Posted by Maria on June 07, 2009 at 12:01 [63.253.166.178]
This isn’t really fiction, though I admit it is mildly embellished for literary effect. I hope you don’t mind. I like creative writing and frequently take classes at the local j.c. It’s no fun for me without some verbal fireworks. But most of it is true, and it really does describe how I came to perceive myself as a sex pervert.
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It was an ordinary Saturday night in May, the weather just warming up, summer on the edge of arriving. I was 17 and in my junior year of high school. Dressed in a pink camisole top and tight brown corduroy pants, I was sitting in the back seat of a Pontiac with my boyfriend Danny. His fingers skirted the edge of my pants as we kissed. In those ancient days, girls wore either white cotton full-briefs or else white nylon ones. There wasn’t a lot of variety. As Danny fiddled with the belt loops of my britches, he could see that I’d been a good girl and worn the white nylon he preferred.
Chuck Lucero was driving, his arm around Mercedes Montoya. She was tall, thin, and had a reputation for being a real goody two-shoes. This was the first time I had ever seen her drink. She was sucking on a bottle of Southern Comfort. She passed it to me. I sucked on it even harder. I was that kind of girl.
You know there’s a certain age when it’s all about alcohol, girls, and cars. Danny had an older brother who had slipped us younger kids some booze. Whiskey for the boys, gin for the girls. In those days Southern Comfort was a ladies’ poison – probably in honor of Janis Joplin, recently deceased. But there is one thing that has not changed between those ancient days and present times. Boys still nursed a drink slowly while pouring as much alcohol as possible down a girl’s throat, thereby ensuring that he would be able to stay as hard as a rock while the girl progressively shed her inhibitions and her clothes. Of course, this is the oldest trick in the book. A barrio girl who reached the age of 16 without knowing that fact of life was either slow of wit or convent-bound. Mercedes and I were neither.
That was when Chuck said, “Let’s go to the camposanto.” Danny replied by singing a few bars of the old folk song called “La Llorona.”
If you didn’t grow up around the Hispanic Southwest, you probably don’t know about the famous ghost La Llorona, the Weeping Woman. Different versions of her legend are told all the way from Central America to Texas and California. Each version is different and very local. There is always a spooky place where La Llorona is said to walk. In our town it was the old camposanto or cemetery which dated back to the ancient days of Zorro when California was still part of the Spanish Empire. It was located in a narrow oak-lined canyon just beyond the edge of town, hence suitably dark and spooky.
“Going to look for La Llorona” was traditional among us, and there were always a few people who swore on their mother’s memory that they had actually seen her. Of course the boys didn’t really believe in La Llorona. Belief was for girls. It was all about getting your girlfriend drunk as a skunk, taking her to a spooky place, scaring the daylights out of her, and then giving her plenty of “loving consolation” in the back of the car.
We knew about that trick, too. I was surprised that strait-laced Mercedes Montoya would even agree to it, but she did. As for yours truly…. Well, it wouldn’t be the first time.
So we headed down the long main street that led to the edge of town. The boys had finished perhaps a quarter of a bottle of whiskey when Chuck suggested to Danny the Booze Keeper that the girls were getting low on Southern Comfort and perhaps another bottle should be opened.
We pulled in at the local pizza parlor to grab a few slices for the twenty-minute drive into the canyon. We were standing there waiting for our order when Cherry Acosta walked up to us and asked for a ride. She had gotten into an argument with her date, who had stormed off and left her without a ride home.
Now, anyone who’s ever had a girlfriend in the back seat of a car will know that the most undesirable object you can possibly acquire is a “third wheel,” a creature without a partner. I didn’t want Cherry Acosta coming along for the ride and neither did Mercedes. But short, pudgy little Cherry was the campus tramp, notorious for her extremely short mini-skirts, and neither Chuck nor Danny could quite get away from the fact that they could see Cherry’s underwear whenever she sat down.
“Sure,” they said, “you can come with us.”
“But we’re not going anywhere near your house,” I objected. “We’re going to the camposanto to hunt for La Llorona.”
“Cool!” said Cherry.
I was surprised to hear the quiet voice of Mercedes Montoya say, “It’s okay, let her ride with us.”
I knew things were about to get weird. You can call me superstitious, but something was making my “voodoo child” sensibilities tingle as I considered the repercussions of taking the slut to the cemetery. It just seemed…way too magically provocative.
And I was right. No sooner was Cherry Acosta in the car with us than things got kinky. Mercedes, showing a whole different side of herself, kept leaning over the seat, telling Cherry she loved her like a sister while planting big, gooey, very un-sisterly kisses on Cherry’s willing mouth. My goodness, Mercedes, we never knew you had, uh…tendencies. Danny was wild-eyed and, no doubt inspired by Cherry’s blatant white triangle, kept unzipping my corduroy jeans. By that time I was so drunk that I eventually gave up trying to stop him. Chuck nearly crashed into several oak trees on the winding canyon road because he kept turning around to stare at Cherry.
Yes, the night was turning peculiar.
We parked by the side of the road and walked through the blackness toward the iron fence and gateway that surrounded the ancient camposanto. Mercedes called out, “I have to pee,” and I said “Me too.” We went behind a rock to do our business. It’s a tricky thing to pee outdoors in the California canyons. You can’t let your butt touch the ground because the whole environment is infested with poison oak, and you can’t see it in the dark. You can’t use leaves to wipe yourself, either, so you do end up a bit wet. Since I was just about to keel over on my butt from drunkenness, I had to hold onto a rock to keep myself balanced. You may wonder why I bothered. The fact is, I knew that last year at the carnival, Danny had taken Yolanda Ruiz through the Haunted House, and when she squealed with terror he jumped on her and tickled her till she wet her pants. People talked about it for weeks. He had already admitted he would love to do the same thing to me, so I figured I had better empty my bladder completely before entering the cemetery. I honestly didn’t think either Chuck or Danny was likely to make me the object of the “big scare.” They would probably rather make Cherry Acosta fall over backwards in her mini-skirt.
We entered the precincts of the old graveyard, still passing the booze around. The boys told suitably terrifying ghost stories, trying to pump us up. They kept saying, “Hey, look over here!” Then they would dash away in the dark. They were trying to get us all separated so that they could pull their scary moves on one of us. It worked, too, for I soon found myself alone in a pitch dark grove of oak trees in the oldest, creepiest part of the cemetery.
The only sound I could hear was the crackling of twigs as I walked along in the dark, holding onto the trees to feel my way. I was raging drunk, head spinning, stumbling as I walked.
I had absolutely no warning when Chuck and Danny leapt out of the darkness, screaming like wild Indians, howling like victims in a cheap horror movie. I screamed, then screamed again. I felt Danny’s arms reach out to tickle me, as I had suspected he would. I lurched backward, then fell.
But instead of landing in a clump of poison oak, I landed in chubby arms that reeked of cheap-slut perfume that refused to let go of me as Danny fell upon me, tickling me without mercy, trying to make me wet my pants like Yolanda Ruiz. Soon I did not know if I was screaming with terror or with laughter.
It didn’t matter which it was – the outcome was all the same. My body convulsed in a wild uncontrollable spasm as I felt that big soft explosion in my underwear. Before I could take a breath and try to stop myself, I had emptied two giant logs into my white nylon panties.
I fell to my knees as the other three howled with laughter. I was gasping for breath. Mercedes, wondering what the noise was all about, came stumbling up with a flashlight – just in time to point the light at my corduroys, bulging with what looked like two good-sized oranges. But by now the smell overpowered even Cherry’s cheap perfume and told everyone, in no uncertain terms, that it wasn’t a couple of oranges I was packing in my panties.
The realization of what they had made me do shocked everyone, even Cherry Acosta, into silence. I stood up, grimacing and holding my butt. No one spoke until I said, “I think I need to go home now.”
We walked back to the car, also in silence. I was waddling like a duck with my panties packed solid. I knew that many people thought that Yolanda Ruiz in the Haunted House was incredibly sexy. I knew that no one would feel the same way about me. Sensing the same thing, Mercedes Montoya gently touched my elbow and said, “Don’t worry. We won’t tell anyone.” They all nodded assent.
Now we were standing at the car. Chuck didn’t want to say anything, but he clearly didn’t want me to sit down in his car. He shuffled through the trunk until he found an old piece of canvas that his dad used when raking leaves. He folded it up.
I didn’t want to sit down. When I did, those big fat logs would squish into a total mess. But I had no choice. I sat on the folded canvas. I felt my load spread across my butt cheeks, turning into a giant mass of goo. I hung my head in abject humiliation. Everyone rolled their windows down as we drove back down the canyon.
But even then, in my moment of shame, I felt my heart pounding with a raw sexual power, as a wild unwelcome inner voice kept whispering, “Oh, oh, oh! That feels GOOD!”
If you think it couldn’t get any worse, you’re wrong. It was not yet that late at night. My parents were still awake when I stumbled in the door. I pass in silence over what that was like.
And if you think my shameful homecoming was the worst of it, think again. When I went back to school on Monday morning, I was pondering the strange feelings of eroticism and arousal that had accompanied my panty-load. I was expecting to ponder those feelings all day long. There was an exciting, breathless idea dawning within me…. Maybe I was a sex pervert!
What I did not expect was the stares of half the high school student body as I walked through the schoolyard. I heard laughter. People were pointing at me.
“Hey there, Miss Potty Pants!”
“I hear someone’s been making fudge in their undies!”
They had all said they wouldn’t tell anyone, but one of them had lied. I knew who it was.
As I walked into the hallway I stared at the floor, afraid to look at anyone. I trudged down the gauntlet of absolute shame as I heard the howls, the laughter: “Miss Potty Pants! Miss Potty Pants!” I could think only of revenge. I was going to kill her.
I spotted a big swathe of blazing white which could only be chubby Cherry Acosta’s giant undies as she bent over the drinking fountain, leaning much more than was necessary to give the boys a jaw-dropping rear uppie. I heard the hallway go silent. The boys were getting mammoth hard-ons as they prayed, “Oh Lord, let us see a girl fight! Girl fight! Girl fight!”
Sensing the silence, Cherry Acosta turned around. The Slut stared at me and I stared at the Slut.
Then I turned around and walked away from her.
Why? Because in a weird, sick, thoroughly perverted way, walking that gauntlet of shame and humiliation, the other kids howling at my sexual disgrace, had been more than just awful; it had been the most intensely erotic, most incredibly sexual moment I had ever experienced in my life.
Yes, I was a pervert! My heart leapt skyward with the exhilaration of authentic spiritual self-discovery.
I couldn’t kick Cherry Acosta’s ass because now, suddenly, we were the same.
But hey, that didn’t stop me from laughing my guts out when some disgruntled boyfriend kicked her out of the back of his van and onto the front lawn at one of our biggest high school graduation parties, driving off with her clothes in his van and leaving her sitting there in front of everyone in her panties and bra.
Instant karma’s gonna get you!
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