Furiously virginal girls say hateful things like “slut,” “whore,” and “easy.” As in, “She’s so ‘easy’, I bet the whole football team has had her.” They shake their pom-poms in form-fitting skirts and low-plunging shirts to [insert pop song most heard on the radio], while eyeing the quarterback and licking cherry-balmed lips just so. They pop those just-formed-in-the-last-year hips, swivel, and dip to the cheers of pumped-up classmates in bleachers.
Then leave sticky-with-sweat uniforms on the locker room floor, laugh, and bump badunka dunks sassily, while talking about who kept which guy from feeling her up last Friday. And damn, that Mr. Bateman, who gave them C’s in Algebra.
Two of them, unnoticed, sneak into the last shower stall. Under lukewarm, lime-encrusted spitting-showerhead water they giggle nervously, then fall on each other like starved animals. Exploring soft mouths that feel nothing like a boy’s, tongues that don’t dart fast to fill up empty spaces. Slow, sustained soapy nipple pleasures, rubbing supple skin against skin just so, sucking hot thick lips, licking with writhing tongues, and the dark, desperate wetness of recessed, repressed places.
Miracle Boy and Other Stories