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.”
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.
from A Masque of Infamy
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