Punk Like Me (15 page)

And what brought that on? Forget about the obvious ignorance and aggression combination for the time being. That was just revolting.

The whole dyke thing, though. Was there a sign painted somewhere?

And how come Kerry got pegged for that when she was sort of giving me the idea that this wasn’t really her thing, and I didn’t get tagged like that and I was starting to think it might be mine? Is it a vibe you give out? Would I start giving out that vibe? Did I already? Was Kerry just reß ecting mine? Would I recognize it in someone else? Okay, I’d had enough of that for one twenty-four-hour period. I was nauseous now and my head was really starting to hurt, and I wasn’t going to think about that anymore for a while.

Okay, then, that left the kiss. Oh boy. That kiss. And other things, that reminded me. I lifted my T-shirt and looked at the breasts that had just suddenly appeared, really, in the last year. I had them before, the breasts, I mean. They just hadn’t been, weren’t so, well, there, you know? I inspected them with a critical eye. They were okay, I guess, not too big, not too small, although my uniform shirts from last year were tight, but that had happened to everyone else in my class, it seemed.

• 100 •

PUNK LIKE ME

Everyone was wearing white Tshirts or the regulation sweater or vest to cover the gap that existed between the second and third buttons, all of us waiting for our new uniforms to arrive in the spring. So that wasn’t too unusual, I guessed, maybe even normal, and it was a relief to feel even a little normal about something for a minute.

Curiously, I decided to touch one, the one Kerry had. It didn’t feel any different than touching my arm or my stomach—maybe a slight bit more ticklish, but that was it. Not a bad feeling, but nothing fantastic, either. This was absolutely not a big deal and deÞ nitely not paroxysms of ecstasy waiting to happen. I didn’t get it. Why did those girls in those porno videos Nicky and I had snuck from my dad’s workshop always grab themselves there or moan when someone else did? Maybe it was just for the viewers. Actors…

I touched the nipple experimentally. The skin was really soft, not just a different color, but a different texture altogether from the rest. But it didn’t really seem to be anything special, at least not in terms of any extra-special feeling. I gently squeezed. Nope, nothing. Pressing harder was deÞ nitely not nicer, either.

Maybe, if I just concentrated on the tip itself, since that was supposed to be full of nerve endings. Using a Þ ngertip, I did just that, lightly touching the very very end, where I assumed all the nerve endings actually, well, ended.

Okay, that wasn’t too bad, maybe even a little nice. It hardened itself into a tiny, circular point, about the diameter of the tip of my pinky. I’d seen them harder than this just running cross-country track, but that was way different—that had hurt—and chafed. They’d been tender and sore for days, even though I’d used the cream that one of my teammates had recommended to ease the sting. Actually, nothing had really helped until I’d picked up True Girl–jock (and that’s a bra that slams your boobs so tight into your chest you need to relearn how to breathe. I shared just in case you want or need one, or you just like that sort of thing).

At least this felt somewhat pleasant. Still, though, it was nothing compared to the way Kerry’s had reacted. Hers had become larger, deÞ nitely much more discernable than mine, soft and solid at the same time, like, I didn’t know. I had no real basis for comparison, except those videotapes. Kerry’s certainly felt like they looked like that. Mine sure didn’t. And she’d reacted a bit more, too.

• 101 •

Maybe my body was retarded.

But still, not bad though, I mused to myself, not bad, as my other hand slid down along my stomach and I felt the muscles under my hand, hard and strong underneath a very thin, soft layer. And then my hand went farther down, under my sleep shorts, to a spot where I knew all the nerve endings were working just Þ ne, thank you, and things that were supposed to get hard did so, without any problem or coaxing, either, and size didn’t matter one way or another at all, just the sensation.

And in case you were wondering, and before you get the wrong idea (or the right one, depending on your point of view), this was all strictly magic-button time. A few times, either washing or exploring, I’d slipped and touched lower, you know, “there,” but that had stung pretty nastily, actually, so I pretty much left that strictly alone, and no one else was allowed there, either. For the time being, anyway.

Okay, this is a little embarrassing, but by now, I’m sure you might have noticed, and yes, it’s true. I jerk off, jack off, jill off, and masturbate. I have made close personal friends with Rosy Palm and all of her sisters, and her cousins on the other side, too. I diddle, Þ ddle, fuck myself, and fool around. I did it then, I do it now, I’ve done it in between, and I’ll do it till I die. I have formed an intense bond with my friend, my pal, my girl. I know where her loyalties are, and she never, ever, lets me down. It’s my buddy and me, all the way.

The infamous “they” say it’s the Þ rst pleasure we experience as babies and the last we experience as senior adults. I say, why leave it to the beginning and then wait till the end?

A healthy sex life is up to every individual, and this is the best way of Þ nding out what you like, what you don’t like, and what you might like to try out. You can trust yourself not to bring home any unwanted diseases, get you (or someone else) pregnant, go too fast or too slow, do it wrong, have a headache, get tired, or keep going when you want a break. And it’s always, always, sex with someone you love. Hopefully, anyway. And by the way, it’s a great way to break a fever and keep your legs in shape. Trust me on this.

Oh, and if you’re someone who swears up and down they’ve never done it, either stop lying, because I don’t believe you either, or please, get help, get a room, get a magazine or a good book (or try the Internet), relax and let it go, man. You’ll be much nicer, trust me.

Or more succinctly: fuck yourself and feel better. You may Þ nd your

• 102 •

PUNK LIKE ME

technique with a partner improves as well. Okay, off the soapbox for now and back down my pants.

My Þ ngers unerringly found the spot that wanted attention easily enough, and as I slowly began stroking my Þ ngertips across my absolutely favorite body part, I thought of Kerry’s mouth on mine and of the sweet wetness that was our kiss. On impulse, I licked the Þ ngertip that had been on my boob moments before and put it back there. Maybe this would do something.

Oh, hey now, that felt really, really nice, and as it got harder, it actually got bigger, and I experimentally rolled it between my thumb and foreÞ nger. This was deÞ nitely an improvement. Maybe my body wasn’t really retarded after all, just a little slow. Then again, I’d thought it was a pretty neato thing when Kerry had done it, so maybe it was a technique thing. Or personality. Maybe my boob just liked Kerry better than me.

Points farther south, I stroked a bit harder, and in my mind, I could feel Kerry’s body pressing up against mine, the leg that had wrapped around me and almost thrown me on top of her bringing our bodies into tight contact.

I felt her lips against my neck and collarbone, the light butterß y kisses I’d forgotten she’d laid down from my throat to my partially exposed chest, and the constant, unrelenting pressure of her hips against mine, her hands moving my ass so that we were grinding against each other in a sensual dance.

I remembered the taste and feel of her skin against my lips, how she’d moaned into my mouth when I’d cupped her breast, and that she’d shaken and pushed into me when I’d painted a line with my tongue along the top. One of her hands came off my ass to squeeze one of my breasts in return, but the other gripped harder around, pulling me farther into her and pressing me in the most interesting, not to mention stimulating, way.

I stayed in that moment, my hands making their own rhythm, Kerry and I in that frantic push-pull, until I felt my own pressure build up within. I saw Kerry’s face as we kissed for the Þ rst time, and the look in her eyes, heard her say, “Hopey, you always ask the hard questions,” felt her lips against my face as she whispered I was her best friend and kissed me like she was dying but trying so hard to live. I came and I tasted her tears. No, not hers, mine. I was crying, I was weeping, like

• 103 •

a baby, like a lost child, and I was so cold again, so very damn cold. I curled up into a ball and fell asleep and let the tears just fall down my face and soak my pillow.

I must have really slept, because suddenly I opened my eyes to Þ nd the light had shifted and was shining way too brightly on my head.

A glance over at my dresser where I had my clock said it was about eleven in the morning, which meant it was deÞ nitely time for me to get out of bed. I couldn’t take lying there anymore anyway. The blankets suddenly felt too heavy, and the weight in my head was oppressive. I threw the blankets off me and hopped out.

Standing Þ nally, I stretched thoroughly, raising my arms above my head, twisting from side to side, and then settled on the ß oor to do a ballet, otherwise known as a ß oor, stretch. SatisÞ ed only when I felt the gratifying pull and burn in my legs, I did a few sit-ups, a couple of push-ups, and then ambled out of my room to take a shower and brush my teeth, along with all the other morning routine stuff—relieve the bladder, dry my hair, that sort of thing, and not necessarily in that order.

When I was done, I walked downstairs to the kitchen and made myself something to eat, and Ringo watched me from his spot by the back door. Mom must have had Nanny walk him, because he wasn’t jumping around doing the pee-pee dance.

Rooting about in the refrigerator and the cabinets, I got the supplies and tools I needed to put together the start of a healthy day—eggs, juice, and toast—scrambled, no pulp, and buttered, with a glass of chocolate milk, and that was extra chocolate until it looked like mud but tasted really good. Preparations complete, I placed the frying pan in the sink and washed it, then put all my stuff on a tray on the counter.

I looked up and noticed the phone. I walked over, picked it up, and was about to dial, then thought better of it. Nah, I Þ gured, she wouldn’t be home; she’d be at school. I put the phone back on its cradle. Besides, she probably didn’t want to talk to me just yet.

I wandered into the living room with my tray, sat it on the coffee table, and clicked the TV on straight to the music videos channel. I sat cross-legged on the sofa, and Ringo settled in under my feet. I watched and munched with only half of my attention focused on the TV. I was taking physical stock of myself.

• 104 •

PUNK LIKE ME

I was feeling quite a bit better, though maybe just a tad shaky.

Probably from being out all that time in November, for Chrissakes, with my coat and my shirt half-open, I concluded, and shut the rest of the thoughts that went with that out of my head for a while. I raised the glass of chocolate milk to my mouth so I could wash the toast down.

At that second the phone rang, and I choked, spewing the remains of my bite of toast and chocolate milk on my white T-shirt. Dammit—I had just showered, and that shirt was clean! I put the glass down on the coffee table next to my plate and tried to stand to run and get the phone, but Ringo stood with me and I stumbled, knocking into the coffee table and sending the remains of my tray along with my chocolate milk to the ß oor. Double dammit!

Ringo went after the spilled and dropped goodies, and I paused to stop him because he was certainly not supposed to eat people food, plus I was sure chocolate milk could not be wonderful for doggie innards, but the phone rang again and I had to get it. It could be Mom or, even worse, my school, checking up on me. I rolled my eyes in resignation and ran to the kitchen, removing my now-dirty shirt on the way.

I managed to get there without further harm to myself, my clothes, or the house in any way, and I skidded to a stop in my socks. “Hello?” I quietly tried to catch my breath.

“Yo, Nina, this is Sister Pernicious from Our Lady of Eternal Discipline. Don’t you have classes and exams? What are you doing home right now? Get on the bus or the train and get your pretty, precious, Þ rm, rounded as—ahem,” a mock throat clearing, “ah, I meant, sinful, yes, sinful ass to school!”

Holy shit—it was Kerry! Well, that was pleasantly unexpected. I cracked up at her words and the image they created in my head. “Dude!

Where are you? How’d you know I was home, um, Sister Perdition?” I asked her, still laughing.

“That’s ‘Pernicious’ to you, sweet cheeks, I mean, young lady!” Kerry told me in mock sternness. “Tell me…what are you doing right now?” she asked in a silky phone-sex voice.

Hmm. I bit my lip. Play? Or don’t play? I wasn’t too sure where we stood with one another yet, and I wasn’t ready to deal with it yet if the news wasn’t good. I decided discretion was the better part of valor.

Play my way.

• 105 •

“Talking to you, Sister, oh, and by the way? Nuns don’t say ‘yo,’

it’s part of their contract with God. I’ve read it. So, how’d you know I was home?” I asked her again. I felt the smile that grew on my face threaten to take my cheeks off. I couldn’t help it, couldn’t help myself.

She made me feel good.

I was just so very glad to hear her voice, and happier even that she called at all. I realized that I’d been subconsciously convinced for some unknown reason that she wouldn’t, that we’d never speak again. I was suddenly feeling pretty damn good about things, and I had this warm glow in my chest, even though there was a strange little tickle I’d never ever felt before in my stomach. Well, I was home sick, after all.

“What do I know about nuns, Nina? My parents are Jewish, remember? Anyhow, I didn’t see you at the bus stop, I didn’t see you at the train station, so I went into the comic book store and no one had seen you go by. I hung out there a little bit, watched from the storefront as Nanny went by on her bus, and knew there was no way that Nanny would leave before you did, so you had to be home. So, I decided to cut school, hung out longer at Universe, and now I’m across the street from the store, calling you from a pay phone. Good enough? Is this working for you?” she asked teasingly. “Because it’s really working for me.” Wow. It was working for me, too. So she’d decided to look for me this morning. I didn’t think she’d do that. We never traveled in together—our schools were in completely opposite directions, which is why we always met up afterward, at the store, since it was next to our train station. What I understood underneath all of this working explanation was that she’d missed me, she wanted to see me. She’d looked for me, asked for me, waited for me, and now she was calling me. That glow just kept on growing, and that tickle in my stomach was getting stronger. It wasn’t an unpleasant feeling either, just very unfamiliar.