the Ranch, all by himself. There were some in the group who thought I should go be with him, regardless of whether they made me cut my hair or took away my tapes. But I juggled the two rotten apples, hoping for a third that would sweeten the deal. 
“I still don’t know what’s gonna happen yet,” I said.
Gabby looked away. “I got a little brother too. I don’t think I could just bail on him.”
“What can I do?”
“You can’t just leave him there.”
“It’s not up to me.”
“Fuck that. Everything is up to you. As long as y’all are together, what does it matter?”
“You make it seem like I can just pretend I’m somebody else.”
“All I’m saying is, don’t let these motherfuckers think you don’t have a say in your own life. They can take almost everything else away from you, but they can’t take what’s inside you.”
“Yeah, well, I still don’t know what’s gonna happen. There’s my father’s trial and then after that…”
I didn’t know what else to say. I wanted to tell her so much, about the prospect of going back to Rosemead and living with my mother, about what it was like before I left, the nightmares... the Beast. I was sure she’d understand. If anybody could understand, it was her. I wanted her to tell me that if I went back to Saks, we’d hang out all the time. I would have given anything to hear those words. But we just sat there until it was time for the next daily activity.



Wednesday, May 8, 2013

A Southern Girl - An Excerpt from A Masque of Infamy




A SOUTHERN GIRL by Kelly Dessaint

The day after the revival I could barely walk down the hallway at school without well-wishers congratulating me on getting saved. I was hoping to keep the experience a secret, but since half the school had been there, my rebirth was public knowledge. Everybody wanted to know which church I would be attending now that I had found the Lord. Of course, I hadn’t thought that far ahead. I was more than a little chagrined I had to do anything besides stand up and go along with the masses. 
Just as I was beginning to think I’d made the hugest mistake of my life, a girl walked up to me and said, “Hey, you’re going to church with me this Sunday!”  
Before I could think a reply, she handed me a folded piece of paper and turned heel. As she walked away, switching her hips in acid-washed blue jeans, she smiled over her shoulder. I held the torn sheet of loose leaf and lingered with her perfume until the final bell peeled, wondering if each time a Southern girl talked it sounded like a bird was singing. 
All through class I studied her handwriting. Maybe this getting saved business wasn’t such a bad idea after all, I thought. For the rest of the day, I kept an eye out for her in the hallways. I wanted to find out more about this Missy Walker chick… 
“Missy Walker? Oh, she’s a slut,” Casey told me after school while we hung out in my backyard listening to Dead Milkmen on his boombox. Since he was tapped into the scuttlebutt of Saks High, I figured he could give me the lowdown on Missy before I called her that evening. 
“But she’s only, like, what, fourteen?” I asked. “How could she be a slut already?” 
“Hey, that’s just what they say. She’s easy. Been around the block. Known to go where most girls never dare.”
I looked at him dubiously. 
“I don’t know from personal experience or anything. But this guy Mark Shelby said he did it with her.”
“One guy and she’s a slut?”
“Yeah, but then, the next week she made out with Gary Durham in the parking lot of the skating rink.”
“So she’s been around the block.” I tried to play it off. “Who hasn’t? In LA, this stuff is no big deal.” 
“I don’t know how they do things in LA, but, in Alabama, if a girl gives it up wham-bam-thank-you-ma’am, she’s a slut.” Casey flipped the tape over and hit play. “Still, that doesn’t mean you shouldn’t go for it. Missy’s got great tits.” He flashed a lascivious smile and sang along to the tape: “My girl has a pet duck, and my girl is a heck of a fuuuuuu-riend.” 

I didn’t put much credence behind what Casey told me. After years of bragging about faux-lays, I knew most guys were full of shit. Nobody over ten wanted to be a virgin. I certainly didn’t. That’s why I’d been lying about it for years, claiming three imaginary notches in the proverbial belt. Now that I was in an entirely new state, I upped the number to five. And if Casey or anybody else had asked for specifics, I could have happily obliged. I’d defended my allegations so many times over the years that I’d become quite deft at subterfuge. Back in my old neighborhood, it wasn’t enough to just claim to be experienced. Anything less than actual proof was suspect. 
The key to a convincing tale of conquest was to offer some context for the encounter. 
Explicit descriptions were vital: “One time I met a girl at Legg Lake,” went one of my stories. “This girl was so hot to trot, man, we snuck behind some bushes and did it doggy-style. She was older. Like fifteen. Way more experienced. Moaned so loud I thought we were gonna get busted.” 
Sensory details made the anecdotes more realistic. “Once, in Pasadena, I met this chick whose mother bought Avon from my mother. While they went over the make-up samples, we boned in her bedroom closet. She already had a hairy pussy that smelled like the seafood section at
Alpha Beta.” 
Since I didn’t go to school with the other kids in my neighborhood, I was able to claim one of my classmates as an early feather in my cap, a little game of doctor that went too far. “I wouldn’t say my first time was mistake, but it sure was for her. She had a bald pussy that was so tight, I wasn’t sure if I was even gonna be able to stick it all the way in.” 
But the truth was, I’d only kissed three girls. For a little while I had a girlfriend, this Chinese girl whose sister was friends with my sister. I was thirteen and Kim was twelve. Her parents owned a liquor store. She came over my house every day with a bag of candy and a pack of Marlboros. Even though she was a year younger than me, Kim seemed ready to go further than just kissing, making not-so-subtle suggestions and constant innuendo. At the time, I’d only kissed one girl. I was too confused by what was happening with Kim to try anything besides a little second base action. When we made out, I kept my entire pelvis region as far from her as possible so she couldn’t tell I had a hard-on. I liked Kim, but all my friends made fun of me for going out with an Asian girl, so I broke up with her. After that, I kissed a sixteen-year-old girl who partied with my friends. But she was real drunk. 
Still, if I was going to be the stud I always knew I was destined to be, I needed more practice. And this Missy girl seemed like a perfect candidate. The first of many, I hoped, thinking I’d be collecting phone numbers every day from all the girls who wanted a piece of the action. 
That evening, I studied the keypad of the phone for several hours. A few times, I dialed the first six digits, but I chickened out before I pressed the final number. 
The next day at school, Missy stopped me in the hallway. She was with a friend. 
“Hey, mister, why haven’t you called me yet?” she asked sternly. 
“Oh, sorry,” I stammered as I tried to come up with a viable excuse. 
Missy laughed a throaty chuckle through a wide lipstick smile, like she knew I would come up blank. The day before her lips were pink. This day, they were a deep red. 
“I get it. You’re busy. Sure.” Her expression suddenly turned severe. She looked me straight in the eye. “But you better not leave me hanging tonight, otherwise I’ll find out where you live and kick your butt.” 
Her friend giggled. “I don’t think you’d stand a chance,” she said. “He’s pretty tall.” 
“But I’m a good fighter,” Missy said. “Watch this.” 
She lifted up her leg as if to kick me in the groin but stopped short, leaving a dust mark on the front of my jeans. 
The other girl guffawed. “You soiled him!” 
“Here, let me wipe it off for you,” Missy said coyly. 
My face burned crimson as she brushed the front of my pants. 
“There. All better.”
The bell went off and I walked away like a misguided automaton. 
During my next class, as the teacher went on and on about whatever it was she assumed we were supposed to learn, I kept thinking about Missy… There was something about this girl, the way she looked up at me through that bouffant do, her eyelids dusted with blue shadow, those lipstick lips, the petite but shapely figure… 
Casey was right about her tits. I could tell they were the size of pomegranates. And, I didn’t know it at the time, but I had a thing for pushy girls who wore too much make-up and smelled like exotic flowers. 
As soon as I got home that afternoon, I called her and we talked for hours. 

The next Sunday morning, even though I was grounded, I snuck out my window when Missy’s stepfather pulled up in a beat-up Lincoln. 
Missy and I sat in the backseat. She had on her Sunday finest, a long-sleeved purple dress with puffy shoulders and a high neckline. 
During service at Blue Mountain Baptist Church, my mind was a million miles away. I went through the motions, standing when the rest of the congregation stood and bowing my head when it was time to bow heads. 
Between the morning and evening services, I joined Missy and her family for lunch at their house. After we’d eaten, Missy and I sat on the living room couch and talked. At one point she whispered, “The coast is clear.” 
It was time to make my move. Slowly, I eased my arm over her shoulder. I didn’t want to appear over eager, but she anticipated my gesture and scooted closer, turning her head so we were face to face. Our lips met and I tasted her lipstick, a mixture of bubblegum and wax. She explored my upper palate with her tongue. I put my hand on her thigh and felt the polyester against pantyhose. As she molded her body closer, I moved my fingers across her hips, up her arm, over her shoulder and onto her chest, like a trip through Candyland. I stroked her breasts gingerly at first, almost accidentally, but she moaned at my touch so I kneaded the mounds like handfuls of dough, alternating diplomatically between the two. 
When she placed her palm on my stomach, her touch was electric. 
My pants bulged. 
As we were making out, I began to feel liquid trickle against my inner thigh. 
At first I thought I was leaking, unsure if I was pissing myself or the head of my schlong had ruptured like a blister from all the swelling. I tried not to think about it and concentrated on Missy’s mouth. But then I felt a stream slowly moving down my leg. 
“Can I use your restroom.” I disentangled myself from her arms, figuring a good piss would mitigate the throb. 
In the bathroom, my underwear was soaked. I was relieved it was only cum. Still, I tried to take a leak. But my hard-on wouldn’t subside long enough to point it towards the toilet. So I tried to reason with my prick: C’mon, there’ll be plenty of time for this later. I filled my mind with the least enticing images I could conjure on such short notice: naked old ladies, scenes from Faces of Death… anything to trick my penis into obedience. But the muscle flexed defiantly, demanding satisfaction. I was more than willing to fulfill its needs, but how? For a second I considered lying facedown on the floor of the bathroom and just getting it over with, but there wasn’t enough space. 
Not knowing what else to do, I shoved some toilet paper into my underwear and spent the rest of the day in boner limbo. 
After lunch, we went back to the church. I was grateful I’d worn a long shirt. Throughout the evening service my cock throbbed painfully, bound like a wound in my tight jeans. Every movement was a knife in the gut. 
When Missy’s stepfather dropped me off at home that evening, I stood on the porch and waved as the car pulled out of the driveway. Once the taillights faded down the road, I ran to my room. I locked the door and rubbed my burning hard-on against the mattress. In thirty seconds flat, the sperm that had accumulated in my testicles all day traveled through my aching dick like a burst water main. My pants were soaked.