“Hey, Tommy, there’s a girl giving blow jobs under the bleachers… you want one?” Joe asked as we stood in our high school parking lot. His friends hovered behind him, shoving their fists into their mouths and elbowing each other waiting for my response. Joe was one of my many childhood bullies, and based upon their reactions I knew he was up to no good.
Not to mention that I was fourteen years old and I still had no idea what a blow job was. I did know that it sounded like something I’d seen on the board at the barbershop: “Wash cut and blow job.” I scratched my head, trying to figure this out. So… was Joe saying there was a girl under the bleachers with a hair dryer? Where did she have it plugged in? And why was he asking me this? Why did his friends think this was so funny? Did my hair look wet? Was somebody sneaking up behind me to dump a pail of water on my head?
I decided to bow out gracefully: “No thanks,” I told him. “I’ll just get one the next time I get a haircut.”
There was a riotous explosion of laughter. “HOLY SHIT, DID YOU HEAR WHAT HE JUST SAID!?” Joe yelled. Some of his friends were literally rolling on the ground, unable to contain their mirth. Confused, I turned and walked away, doing my best to ignore the words they were calling me.
I was pretty upset when I got home, and when my mother saw me she asked what had happened. “This guy at school told me there was a girl giving blow jobs under the bleachers and asked if I wanted one, and I didn’t know what to say!” I shared this story with her hoping she’d pick up the hint and dispel my confusion as to what a “blow job” was without me having to ask. No such luck. Her response, though?
“You should have asked them, ‘how much?'” she said.
Now I was really confused. But that was the reality of school life for me. On a daily basis the guys would approach me with a new question:
“Hey Tommy, do you like Korn?”
“Yeah, it’s okay. We have corn every night for dinner.”
“HOLY SHIT, THIS KID IS A RETARD. YO, GUYS, COME OVER HERE, YOU GOTTA HEAR THIS! Tommy, say it again. Tell them what you just told me.”
Everybody in school called me a retard for the rest of the day. Or they asked me if I wanted some corn. Or they asked me if my family was poor and whether corn was all we could afford to eat.
“Hey Tommy, are you a fudgepacker?”
“What’s a fudgepacker?
“It means you eat a lot of candy.”
I didn’t eat a lot of candy – or any candy at all – but I didn’t want them to think I was even more of a weirdo. I was desperately trying to fit in, so I told them, “Yeah, I’m a fudgepacker…”
“HOLY SHIT, DID YOU HEAR WHAT THIS KID JUST SAID!? HE’S A FAGGOT! YO – Chris! Nick! Joe! Get over here, you gotta hear what this kid said, he likes to take it up the ass! He’s fucking gay, I knew it!”
Everybody in school called me a fag for the rest of the day. Then again, they called me a fag every single day, so that wasn’t exactly anything new. But this time they peppered me with extras:
“So what does penis taste like?”
“I know this guy in my third period class you’ll like. He’s a faggot too. You can fuck each other in the ass in the locker rooms. I’ll stand guard outside the door so nobody bothers you two. Would you like that?”
“No wonder you don’t have a girlfriend.”
“When did you take it up the ass for the first time?”
“Are you really a fudgepacker?”
“Yo, we were talking about AIDS in health class today, and I thought of you.”
“You know everybody knows you’re queer now… right?”
“You’re so skinny you probably weren’t in the closet all this time, you probably hid where your mom keeps the ironing board instead.”
“Joe told me your barber blows you. Is that true?”
When I went to my last period class there was a pile of pencils on my desk: “Hey Tommy, me and some of the other guys took up a collection for you. We thought you could use these because you’re so tiny that your ass probably couldn’t take a real dick…” (In case you missed it, I was a skinny little nothing back then.)
Multiply that by twelve years and you get the idea…
I went for a haircut today to ensure that I looked fresh for the holidays and my fast-approaching birthday. I love getting a haircut – I always feel fresh and sexy afterwards. Anyway. I decided to pamper myself this time. For an additional cost, my haircut also included a hot towel face and scalp massage, and then an upper back and shoulder massage. Well worth the extra money. And I specifically went to this place because it’s men-only clientele, and the staff are all very lovely young ladies. They are very nice and friendly and talkative, but then again I’m sure they’re paid to be.
I got Kaitlyn. Very pretty blonde with a very nice ass. And normally I hate it when girls wear perfume (because they usually overdo it with shit that’s WAY too strong), but whatever she had on was very light and pleasant. and as she worked I closed my eyes and inhaled her intoxicating scent. Thankfully I was sitting down, because I was getting weak-kneed every time she ran her fingers through my hair. I silently mused about how nice it would be to have someone run her fingers on my hair on a regular basis. I’m actually considering going back there for my next hair cut just so I can experience the pleasure again, even though I never go to the same place twice.
Damn, I need to get laid.
We talked the entire time, exchanging chit-chat and pleasant conversation. I like to think she was so taken with me that that’s why she forgot to dry my hair. So when we came to the end and she asked if I’d like anything else, I said, “Yeah, can you give me a blow job?”
Whoops. My eyes bulged and I gaped at her, horror-struck. I covered my face with my hands and started laughing. “I’m sorry! Oh God… I meant can you blow dry my hair!” I babbled, pointing at my wet head. Fortunately she took it in stride and laughed too, as she realized she had forgotten all about that step. But I couldn’t recover from my embarrassment.
When we were finally finished I followed her up to the register, enjoying the view as she walked in front of me. After I paid she handed me a business card, and for one wild second I thought she was giving me her number. My heart hammered in my chest as I took it from her. Was she actually thinking of…? No. It was just one of those get-five-cuts-get-the-sixth-one-free punch cards. Oh well.
I really need to get laid though.