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Feb. 2nd, 2004 05:34 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
taratemimaA non-genre, semi-autobiographical short story, rated PG-13, because the narrator talks candidly about what she knows about sex (not much).
Somewhere after my CCD class, I began to wonder why so many people risked disease and abortion to have sex. I remembered the times I was left alone in middle school, and I would read whatever was available. The kids would try to embarrass me by using words they thought I didn't know.
One of the eighth graders did it last spring. "So Bren,"
one of them asked, "do you know what an orgasm is?" I promised to look it up and let them know as they snickered louder than they thought.
The dictionary was no help, with vague mentions of 'release' and 'sexual intercourse.' I had some idea of what sex was, I knew how babies were made, but somehow, it didn't suffice for why people risked death and why even people who didn't want babies (how can you explain abortions otherwise) had it. I suspected this 'orgasm' thing was the key.
In the empty classroom, there were old textbooks behind a glass cabinet. One of them was something called "Your Changing Body." I looked up orgasm in the index, and found not only was it release, but also it felt really good. Better than anything I know, better than peppermint stick ice cream or a good poem. Better than dreams of traveling to England and writing novels for a living.
When I told the other students my findings, they stopped laughing. I found graffiti in the girls' room saying I was a 'slut.' Guys would make the DJ play "Wild Thing" at school dances. I stopped going up to dance.
That was when I was in seventh grade. I remembered this when I was fourteen one summer after CCD class got out. I was going to start high school at an all-girls Catholic school. Somewhere safe, where they won't say I read the whole dictionary and 'blown' all the guys in school. I know what that means, but I have no idea how I could do that. Wouldn't it taste bad?
That was in the past now. I got three months to myself. My stepfather was couriering, good for me because he earns money and is out of the house. When he was in the house, my mother and he would argue about money, the kids not cleaning their room and getting out of our neighborhood.
Today, I had money, thanks to doing extra work in the cellar. Ten dollars was enough to take a bus to Harvard Square, have lunch and play video games. Maybe if I saved enough from that, I can buy myself a tape.
I went to the video arcade first, and saw a tall man with odd hair. I realized it was dreadlocks, like what Rastafarians, sandhus and Perry Farrell had. The dreadlocks were long and brown, framing a thin face with a hawk-like nose. His electric blue and orange jacket clung to him; his arms were obviously well muscled for a thin man. He obviously did something other
than play video soccer games.
He looked nothing like the boys at my old school, who made rude remarks about my large breasts and threw their Cokes at me when I walked home. I concluded he might be someone to know, to get to like me. I dared to hope he could give me an orgasm, or at least kiss me. I felt hot and scared, but I
want to know more. I had to know more.
"Hi," I said, managing not to stutter.
He turns briefly, nothing flickering on his face. Perhaps this is good. "Hi."
"What's your name?"
"Ari."
"I'm Brenna."
"Yeah."
"You go to school?"
"Brandeis." I heard of that place, but only as a faraway
liberal arts school my grandmother says is full of 'J-E-W-S." I didn't know what her problem was, Jesus was Jewish. Maybe they will be nicer to me than the Catholics are. I was a Catholic, but apparently carrying around a book about the
rosary was too much for the kids in my school. Then again, I was curious and fascinated by the rosary, as intensely as I was about orgasms.
"I don't go to school yet."
He nodded and kept on playing. I stared at him, his eyes narrow and flashing, showing more emotion than he was showing talking to me.
"I rather not talk about school," he finally said.
I go close to him, almost bouncing. "So, what do you want to
talk about?"
He turned to me, with the same strained look my mother gave when I haven't done my homework and it's almost bed. "Look, I rather not talk, so leave me alone."
I walked away, shuffling to the empty Tetris game.
I looked at records and ate, but I didn't enjoy it. I brooded about my failure to even get someone outside of my school to be interested in me. My future is obvious. My new high school will be just like middle school, with me lonely and reviled. Why bother getting good grades for college if I have no one to talk about the books I like, the music I want to listen to, and the experiences I want to have? Must I travel outside of Massachusetts, out of this country, to find someone who likes me?
I never was one for keeping it to myself, especially when all the worrying made me burst into childish tears when I got home. I told my mother just about everything.
"You don't know what that man was like," she said, "you could have been kidnapped or worst. Young lady, you are a bright girl, you speak well with people long out of high school, but you do much better with kids your own age."
Find people my own age? I wish I could find people of my own mind.
Somewhere after my CCD class, I began to wonder why so many people risked disease and abortion to have sex. I remembered the times I was left alone in middle school, and I would read whatever was available. The kids would try to embarrass me by using words they thought I didn't know.
One of the eighth graders did it last spring. "So Bren,"
one of them asked, "do you know what an orgasm is?" I promised to look it up and let them know as they snickered louder than they thought.
The dictionary was no help, with vague mentions of 'release' and 'sexual intercourse.' I had some idea of what sex was, I knew how babies were made, but somehow, it didn't suffice for why people risked death and why even people who didn't want babies (how can you explain abortions otherwise) had it. I suspected this 'orgasm' thing was the key.
In the empty classroom, there were old textbooks behind a glass cabinet. One of them was something called "Your Changing Body." I looked up orgasm in the index, and found not only was it release, but also it felt really good. Better than anything I know, better than peppermint stick ice cream or a good poem. Better than dreams of traveling to England and writing novels for a living.
When I told the other students my findings, they stopped laughing. I found graffiti in the girls' room saying I was a 'slut.' Guys would make the DJ play "Wild Thing" at school dances. I stopped going up to dance.
That was when I was in seventh grade. I remembered this when I was fourteen one summer after CCD class got out. I was going to start high school at an all-girls Catholic school. Somewhere safe, where they won't say I read the whole dictionary and 'blown' all the guys in school. I know what that means, but I have no idea how I could do that. Wouldn't it taste bad?
That was in the past now. I got three months to myself. My stepfather was couriering, good for me because he earns money and is out of the house. When he was in the house, my mother and he would argue about money, the kids not cleaning their room and getting out of our neighborhood.
Today, I had money, thanks to doing extra work in the cellar. Ten dollars was enough to take a bus to Harvard Square, have lunch and play video games. Maybe if I saved enough from that, I can buy myself a tape.
I went to the video arcade first, and saw a tall man with odd hair. I realized it was dreadlocks, like what Rastafarians, sandhus and Perry Farrell had. The dreadlocks were long and brown, framing a thin face with a hawk-like nose. His electric blue and orange jacket clung to him; his arms were obviously well muscled for a thin man. He obviously did something other
than play video soccer games.
He looked nothing like the boys at my old school, who made rude remarks about my large breasts and threw their Cokes at me when I walked home. I concluded he might be someone to know, to get to like me. I dared to hope he could give me an orgasm, or at least kiss me. I felt hot and scared, but I
want to know more. I had to know more.
"Hi," I said, managing not to stutter.
He turns briefly, nothing flickering on his face. Perhaps this is good. "Hi."
"What's your name?"
"Ari."
"I'm Brenna."
"Yeah."
"You go to school?"
"Brandeis." I heard of that place, but only as a faraway
liberal arts school my grandmother says is full of 'J-E-W-S." I didn't know what her problem was, Jesus was Jewish. Maybe they will be nicer to me than the Catholics are. I was a Catholic, but apparently carrying around a book about the
rosary was too much for the kids in my school. Then again, I was curious and fascinated by the rosary, as intensely as I was about orgasms.
"I don't go to school yet."
He nodded and kept on playing. I stared at him, his eyes narrow and flashing, showing more emotion than he was showing talking to me.
"I rather not talk about school," he finally said.
I go close to him, almost bouncing. "So, what do you want to
talk about?"
He turned to me, with the same strained look my mother gave when I haven't done my homework and it's almost bed. "Look, I rather not talk, so leave me alone."
I walked away, shuffling to the empty Tetris game.
I looked at records and ate, but I didn't enjoy it. I brooded about my failure to even get someone outside of my school to be interested in me. My future is obvious. My new high school will be just like middle school, with me lonely and reviled. Why bother getting good grades for college if I have no one to talk about the books I like, the music I want to listen to, and the experiences I want to have? Must I travel outside of Massachusetts, out of this country, to find someone who likes me?
I never was one for keeping it to myself, especially when all the worrying made me burst into childish tears when I got home. I told my mother just about everything.
"You don't know what that man was like," she said, "you could have been kidnapped or worst. Young lady, you are a bright girl, you speak well with people long out of high school, but you do much better with kids your own age."
Find people my own age? I wish I could find people of my own mind.
