Happy Freak

Millie Martin

Happy Freak

an Erotobiography

Millie Martin

The following story is based on actual events. The names of people and places have been changed, however, for privacy’s sake, except for certain song titles, books, movies, celebrities, brand names, and major cities which are considered common public knowledge.

This story contains graphic descriptions of alcohol and drug use, sex, violence, and sexual abuse. Reader discretion is advised.

millie.k.simon@gmail.com

For all my fellow freaks

You know who you are
even if nobody else does

Table of Contents

ACT I

Hello

Exposure

Growing

Learning

Corruption

Awakening

Sealed

Starlight

ACT II

Broken

Deal

Toy

Practice

Guru

Reward

Stranger

Cheer

Damned

Tangent

Theatrics

Beans

Party

Sharing

Glory

Ghost

ACT III

Visitors

Identity

Dagger

Sideways

Soup

Results

Nuts

Committed

Surprise

Goodbye

Afterword

ACT I

How it all began

Chapter 1

Hello

I’m not Millie Martin, and this is my full sexual history. As much of it as I can remember anyway.

I’m in the hospital for being a slut, basically. Normally, that’s not a bad thing, boinking a lot of dudes, but when it gets to the point of ruining people’s lives, and you’re only a teenager, they send you to get help.

My therapist, Dr. Wanda, told me I should write it out and look for patterns in the narrative. She’s all about patterns, that woman. Behavioral patterns. Triggers. Feedback loops. She keeps going on and on about how I’m not seeing what’s right in front of me, and all I do is dodge and deflect. If you ask me, I think she’s just a frigid old cunt who just hates the idea that somebody might actually enjoy getting laid.

But anyway, here I am, writing it out. I’m not sure if I’ll find any patterns, or if it will fix whatever’s wrong with me. But it might be funny to remember old times.

This is supposed to be just for me. Dr. Wanda said to write it out in pencil and then burn it after. But fuck that! I’d never get it done. I’m pretty sure she thought I was just going to list off all the dudes who banged me, and maybe where and how it happened, not tell my whole goddamn life story. But how am I supposed to look for patterns in a list of names?

I have to type it out. All of it.

So, they got me a laptop. No internet unfortunately. They don’t even give me a power cord in this crazyhouse, because they think I’ll try to hang myself with it, or maybe garrote some annoying bitch who looked at me funny in the lunch room. So, I write for a couple hours a day until the battery is dead. Then they recharge it for me overnight and I continue the next day. It’s fine. I like writing. I’m a pretty good typist, too. I can get thirty pages a day done sometimes.

Dr. Wanda and I started out just talking about it for hours on end, but apparently, I have a bad habit of going into way too much “intimate detail” as she calls it. She kept telling me she didn’t need to hear about every little thrust and throb and tickle and spurt in the story, and to please just stick to the facts. How did I feel? What were my thoughts? I told her I was mostly thinking about how good it feels to get rightly and rigorously plowed by a big fat cock. She didn’t like that. She accused me of deflecting to avoid actually dealing with my issues. Maybe she thinks none of my stories are actually true, and I’m just making it all up, just for attention.

I wish.

“What?” I told her. “You don’t think it’s just fucking gorgeous, getting your pussy royally reamed out by a monster dick?”

She decided to cancel our in-person sessions after that. “If you can’t take your own recovery seriously, then I guess you’ll just be stuck here forever.” Honestly, I was probably creeping her out on purpose, just because I didn’t actually want to talk about all my emotional shit. Maybe she’s right.

There you go. Second page, and I already had a small breakthrough. Wee…

Anyway, she did agree I could have a laptop to type everything out. So here I am, writing it out instead. And since she assured me she has no intentions of reading any of it, I’m going to tell you absolutely everything. Even some of the intimate details I didn’t mention to her. There’s a way you can put a password on the file, so I did that. They can see the file size going up every day, so they know I’m actually writing. They just don’t know what. They probably don’t even care. But sitting in my room, writing, keeps me out of the annoying craft time they do here every day. They figure I’m being creative anyway, so I don’t have to sit around, fingerpainting and listening to people babbling away, or breaking down crying every ten minutes.

But if you’re reading this, it means somebody cracked the file somehow and you’re about to get a really massive eyeful. I don’t give a shit. Everything in this story is true. I just used fake names. Dr. Wanda isn’t even Dr. Wanda for example. She has a much dorkier name in real life.

Trouble is, I’ve read thousands of porn stories in my short life. Yes, I still read, even in the age of free internet porn for all. It’s kind of like an addiction for me. Video just doesn’t get into the level of detail I need to get off. My imagination is much more intense. Point being, when I talk about the experiences I’ve had, I tend to go into intimate details, enough to bother a professional head-shrinker anyway. If you ask me, I think she’s just a prude. It’s my story. Shouldn’t I be able to tell it however I want?

It’s gonna be porn, basically. Nasty, slutty, heavily-detailed, explicit, hardcore porn. I mean, I like to think my writing isn’t trashy. I can be quite poetic at times. And this word processor has a pretty good thesaurus feature built-in, so hopefully I won’t be repeating myself too much.

But you should know what you’re getting into. It probably wouldn’t be so intense if I was writing all this at home, getting laid regularly. But locked up in this place, without any hot guys to even look at, never mind fuck, I’ve been desperately, frantically, hopelessly, psychotically horny, and you’re probably going to bear the brunt of all that repressed sexual energy. Then of course, the dirtier the writing gets, the hornier my mind gets. It’s quite the feedback loop. This will all be just masturbation for my brain, since I can’t get away with much actual diddling with the constant supervision around here. Point being, it’s gonna be fucking nuts. In a good way, though, hopefully. Maybe.

Anyway, if you’re not okay with that kind of shit, stop now. You’ve been warned.

And obviously, if I’m writing this from a crazyhouse, you know shit went sideways on me at one point. A lot of this story may seem happy and romantic, sexy and fun, but it does get pretty ugly eventually. It’s not all sunshine and roses and exhaustively expounded ejaculations. Just warning you in advance. This story, like life itself, will sometimes be beautiful, and sometimes tough, for some. It gets pretty fucked up is what I’m saying. Proceed with caution.

And as you’ve probably already figured out, there will be a lot of foul language. If you find that offensive, fuck off.

Otherwise, enjoy.

🙠 ♥ 🙢

Okay, so first of all, what do I look like? I hate when you get like a hundred pages into a story, and suddenly the writer mentions that the girl you’ve been picturing as a brunette the whole time actually has red hair or some shit. So, to avoid that whole mess, I’ll just tell you what I look like straight up: I’m your stereotypical blue-eyed blonde, with hair down to my waist, big fat jiggly tits, a big round bouncy booty, and a pretty little baby face that makes me look like I’m thirteen or some shit. My lips are pouty and puffy, like they were made by God himself for the purpose of kissing. Girls often tell me it’s not fucking fair how amazing my lips are.

I’m like 5'5” and weigh 125 pounds. 34D-24-36. Yada, yada, yada. Blah, blah, blah. Some people say I’m damn near perfect, a Barbie doll come to life. If you need a celebrity reference, my mom says I look like Drew Barrymore when she was younger, except with bigger boobs and longer hair. Seen that movie Poison Ivy? She made me watch that one and kept screaming, “See? See!? She could be your twin!” I disagree. I’m much hotter than that.

I’m also told I look like this pornstar named Gabbie Carter. But I couldn’t tell mom that.

I’m eighteen now. Most of this stuff took place over the past couple years, when I was sixteen and seventeen. It seems young to be having such adventures, but as you’ll find out, I was an early bloomer, and I could have passed for a full-grown woman even back then, from the neck down, anyway. And boys are more than happy to mess around with you when you look (and act) like a pornstar, no matter how young you are.

Yeah, I know all this sounds like bragging, but as I said earlier, I don’t give a shit if you believe me, or what you think about any of this. You’re not supposed to be reading it anyway. Suffice it to say, my supposedly unbelievable hotness has caused more problems than it’s solved. Being hot in this world is supposed to be some sort of cheat code to an easy life. It’s not. Maybe it would be, but I’m not one of those bitches who struts around thinking they’re better than everybody, using and manipulating people to get their own way. I can’t stand those insufferable cunts. I’m actually pretty shy, and painfully self-conscious. I spend most of my time secretly reading porn, and thinking dirty thoughts, and hoping nobody knows what the fuck’s really going on in my pretty little head at any given time. That would be fucked up.

But I guess after you read all this, you’ll know everything, except my real name.

🙠 ♥ 🙢

I was born on October 21, just after six a.m. You’ll have to do some math for the year. I won’t mention it here. That could give a lot away. Not sure if it really matters, anyway. But there’s a girl in the psyche ward with me who’s obsessed with everyone’s horoscope. She figures somebody on the Libra/Scorpio cusp would have the exact sort of problems I’ve had, with boys, and sex, and shit. I’m not sure if I believe any of that stuff. I don’t even understand it. But when she described my personality, sociable and friendly, but with deep dark secrets, well… bingo. Of course, she’s in the nuthouse, too, so I take anything she says with a grain of salt.

I was raised by a single mother. We’ll call her Janice. She’s a nurse. She works all hours of the day and night, on whatever shifts they put her on from week to week. So mostly I was raised by babysitters. Her pay is good, though, and grandma Terry, my dad’s mom, sends us money on her son’s behalf now and then. So, we have a pretty nice house in an upper-middleclass neighborhood.

Nearly everybody at my school is spoiled rich kids, though. They seem to think they’re God’s gift to planet earth. That’s probably why I’m so self-conscious. Me and my single mom, barely scraping by, never having enough money for the cool gadgets and fashion trends. I don’t even own a cellphone.

I have no real memory of my dad. He left when I was around three. I just have a vague memory of being thrown high in the air, squealing excitedly as I flew for a moment, and then falling, being caught, and then tickled all over my tummy. Then I would bonk him on the head with an imaginary club, and he’d fall down, as though dead. Then I would creep up and kiss him on the cheek, and he would suddenly jump up again and chase me around the yard. When he caught me, he’d throw me in the air again, and the whole cycle would repeat. We called it the Tickle Monster game. It even had its own theme song.

There was also a song he used to sing to me at bedtime. Don’t remember what it’s called or who it’s by, though. I don’t even think I ever heard the original version of it, just the lullaby rendition he would sing, when I called for “The sleepy song, daddy! The sleepy song!” I remember feeling so beautifully safe, and loved, and cherished when he knelt by my bedside and sang it to me as I drifted off to sleep.

Then one day there was a huge screaming fight, so loud I hid under my bed. The next morning, daddy was just gone. Janice was very sad and angry for a very long time.

Dr. Wanda seems to think that’s important. I saw her write “Absentee paternal figure. Possible Electra Complex???” in her notes at one point, and she underlined it twice. I asked her what an Electra Complex is. I guess she figures I have “daddy issues” or something. From what I understand, that’s talking about those seriously freaky bitches who secretly want to fuck their own fathers. That’s definitely not me. I don’t even remember what my dad looks like. Mom threw out all the pictures of him.

I asked Dr. Wanda what happens when you have an absentee maternal figure, like when your mom is working twenty-four hours a day and you pretty much have to raise yourself.

She told me that usually leads to attachment disorders, and she wrote that down, too.

Anyway, point being, I was a very lonely kid.

Chapter 2

Exposure

I saw my Uncle Johnny taking a piss behind the garage when I was little. It shouldn’t even really count as a sexual experience, but if I’m gonna tell you the whole story, that was the first time I saw a dick. I was probably seven or eight, I guess.

I was just playing by myself at a family gathering, and that’s where I crept to hide my magic sandwich from a ghost I’d dreamed up. There was a gap between the garage and the fence, big enough to walk through, so I ducked in there. And there was my uncle, pissing away in what looked like a drunken stupor. He didn’t even notice I was there for like thirty seconds. He was just groaning softly, eyes closed, relieving himself against the fence. I guess somebody was in the bathroom and he really needed to go.

I just stared in shock. I’d only ever seen my mom’s privates, and other ladies in the changing room at the pool. And my own, of course. But here, there was this person right in front of me, and he had what looked like a little armless man wearing a purple Darth Vader helmet growing out of the front of his body. Beneath that was a peachy, velvety sack that looked like he was hiding two plums in it. And the whole mess was covered with an ugly mat of hair that looked like a black loofah sponge. I didn’t get a super detailed look, but I was close enough to smell the piss, and the booze on his breath. And then he started shaking it.

“Something’s wrong with your vagina!” I told him, pointing.

He jumped and twisted his body away. “Holy shit!” he says, scrambling to zip himself up.

I ran away to find somewhere else to play.

All he said about it, laughing to my mom after, was that “little Millie got an eyeful”. I had no idea what that meant. I assumed it was something similar to “awful”, which was confusing. It wasn’t awful at all. It was just… weird.

Later, mom had to explain that boys didn’t have vaginas. They had something... different. But she wouldn’t give any details beyond that. So I had more questions than answers.

Mostly, I remember that story because Uncle Johnny brings it up every time I see him, like it’s an inside joke or something. “My vagina is all better now, Millie! Don’t you worry! Ha ha ha!”

What a weirdo.

🙠 ♥ 🙢

The first time I saw actual real live sex was when I was around eight or nine. Of course, at the time, I had absolutely no idea what was happening. I knew boys pee differently. That was the sum total of all my knowledge about dicks.

I used to have this babysitter named Jenny. She was a teenager, and I thought she was unquestionably the coolest person on the planet. She was pretty, with long blonde hair, blue eyes, and big boobs. She was basically a walking Barbie doll to my young eyes. She was also giggly and girly and so much fun. Not very smart though. Of course, I was a kid at the time, so I had no idea.

I followed her everywhere. I copied everything she did. When she arrived, I ran upstairs to change my clothes into whatever she was wearing, or the closest version of her outfit I could put together. Basically, she didn’t have a minute’s privacy when she was over. She didn’t seem to mind at all when it was just me and her. I was like a little sister to her, I guess.

Then one night, after mom left, a boy came over. Jenny introduced him as Tommy, her “friend”. Tommy was tall and muscular-looking. At first I thought, yay! Another friend to play with! But he apparently wasn’t the slightest bit interested in anything I wanted to do. He was entirely fixated on Jenny and barely even noticed I was there. And even in my innocent little mind, I could tell she was just as fixated on him. I’d never seen a girl flirt with a guy before, but I could tell from a mile away she wanted him. I just had no idea what she wanted.

He sure seemed to like looking at her boobs, though! I had no idea why, or why he always looked away all embarrassed when I caught him staring.

“Why you keep looking at her boobies, Tommy?” I asked. I jumped on her lap and blocked his view, like I had to defend her from being robbed or something.

They both gasped. Jenny blushed. She was mad at me instead of him. “Millie! That’s very rude!”

I gasped now. “I’m not the one who did it! He did!”

“I bought her that shirt,” Tommy says. “It’s really pretty. Don’t you think?”

Anyway, a while later, they kept trying to sneak off into different rooms without me. First they turned on the TV for me, and snuck off into the kitchen, but I followed and caught them cuddling up against the sink. Then they set up a couch fort for me to play in, and snuck off upstairs. I followed Jenny up there after only thirty seconds, too.

They tried to lock themselves in the bathroom at one point, but I knew how to take the ink tube out of a ballpoint pen and pop the lock open. They were kissing, and pretty hot and heavy, too. I could literally see their tongues going at it. I just stared in shock for a few moments. But when Tommy reached up to fondle her boobs, I gasped out loud. “You leave her boobies alone! You’re not allowed to touch her special area!”

They jumped away from each other, looking all guilty and flushed with excitement. And then, for some strange reason, they got really mad at me.

“Millie!” Jenny said with another gasp. “You’re not supposed to barge in on somebody in a locked bathroom!”

“I knew you weren’t doin’ nothing private! Tommy’s in here with you!”

Tommy just muttered something about a “cock-blocking little brat”. I had no idea what that meant, of course.

I stomped off in a huff, annoyed at getting yelled at just for trying to stay near them. I told Jenny I would tell mom not to allow her to have any boys over anymore because it’s no fun. Then she got all scared and begged me not to tell my mom. I said I wouldn’t if she played with me, too.

She did. But it only lasted about six minutes. Then she tried to take some laundry from the bathroom down into the basement. She told me to wait upstairs because it was too scary down there. But less than a minute later, I was sitting at the top of the stairs watching them. She was bent over, putting towels into the wash. Tommy had flipped her skirt up and was getting very friendly with her backside, rubbing his pants against her as he held her hips.

“Stop it!” Jenny giggled. “I’m tryna put the laundry in!”

“Maybe you should let me put it in,” Tommy replied. But instead of helping her with the clothes, he reached down and started massaging her butt. Jenny gasped, but then looked sorta scared and kinda tired for some reason. Her eyes went all half-shut, and she started breathing very deeply. She just grabbed the sides of the washing machine and started trembling really hard.

“Damn, are you ever wet,” he says, which I thought was weird since she hadn’t even started the washer yet. “Can I put it in? Just for a few moments? Just the tip, maybe...” I assumed he was talking about the laundry, of course. But why would you put clothes in the washer for only a few moments?

What a weirdo.

She did not say no. So then he reached down to unbutton his pants for some reason. I guess he was going to throw those in the wash, too.

But of course I piped up again, scaring the shit out of them. “Why you doing that to her bum, Tommy?”

They both jumped again. Tommy twisted away. He actually looked mad at first, but he quickly calmed down.

“There was a big scary spider on her! I was trying to squish it! You better get upstairs!”

“Phooey! I’m not afraid of spiders! Mom says they eat the bugs that pester us. They’re our friends! Don’t you dare squish ‘em!”

A few minutes after that, Tommy proposed a game of hide n’ seek. I was delighted at the idea, and I immediately declared that Jenny and I would be on the same team. But Tommy insisted that’s not fair, since we knew the whole house and where all the good hiding spots were. So it was decided there would be no teams, and Tommy would be the first one who was it. Tommy leaned against the door frame of the living room and began counting. Jenny whispered something in his ear.

“Hey! No telling secrets!” I said.

“I told him no cheating!” Jenny said with a giggle. “Now get going!”

I ran and hid in the kitchen, in the cupboard under the sink. I sat there for five minutes, thinking I had the best hiding spot in the history of the game. But by the time ten minutes passed, I worried they’d gone right out the front door to go looking for me around the neighborhood. So I climbed out of the cupboard and went to the door. It was still locked.

That’s when I heard a soft moan from upstairs. And then a girly little giggle. I tiptoed up, and peeked into my mom’s room where I heard soft breathing. There I saw Tommy on mom’s bed with a blanket over him, up to his chin. There was a weird hump between his legs, and something was moving down by his stomach, going up and down. He was staring up at the ceiling. His face looked dizzy and happy, and also sorta scared, and sorta tired, the same way Jenny’s had down by the washing machine. He also looked kind of amazed. I wasn’t sure why. Then he just closed his eyes and laughed happily.

“Ahhh-ha-ha, baby! That’s so nice,” he murmurs. “What the hell are you doing with your tongue? That feels so pretty...”

So it was Jenny under the blanket! That made me incredibly angry for some reason. They were supposed to be looking for me, and here they were fooling around in mom’s bed!

“You’re supposed to be looking for me! What’re ya doing takin’ a nap?”

Boy, did they jump! The up and down motion ceased. Tommy looked terrified, like he’d been caught in the act of murder or something. He didn’t reply. Then suddenly he looked furious. He actually looked like he was ready to scream at me, but he held back.

“I still haven’t found Jenny,” he stammered out. “Have you seen her?”

“She’s right there, hiding under the blanket, stupid!” I honestly believed he didn’t know that, and was the dumbest person on the planet. I walked up and tugged the blanket up at the foot of the bed. Sure enough, there was Jenny. Her feet and butt, anyway. She jumped and slid up quickly to lie beside Tommy. She giggled nervously. She wiped something from her chin.

“We were both hiding here!” she says. “Waiting for you to come find us!”

“But you’re the one who was it! And anyway, we said no teams! You can’t both hide in the same place!”

“Oh, yeah!” Jenny said. “We forgot. Sorry.”

Tommy let out a frustrated groan and told me to go hide again. “This time I’ll find you for real.”

“I don’t want to play this game anymore!” I grumbled. “You guys are cheaters!” I stomped off and went downstairs to pout in the couch fort. They didn’t follow.

A few minutes later, I went back upstairs to see what was going on, why they hadn’t followed me.

I crept down the hall and heard them before I saw them. They were both breathing pretty hard for people who were just lying there resting. Jenny almost sounded like she’d run up ten flights of stairs, and was crying softly for some reason. Jenny kept saying, “Ouch! Easy!” And “Hey! Be gentle, please!” Tommy was just moaning softly, and giggling this creepy little laugh. I peeked around the corner when I got to the doorway. They hadn’t even gotten up to shut the door.

They were still in mom’s bed, still covered up to their shoulders, but now Tommy was behind Jenny, sort of hugging her and slowly moving back and forth beneath the covers. They were all shaky. Jenny kept twitching and flinching, complaining each time he moved too fast or too hard behind her.

He was apparently hurting her. I once again stepped up in her defense. I stood in the doorway, hands on my hips and cleared my throat like a teacher who’d caught a couple kids sneaking candy into class.

They looked up and saw me there, but made no move to separate themselves from whatever surreptitious activity they’d been engaged in. They just froze in their motion beneath the covers.

“Oh! Hi, Millie!” Jenny said with an extremely nervous and strained giggle. Her voice sounded breathless, almost terrified, like she was sort of glad I’d come along somehow. “Tommy! Millie is back.”

“Hi, Millie,” Tommy said. And there was one more back and forth motion that made Jenny gasp, and slap at him beneath the covers.

“What’re ya guys doin’?” I asked, completely oblivious, but incredibly suspicious.

“Jenny has a leg cramp,” Tommy says. “I was just massaging it for her. See?” And there was more back and forth motion that made Jenny gasp and shiver all over.

“Yes!” Jenny says. “A leg cramp. Ow! Such a big leg cramp, too!”

That actually made sense to my innocent little mind. That explained why she’d seemed to be in so much pain, anyway.

“Can I help?” I said, stepping forward.

“No!” they said together.

“Why not?” I asked. “I know how to rub out knots. Mom taught me. Sometimes she has a really sore neck at the end of a long shift at work and I-”

“That’s okay!” Jenny said. “Tommy’s doing just fine…” She trailed off as the motion behind her increased a little in intensity. “You should just... Owie! ...go play downstairs, Millie. We’ll be right… Uh! … right down…”

“Is it really sore?” I asked. “Let me see!”

“No!” Jenny said.

“Why not?” I asked again.

“Yes,” Jenny said. “Why not, Tommy?”

“Because I had to… ummm… take her panties down to massage her right. It’s very delicate.”

“You’re massaging her butt?” I asked, my brow furrowing curiously. “Is that what you were doing to her down by the washing machine?”

“Yes!” Jenny says. “I didn’t want to say that. It’s kind of embarrassing. But I slipped and fell on my butt. He’s making it… all better…”

“Ew! Boy cooties!” I declared, covering my eyes.

“Just go downstairs, Millie!” Tommy says, impatient now. “We’ll be down in a few minutes.”

Instead of leaving, I sat down on the floor across the hall and watched. I had to make sure Jenny was okay. I crossed my arms over my knees and rested my chin on them. I’m pretty sure they assumed I’d left at that point, because they just resumed their motions all of a sudden. Tommy started going really fast and hard. Jenny gasped, and suddenly got really excited. She started breathing really deeply, telling him, “Don’t! Wait! Stop! No! Oh, God! Ow! Easy!”

Wow. That must have been one heck of a leg cramp.

“Just lemmie fuckin’ finish!” Tommy said, sounding angry for some reason. I was about to speak up on her behalf once again, but she didn’t complain any further.

“Okay,” she says. “But please be gentle. You’re gonna make me scream, and that will scare Millie!”

“So scream,” he says. “I don’t give a shit anymore.”

She didn’t scream. She just buried her face in mom’s pillow and quietly squeaked and grunted while he roughed her up from behind.

About a minute later, Tommy suddenly seized up, tensed all over and let out a long, shuddering groan. Jenny just panted breathlessly, “Oh, God… Oh, God… Not in me!”

“You safe?” Tommy says.

“Not really...” Jenny says.

“Whoops,” Tommy replies.

I had no idea what that meant. They weren’t even playing the game anymore. Why was he worried about whether she was safe? Weirdo.

Then they just lay there, lost in a daze for a minute.

“Uhhh, fuck! That was nice...” Tommy told her. “So tight. So slippery. Wow...”

Tight? Her leg cramp? Shouldn’t that be a bad thing? And why was it slippery? Did he use lotion? I was so confused.

She giggled in reply. “Glad you enjoyed it. It was pretty ouchie for me, big boy.”

“Ah, you loved it,” he muttered. She giggled, apparently agreeing, or at least wanting to seem like she agreed.

They made some weird adjustments under the covers, which I assumed was him helping her get her underwear back up. But they both made those motions, like they were both pulling their pants up. Strange. Then they flung the covers off, got up on shaky legs, with flushed faces and trembling hands, and Jenny quickly remade the bed, while Tommy grinned at himself in the mirror.

The whole room smelled like dirty panties. Even in my complete innocence, I somehow knew they were lying about that leg cramp. They’d actually done something very bad. I could see it on Jenny’s face. She looked so worried. The grin on Tommy’s face was actually scary to me now. I was worried he might hurt me, too. He seemed to like hurting girls.

And everything was suddenly so awkward between them after that. I had no idea why. But they weren’t talking to each other, and he wasn’t grabbing her boobs or butt anymore. They weren’t kissing with tongues all over the place. Jenny just made the bed, and Tommy just stared off into space, grinning.

“You fixed her cramp?” I said suddenly from the shadows in the hallway.

Jenny screamed. Even Tommy jumped. Apparently I’d scared the shit out of them. But then they immediately switched to playing innocent again.

“Did I ever!” Tommy said with a grin.

“I don’t get why you were moaning and groaning when she was the one who was sore!”

“It’s hard work,” he said. “Massaging a girl’s… cramps.”

Then Jenny went off into the bathroom, kind of wiggling weirdly as she went. Her butt was still sore, I thought. Tommy just stared off into space with a dopey grin, muttering about “a nice piece of pussy”. For some reason, I thought he was talking about a jigsaw puzzle. I had a jigsaw puzzle of a kitty once, but I lost one of the pieces.

But I wasn’t going to ask him about it. I just stared at him. I had no idea what he’d done to Jenny, but I knew he’d hurt her. She was walking funny on her way to the bathroom. And his grin, now that it was over, looked so mischievous, like a guy who’d just pulled a prank on somebody and gotten away with it.

They were even more awkward for the next few minutes, standing at the door, making random small talk. Finally, Tommy just said goodbye.

“You’re not staying?” Jenny asked. “You can hang out a bit longer. Millie’s mom won’t be home until ten. Millie will be going to bed soon, and-”

“Nah. I got what I came for. Thanks, baby,” he says. And the fucking guy actually patted her on the head.

Jenny was too stunned to reply. She just stared at him like she’d been slapped. He just walked out without even saying goodbye.

I asked her what was wrong. “Why didn’t he kiss you goodbye, Jenny? He’s your boyfriend, isn’t he?”

“He’s not my boyfriend,” she said. “I wanted him to be, but that’s not going to happen now. Stupid me.”

“I don’t understand,” I said. “You’re so pretty!”

“If only that was enough.”

“He must really like you if he took such good care of your leg cramp.”

That just made her look sadder. “You’ll understand when you’re older,” she told me, tousling my hair. “Nobody wants to buy a cow when you give away the milk for free. Stupid me… Come on. Let’s go throw those towels in the dryer.”

I didn’t understand what any of that meant. It was like she was talking another language. Was she calling Tommy a cow? What did milk have to do with him being her boyfriend? I had no idea. But I did know that milk comes out of boobies when a mommy has a baby, so maybe she was the cow. Maybe that’s why he kept looking at her boobies. But why would she say that? She wasn’t pregnant. The puzzle was still missing many pieces.

Because I had no idea what was going on, I went and told mom all about how Tommy had come over, and how he’d massaged Jenny’s butt under the blankets on her bed, because apparently Jenny fell and hurt herself. Except, he wasn’t using his hands, because his hands were on her shoulders. And then I asked what it meant when a boy won’t buy a cow because he gets the milk for free, because that’s what Jenny said, after Tommy left.

Instead of answering my questions, she started asking me fifty other questions. What happened? How were they lying? What did I see? Where was I sitting when it happened? Did any of them touch me at any point? We went over it at least twenty times. This is how I remember so many details, honestly. I answered as best as I was able, emphasizing as much as I could that Tommy was a big jerk and he was very mean to poor old Jenny. I even hopped on the bed and showed her the thrusting motions Tommy was making behind her, and I copied Jenny’s moaning and heavy breathing, too. But she immediately stopped me, completely horror stricken. I was so confused.

Mostly I wanted to know what the hell had happened. It was just a leg massage!

Mom looked quietly furious. “It’s nothing a little girl needs to concern herself with,” she said. And then she muttered to herself, “That goddamn fucking little slut!” It was the first time I’d ever heard mom swear like that. I was about to ask if she was mad at Jenny, and why, but she shushed me.

She dialed the phone and I heard her yelling at somebody. I heard her say many more swear words. Specifically, the thing that bothered her most was how Jenny was apparently “...fucking her skuzzy boyfriend in my bed! In front of a child!” Then she hung up and said about twenty more swear words to herself. After that, she pulled all her sheets off of her bed. She was still muttering about horses as she threw everything into the wash.

“Mommy, Jenny didn’t call herself a horse. She called herself a cow.”

“I didn’t say horse. I said whores!” She banged the lid of the washer down.

“What’s a whores?” I asked.

“It’s a girl who sleeps around with anyone who damn well asks! Now get to bed!”

“They weren’t sleeping, mama. He was massaging her bum.”

She scowled at me, and I realized that I was the one who was confused, not her. And it all came down to this big mystery word, “fucking”. I’d seen it written on bathroom walls and park benches. I knew it was a swear word you were absolutely not supposed to say, ever. But I had no idea what it had to do with Jenny and Tommy’s butt massage. It was a mystery I had to wait years to find out.

I never saw Jenny again. I got some new babysitter after that. Some grouchy old bitch named Myrtle or something. She was like forty-nine thousand years old, and she was fat as a whale. The couch almost broke when she sat on it. And she never played with me. All she did was watch TV and shovel junk food into her face. She made me sit right in front of her at all times. I wasn’t even allowed to go to the bathroom until a commercial came on during whatever stupid show she was watching. If I tried to sneak away, she would yell at me and soggy potato chip crumbs would come spitting out of her mouth. It makes me want to vomit just thinking about it. To this day I have a revulsion for junk food. I never touch the stuff. It grosses me out.

But with Jenny gone, I was a terribly lonely kid again. I used to write letters to her and ask mom where she lives so I could sneak them into her mailbox. Mom told me not to even mention that little whore’s name in her house. But Jenny had been my only friend, for years. And then, just like daddy, she was gone. And it seemed to be my mom’s fault again.

Years later, as we learned about the birds and bees in health class at school, I thought back about Jenny and Tommy in mom’s bed that one day.

I raised my hand. “Does the boy have to be on top? Can people have sex with the guy behind the girl, like... lying on their sides?”

The class laughed. The teacher looked at me funny, apparently concerned about the very specific and detailed question.

“People can have sex in all kinds of ways,” she told us. “But we’ll get to that later.”

I realized the whole truth and my jaw dropped. Tommy had literally fucked Jenny right in front of me! Everything suddenly made complete sense.

“Holy shit!” I said aloud. The class laughed again. The teacher asked if something was wrong. I said no, I was just thinking about a TV show I saw once with a couple in bed. The guy was behind her, and moving back and forth and stuff, and... well, you know. They were doing it, right on TV!

She explained that people on TV and movies are just actors and they’re not really doing anything. That’s why they’re usually covered up, so you can’t see that they actually still have their pants on under there.

I knew that. But I didn’t want to have to explain about Jenny and Tommy. Mom had told me never to tell anybody about that. I’m not sure why. It was Jenny and Tommy who’d gotten in trouble, not us.

Nevertheless, I just sat there through the rest of that class in a daze. The teacher went back to her detailed descriptions of penetration, stimulation, excitation, ejaculation, and impregnation. But I sat there for a good ten minutes thinking back on how that poor girl had apparently gotten used and tossed away, and she’d gotten fired from her job, too. Maybe she’d even gotten herself knocked up. Who knows?

I sure hope she’d eventually found love.

🙠 ♥ 🙢

It was around that time, after Jenny vanished from my life and I was stuck with Myrtle the Morbidly Obese Moose, my mom decided to put me in ballet. Because, she said, I had so much energy I was bouncing off the goddamn walls. I might as well do something constructive with it. That lasted all of about six weeks, though. The instructor was a crotchety old crone of about ninety. She looked like she would snap in half if she tried any of the stuff she was making us kids do. I got yelled at a lot, for day-dreaming. Finally, I told my mom I didn’t want to go anymore.

So then I was put into gymnastics. It was pretty much the same thing, except here the instructor was too friendly. She was always putting her hand on the girls butts and boobs and such. Then one day we went down there and the club was closed down. Some other mother told us the instructor was in jail for fingering one of the little girls. I had no idea what fingering meant, but that was the end of my gymnastics lessons.

Then mom put me in Kung Fu. I actually had fun at that, and kept up the lessons for over a year and a half. I made it all the way up to an orange belt, which is level three, and was ready to go for green. But the better I got at it, the more intense the training was, and mom didn’t like how bruised up I was getting every week, sparring and tumbling with the boys. She said somebody would think she was abusing me or something. I complained that I loved it and had friends there. But I was unceremoniously yanked from the lessons, without even so much as an apology.

Long story short, the main thing I learned from these various after-school activities was how to stretch. The ballet and gymnastics lessons always began with half an hour of stretching. The kung-fu classes had us doing work-outs to warm up. Push-ups, sit-ups, leg scissors, cardio routines. And though I never stuck with any of these activities long term, I did make those work-outs a habit. I definitely did not want to wind up looking like Myrtle! So every day after school, I’d stretch while watching TV. I’d sit on the floor with my legs 180 degrees apart, and just rock back and forth. Or I’d kick my foot up against the top of the door frame and just lean into it. I can actually put my damn feet behind my head like a rubber bunny.

I’m sure I don’t have to tell you how all that flexibility came in handy later on, when it came to messing around with boys.

I also did the push-ups, sit-ups, and cardio stuff, too, because I wanted to have a top-notch, super fit, killer body. There was a show I used to watch every day after school called “Master Shen’s Shaolin Show”, where they walked you through exercises and self-defense techniques for beginners. Mom took me out of the lessons, but I kept it up in secret. I used to tie a pillow up to the top of the door frame and use it as a punching bag, for the high-kicks and shit. I once flipped my mattress up against my bedroom wall to practice on that, but when a bunch of mom’s pictures fell off her bedroom wall, I decided to dial it down a bit. Whoops!

The show eventually went off the air. It was just a low-budget, public access thing. But I pretty much had it all memorized by then.

Of course, I never showed off any of the stuff I knew. People already thought I was a weirdo. I never even told anybody I was a green-belt. But the work-outs did the trick aesthetically. My body stayed toned, fit, and shapely. The boys loved that, too.

🙠 ♥ 🙢

Then there was Clark Miller, a boy from a couple of doors down. Clark is a skinny, lanky, awkward sort of boy. He’s quiet and shy. He has black hair and pale blue eyes that always look like he’s just about to break out crying. He’s not ugly or anything, but he’s not exactly stylish. He wears glasses, but they don’t make him look goofy or anything. He just looks like he reads a lot.

But the damn kid wears suspenders for fuck sakes, with vertical pinstripe shirts! He looks like he’s dressed up as a 1930s mobster every day of the year. He’s always walking around with his hands in his pockets, staring off into space, looking brooding and gloomy. And he has this really dorky slicked back, side-parted hair-do, too, that looks like it wasn’t even cool back in the 30s. The only thing he’s missing is a Tommy gun, a fedora, and a cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth.

The best thing you can say about Clark Miller is that he’s consistent. He’s had that same stupid hair-do and clothing style since first grade. But he’s always meticulously clean and impeccably groomed, so he’s not smelly or anything. And when all the other kids started getting pimples, he was as clear and spotless as a preacher’s sheets, though probably just as pasty. Girls used to ask him what his secret was, and he just answered, “Soap.”

We became friends over the years because we walk home from school the same way. Sometimes when we were bored, we’d play at each other’s houses. We didn’t talk much at school, though. Clark didn’t really talk to anybody at school. Pretty sure he was not allowed to or something.

His mom is kind of a psycho. It took two years of friendship before she would even let me play with Clark inside their house. The thing that finally convinced her was me telling her beyond a shadow of a doubt that I had absolutely no romantic interest in her precious baby boy whatsoever. We were eight at the time. I had no romantic interest in anybody, least of all a kid that looked like a miniature Depression-era mobster. I guess she figured he was too good for me or something.

You see, ever since he was old enough to talk, his mother had convinced him that he was going to be a doctor when he grew up, just like his father. She was some sort of janitor or something, which made her condescension a little much. But Clark was obsessed with the idea. His bedroom was shelved full of anatomy books, university textbooks, and such like. There wasn’t a single comic or story book to be seen. Nothing but medical encyclopedias and various Journals of Internal Medicine and such from around the world, which he read religiously when they arrived in his mailbox.

Anyway, this notion was probably why I faced so much scrutiny over whether I was even allowed to play with the boy. Absolutely nothing was to distract Clark from his studies.

The kid was only eight, at the time, though. Jesus Christ.

On the bright side, if I ever skinned my knee falling off my bike or climbing a tree or whatever, Clark was a damn near expert in First Aid. Not only would he enthusiastically bandage every cut and scrape, he’d also check up on me every day thereafter, recleaning the wounds and changing the bandages for me, until he declared the injury fully healed. I was a rambunctious kid, but I never had any lasting scars thanks to Clark Miller.

Anyway, I was playing at his house one Saturday afternoon. We were both around nine. He tells me we need to play doctor. That sounded awesome to me because I always wanted to be a nurse just like my mom.

“No,” he says. “You’re the patient. Go in the closet and get undressed.”

“What?” I said, suddenly nervous. “Undressed? Why?”

“Because that’s what you do at the doctor, silly.”

“Okay,” I said. My tummy was suddenly fluttering with hot panic, a feeling I’d grow all too used to in future encounters. But after years of expert First-Aid, I trusted him with my very life. So off I went. He apparently sensed my nervousness, though.

“Mom’s sleeping. She won’t come in. And even if she did, I’ll just tell her it’s research.”

Even I knew she wouldn’t buy that one. But pretty little idiot that I was, I went into the closet and took off all my clothes, even my panties, though my real doctor only ever asked me to take off my shirt and pants.

Honestly, I don’t even know why I did it to this day. It’s not like I had any sort of crush on Clark. At that point, I believed being naked was supposed to be done with somebody you really, really liked. Sort of like mommies and daddies, when they’re going to make a baby. I learned this when I’d accidentally walked in on my aunt Francine and uncle Johnny making out once. He had her shirt off and he was squeezing and kissing her boobs, and really going to town on her nipples.

“Oh, God! Oh, yeah! Oh, fuck!” auntie Francine moaned with obvious and intense pleasure.

I gasped. They scrambled to cover up, making up some on-the-spot bullshit about how Aunt Francine got stung by a bee, and he was kissing it better. Then they had to explain to my mom that I’d gotten another eyeful.

Later, mom explained to me that being naked and kissy-kissing with a man was something grownups did, with somebody special that you really loved, very much. She called it kissy-kissing, as opposed to the kind of smooch you give somebody on the cheek. I mean, damn! You even give Santa a kiss on the cheek after you sit on his lap at the mall, and you don’t even know the guy! What auntie Francine and uncle Johnny were doing was definitely not the same.

They were kissy-kissing.

I had so many questions. Mom let out a heavy, tense sigh, and gave me the official “sex talk”. She was forced to! I wouldn’t shut up with my frantic inquiries. Of course, she didn’t get into the actual physical mechanics of sex. Insert part A into slot B and shit like that. I had to learn all that at school a few years later, surrounded by a roomful of thirty or so of my awkward and immature peers, giggling and groaning and cracking jokes while I was desperately trying to learn everything I could. Clark Miller just stared out the classroom window the whole time. When the teacher asked him if he was paying attention, he said no. When she asked him why not, he told her she’d already gotten three things wrong in the first five minutes.

He was sent to the principal’s office.

But in mom’s version of the talk, when I was still eight, I did figure out that mommies and daddies sometimes took off their clothes and kissy-kissed each other in special places, and that somehow made a baby.

“But,” my mother emphasized, “you can only do this with somebody you truly love, with all your heart and soul! Anything else is just wrong, and gross, and nasty.”

“Like a whore?” I piped up.

Instead of answering, she gave me shit for swearing.

Except, later that year, Uncle Johnny and Aunt Francine broke up and got a divorce. Mom told me they just didn’t love each other anymore, and that it was a terrible tragedy. But later, I heard uncle Johnny muttering about how they’d broken up because he’d been more interested in sucking on bottles than sucking on his wife, so she’d given him the boot. Poor old aunty Francine. I guess she wanted somebody kissy-kissing her, and uncle Johnny was always drunk.

Anyway, I’d had no idea love could ever just end like that. It was supposed to be forever and ever, and happily ever after and shit, like in the fairy tales. I asked mom if that’s what happened with her and daddy. She told me no. Apparently my father had just “run away like a damn coward the moment things got a little bit rough.”

“He didn’t truly love you, mama?”

“He didn’t love either of us.”

Anyway, after my aunt and uncle got divorced, the naked-equals-love theory went right out the window. I had to start from scratch. I had a combination of conflicting and confused notions rattling around in my little head. Being naked with a boy wasn’t actually as big a deal as mom had made it out to be. If you could be doing that, and then get divorced so soon after, maybe love wasn’t required at all. Maybe people sometimes did all that kissy stuff just for fun, not even trying to make a baby. Like Jenny and Tommy. He’d been trying to kiss her boobies, too, at one point.

And, I realized, maybe love wasn’t always forever. Maybe you had to kissy-kiss whoever you wanted while you could, or you would never kissy-kiss anybody, ever. Like my mother, who as far as I knew, didn’t even kiss my dad when he was still around.

But I also knew sex was something mature and sophisticated, that only grown-ups were supposed to know about. Hence uncle Johnny and Aunt Francine’s scramble to cover up when little Millie walked in, and hence why Jenny and Tommy made sure to cover up right to their necks when little Millie walked in on them. They were doing something taboo and intriguing that I was too young to know about. (They were fucking, whatever that means.) It became a fascinating preoccupation of mine, and every time a couple so much as kissed on TV, I stared with far too much morbid fixation, trying to figure it all out.

Point being, as I was getting undressed in Clark’s closet, instead of pondering whether I should be doing this in the first place, I was wondering if he would kiss my boobies, even though I didn’t have any sort of romantic interest in him at all. For some reason, I wanted him to kiss my boobies so I could figure out the big mystery of what had made auntie Francine moan so intensely. That was the thing that intrigued me most of all, how excited auntie Francine had been that day, getting her nipples sucked. Her face had been red. Her voice was all breathless and excited. Jenny, too! What could ever possibly make a lady moan like that? It must have been very nice. I seriously doubted geek-boy Clark knew how to kissy-kiss a girl like that, but I was too excited not to at least try. If goofy old Uncle Johnny could do it, anybody could.

I walked out of Clark’s closet and stood there. He didn’t even look at me at first. He had his back turned, and for some reason, he was looking at this clipboard he had, making random notes. Then he glanced over at a book he had open on the table next to him.

I was nervous as hell, standing there wringing my hands. There was nothing to see on me at that point. I was flat as a boy back then, but I was still naked in front of one. It was terrifying. And if his mother had walked in just then, there wouldn’t be any sort of excuse about “research” we could possibly make. Yikes!

Finally, he turns around. His eyes widened. He was wearing this stethoscope around his neck. It was real, too. I had no idea where he’d gotten it, but it looked huge on him. And of course, he was wearing his stupid suspenders.

“You’re naked,” he says.

“Yeah. You told me to.”

“But...”

“I just took off my underwear, too,” I told him. “In case you needed to check everything.”

He didn’t reply. He just pointed toward the bed with his pencil. “Please lie down so I can examine you.”

“Okay…” I stammered out. I went to the bed on shaky legs and jumped onto it, lying down and hiding my face with my hands.

“Don’t be nervous,” he says. “This is just a routine examination.”

He pulled my hands from my face and put them by my sides. Then he starts poking me with the pencil. It tickled. He poked me in random places, and then made notes. Then he put the stethoscope in his ears and listened to me in all different places. My tummy. My shoulder. My neck. My thigh. My chest.

“What did you eat for lunch?”

“Cheese sandwich.”

He told me to take deep breaths. He didn’t need to. I was already breathing like I was nearly drowning or something.

“Sometimes my tummy feels scared, even when I’m not scared. I feel like I’m falling out of a tree, sometimes, even just sitting there in my chair at school. Everybody laughs at me.”

“Yes… Uh huh… I see…” he says, prodding me here and there, and scribble-scribbling on his clipboard.

“Is something wrong with my tummy when I feel like that?”

He muttered something about prepubescent girls and their erratic adrenal glands. I had no idea what the jargon meant, but I assumed it was normal. At least he didn’t seem concerned, and he was a genius. He would know. He just continued probing and prodding me with the pencil and stethoscope.

I giggled. I squirmed. Then he even pressed the stethoscope onto the bump of my privates, and that made me jump. But for some reason, I spread my legs, without even being asked. So he slides the stethoscope down and places it on the front of my privates, too. It was cold.

He listened to my coochie for what seemed like far too long. I had no idea what he was hearing, but it sure tickled. It was a scary kind of tickle, too. Too big. It seemed to spread all around my body for some reason. I started breathing all funny just like Jenny in front of the washing machine.

Then he leaned down and looked, too. He poked my privates with the eraser on the end of his pencil, muttering various anatomical labels he’d seen in a book, “Labia... pubis... clitoral hood... perineum... vagina...” (he pronounced it vagg-in-uh, though, apparently only ever having read it in a book. I didn’t know enough to correct him.) “...introitus...”

I jumped at that last touch. “You leave my introitus alone! That tickles!”

Then he simply made a note on his clipboard, as calm and cool as if it was my damn knee. Meanwhile, I was tingling all over, and my heart was pounding fit to blow right out of my chest like an alien spawn.

“Alright,” he says. “Everything’s in order here. You can go get dressed now.”

“You’re not going to kiss my boobies?” I said, nearly panicked.

“Huh?” he says.

“My boobies! You gotta suck on them until I say, ‘Oh, yes! Oh, God!’”

He looked at me, confused. “Why would I do that?”

“Ummm… ‘Cause I got stung by a bee.” I pointed at each nipple. “You have to kiss it better.”

“I’m your doctor. Not your mommy.”

I ran back to the closet and put my clothes back on. Nothing else happened. He didn’t even touch me with anything but his damn pencil. The whole experience was just really weird.

The next few times it happened were about the same, too. He did touch me down there with his fingers once, but he was wearing these big goofy rubber gloves, and he spread my labia apart to look at my “vaggina” more closely. He confirmed that my high-man was still intact. Whatever the hell that meant. I knew boys had the little armless man down there. Maybe girls did, too. I wasn’t going to ask him about it, though. I was too busy trying to fight off the urge to grab him and kiss him.

I guess it doesn’t really count as a sexual experience. He was no more erotic about any of it than a dentist looking at my teeth. I was the one who was all weird about it, but mostly in my own mind. But anyway, that’s the first time a boy ever saw me naked. I’m pretty sure I was the first girl he’d ever seen naked, but he was so calm and cool about it, I might as well have been a kitten at the vet.

I sure wish I would have taken a look at his notes, though.

Chapter 3

Growing

Amy Alexander is a short little shit with a big attitude. She’s been my best friend since we were partnered up together to work on a science project at school, way back in seventh grade. She only came up to about eye-level with my chin, and I wasn’t even the tallest girl in my class. I’m only average height. She’s the definition of the petite pixie, small but shapely. Well, she doesn’t have much in the way of boobs, but her booty is pretty big. And she sure works it when she walks.

She has short black hair, and really pretty green eyes. And no matter what the subject, she knows more about it than I do, even if she doesn’t. I’m not sure if that makes sense, but she has this way of making you feel like an idiot, even if you’re right on the issue in question.

But while we worked on that science project together those few weeks, we had our first few sleepovers, and we’ve been best friends ever since. I mean, we didn’t even finish the damn project. We got an F. I don’t even remember what the topic was. Something about geology or earthquakes or some shit. But we spent ninety-nine percent of our time together doing each other’s hair and makeup and nails.

Her family is rich as balls, too. Her dad owns a business of some sort, something about floor tiles I think, and her mom works as a university administrator. They’ve got a huge house with a giant pool in their back yard. And there’s like, a full gym in their basement. They have a giant screen TV in the den, as big as the whole wall, and you need to press like five different buttons to get the surround sound going. There are speakers everywhere, seven channels and a sub. Amy’s dad brags about it every time he walks by us in the den, like he built the damn speakers from scratch or something. He says they were built right into the walls, so you can actually feel the room shake during action scenes. Except they were also insulated from the rest of the house, so as soon as you leave the den, you can’t hear (or feel) anything.

But when you watch a scary movie, you can hear every little twig snap and owl hoot all around you. It’s so scary!

Amy has a giant princess bed in her room, big tall posts with an arch on top, and a canopy of lacy curtains flowing down. My eyes popped when I first saw it. She has a damn walk-in closet, too, with like two thousand outfits, and she’s always complaining she has nothing to wear.

So every Saturday afternoon, after our sleepover, she drags me out shopping. And then she makes me try on a hundred different things, and she actually buys them for me. Normally, mom can afford maybe one or two new outfits a month, but Amy buys me bags full, every weekend. She’d pretty much demands her mother buy me all those things, and it always got awkward. But I always made sure to say, “Thank you so much, Mrs. Alexander!”

The things I actually took home, I told mom they were Amy’s clothes that she didn’t want anymore, ‘cause they were out of style, so she’d given them to me. Mom grumbled about people thinking I’m a “welfare case” or whatever, but she didn’t complain otherwise.

But the older I got, as I passed through puberty and beyond, the curvier I got, and the skimpier those outfits became. Amy started dressing me up in increasingly risqué and borderline slutty-looking skirts, tights, stockings, boots, and tops. She even bought me sexy underwear. The skimpier outfits, I didn’t wear around mom at all. She’d definitely shit a brick if I walked in wearing that stuff. I didn’t wear them to school either. The only time I ever wore them was during our sleepovers.

Amy called it “Dolly Time”. But she never dressed herself like that for some reason. Just me. She said it was because she was as flat as a boy, so why bother? The sexy outfits were wasted on her. But I was super-hot, so I was the model.

“You look better in this than this, but not this. And those shoes are so ugly! Get rid of them!”

Weirdly enough, she made me strip down to my bare-ass, right in front of her, and she literally pulled all the clothes onto me, despite my protestations that I know how to dress myself. But at least she locked the closet door while we were in there changing my outfits.

I have to admit, my body looked pretty damn sexy in all those full-length mirrors she had in every direction. And there were so many lights in there!

I’d just stand there like a pretty little idiot while she played dress-up. Then we’d do my hair and makeup, too. She’d even teach me how to walk more sexy, and flip my hair, arch my back, and make sexy eyes. This went on for years, until just a few months back, actually. She told me what to wear to school and what not to. I was much too shy to follow her instructions most of the time, though.

“Boys will think I’m easy!” I complained.

“That’s what you want them to think! It gives you all the power!”

That didn’t make sense to me. I never felt more powerless, more insecure than when my tits and half my ass were hanging out as I strutted around school in knee-high come-fuck-me boots. So mostly, I just wore tanks and jeans to school, with sensible little runners. But it pissed Amy off immensely.

But once again, I have to admit that the few times I did dress up in one of those short little skirts and boots and crop-tops, the guys at school definitely noticed. Wow, did they ever! Suddenly, they were saying hello, smiling at me, and staring as I walked by. It made my brain tingle.

“Lovely jeans, Millie.”

“Wow. You look awesome in pink!”

“Sexy...!”

Some guys would just whistle.

But the girls noticed, too, and they weren’t so pleased with me looking like I was on my way to a dance club, especially when they caught their boyfriends checking me out. So, playing “Dolly Time” at school turned out to be a rare occasion, like when there was a school dance or whatever. Then I could at least say I’d dressed up for the dance.

But Amy didn’t talk to me at school, either way, so why piss everybody else off, too? I mean, other than having hot guys actually talk to me. That was a thrill. But it wasn’t really worth the trouble.

It wasn’t until after I’d actually gone all the way with a guy that I started developing more confidence and dressing up more regularly. But we’ll get to that.

When we weren’t trying on clothes and doing hair and makeup, we were watching slasher movies in the dark, cuddled up under a blanket together. She has this weird thing about girls getting hacked to ribbons by mask-wearing maniacs. She doesn’t even like all scary movies. Things about witches, or ghosts, or zombies annoy her. There has to be a bloodthirsty lunatic in it somewhere, and they have to be stalking helpless young girls for some reason, otherwise she’s annoyed.

I don’t like scary movies. I just sit through them squeezing my coochie muscles until they ache. But she won’t put on anything else.

“My house! My rules!”

“What if I just go to bed?” I’d say, defiantly.

“Then you better give all that stuff back that I bought you today!”

“I thought those things were gifts. Silly me.”

“Shhh! I love this part!”

At first I complained about how bossy she was. But then, when people at school started noticing me more, and complimenting me, especially boys, I shut right up and let Amy have her way.

She’s the one who told me to stop cutting my hair, too. A lot of girls around school were getting pixie cuts, and I told her I might look cute like that.

“No,” she said coldly.

“Why not!? It’s my hair!”

“Because you’re not allowed, that’s why! I don’t care if it’s dragging on the floor behind your ass, you are never, ever cutting your hair! It’s fucking hot! I wish I had hair this sexy!”

My hair was halfway down my back at that point. Now it’s down to my butt. She loves to sit me in a chair and braid it, and curl it with an iron, and style it, and just play, trying out every conceivable look and configuration she can yank it into. Short of cutting it, of course.

Suffice it to say, under her guidance, I became one of the hottest girls in school. But she also has all these rules about who I can talk to and who I can’t. She mostly gets mad about which boys I chat with. I guess maybe she’s jealous or something. But she also gets her panties in a twist when I talk to girls, too. Because, she says, I’m so stupid and awkward, and I embarrass myself with the bullshit that blurts out of my mouth. So why is she even my friend, then? It’s so confusing and frustrating, so I just don’t talk to anybody. Except she hardly talks to me at school either. She nods and smiles and winks sometimes. She blows me a kiss sometimes, when nobody’s around, but she doesn’t actually talk to me or hang out. And if I talk to her when other girls are around, she just ignores me like I’m not even there.

But she’d watch me, even when we’re not together, and she’d give me shit about who I’d talked to when we were alone.

It was actually kind of creepy.

So when she wasn’t around, I’d just hide somewhere and read. I was one of the hottest girls in school, but paradoxically, I was also the loneliest. Until I started boinking dudes, anyway.

But she’s got this brother named Jeremy. Oh, my fucking God! That boy was a wet dream on two legs. The captain of every sports team at school, popular, charming, but aloof and kind of brooding, athletic to the point of male perfection, and so knee-weakeningly tall. Just standing next to him makes you feel dizzy. Pretty much all he does is work out in the basement gym while I’m there. And when Amy and I are watching movies in the den, I of course have to supposedly go to the washroom every twenty minutes and sneak a peek at him doing inverted sit-ups or whatever.

Sculpted like a god, that boy was. It’s part of the reason I kept up my own work-outs every day after school.

Every moment I’m even in the same house as him makes all the trouble with Amy worth it. Just knowing he’s near, makes my heart turn to delicious panicky goo, even if he doesn’t even talk to me. But sometimes he’d actually smile at me, and it always sent me over the moon, at the risk of sounding cheesy. I don’t know how else to describe it, though. The boy was absolute bliss to me.

Unfortunately, he’s one of the people I’m not allowed to talk to.

But we’ll get to Jeremy Alexander.

🙠 ♥ 🙢

There was a pool party a few months after that science project. Amy had half the school over for her birthday that summer afternoon. She’d dressed me up in a pink one-piece with slits down the side. Probably too sexy for a girl who barely had any curves to show off. And she’d done my hair in a long, lustrous French braid. She’d even bought me hundred-dollar shades to wear for when I relaxed by the pool.

But she hardly said a word to me all day. When I gave her my gift, a copy of a book I really liked, she just glanced at it and tossed it away like it was litter. I tried to tell her it was a scary story, just like the movies she liked, but she just talked over me to another girl. She didn’t even say thanks.

So there was this kid named Francis French at the party. He was a pudgy little freckle-faced redhead fucker, and shorter than everybody else by a head and a half. Even Amy. I think he was a friend of Amy’s brother or something. I’m not even sure why he was there. He didn’t even go to our school.

Anyway, for some reason, he kept pretending to drown in the deep end of the pool, and he would grab onto me, on my back, and make me swim to the shallow end. Innocent enough, right? I was actually doing a good deed, right? The poor kid would have died!

But after, like, the third time, I noticed what felt like a little finger poking me in the butt as we swam. He was holding on so tight, and rubbing himself against me, just breathing heavy and gasping. I thought nothing of it at first. Maybe he had a piece of candy in his pocket.

But after a couple more times, it suddenly occurred to me that boys have that little armless man down there, and that’s what was poking me every time. At first, I was amused and only mildly annoyed. Let him get his jollies. At least he was talking to me!

But I slowly realized he was doing all that shit on purpose. He was actually a great swimmer, better than me even. He got himself back out to the deep end faster than I could, and repeated the whole drowning pantomime again.

This time, when he grabbed me around the back, I felt him deliberately jam that little Darth Vader up against my butt, right in my butt crack and start rubbing it around, all Tommy-and-Jenny like. And the little fucker actually let out a gratuitous moan that everybody heard.

“You done letting that little retard hump you?” Amy says to me.

“What?” I asked, shocked. “Is that what he’s doing!?”

I screamed and shrugged him off, ducking under the water. Then I turned around and punched him in the dick, as hard as I could. The punch was slowed by the water resistance a bit, but he definitely felt it. He sunk under the water, holding his privates, and he screamed so loud, they could actually hear it from above. When I surfaced, everybody was laughing and clapping.

That was the end of his little game.

But then he came up behind me and yanked the top of my bathing suit off my chest, giving everybody in the place a flash of my tits. There were about sixteen girls, and at least four or five guys standing there. Even Jeremy got an eyeful. It lasted all of about a microsecond before I ducked under the water, fixed my top, and then chased the little prick around the pool some more. Boy were people ever laughing.

But even though, I’d nearly beaten the shit out of him, he followed me around for the rest of the day, making stupid jokes, and even deliberately walking into things and falling down, trying to make me laugh. But I just ignored him, not even telling him to get lost.

Then he starts singing Billy Joel, “Don’t go changing... to try to please me... except that Kegel exercise... ‘Cause I like pussy... that tries to squeeze me... when I get between your thighs...”

“That’s not funny.”

“Get it? Kegels? Ah? Ahhh!?”

“No. Leave me alone.”

“Tough crowd.”

A few years later, when I figured out what Kegel exercises were, I actually laughed out loud. It actually was pretty funny. I still think about that pudgy little shrimp crooning so dramatically every time I hear that song. I was pretty annoyed at the time, though.

He started air-guitaring and broke into Linda Ronstadt. “I’m gonna whack someday… and I’ll spray my goo by you…!”

A guy in another room heard him, and laughed. I did not.

“Don’t go… wasting your explosion…! Spray all your love on me!”

I stared blankly at him.

“That’s Abba,” he says.

I stared blankly at him.

Then he broke into Chubby Checker, doing the voice and everything. “Come on, baby... take all my fist... Come on, bay...bay... take my whole fist... ya couldn’t feel my little wang... so take my fist.”

“That’s dumb. Why would he punch his girlfriend?”

“Ummm. That’s not really what that means...”

“I don’t care. Go away.”

“Guess I gotta get some new material.”

That’s what you get for being nice. Creepy kids with potato chips in their teeth who won’t leave you alone. Then again, nobody else was talking to me. Maybe he felt sorry for me.

Anyway, that was a couple of firsts for me. The first time I was ever humped by a guy, I guess, and the first time I ever touched a guy’s hard dick. It wasn’t intentional, or consensual in any way, and it wasn’t naked or anything. Does it still count? I don’t know. I’m just trying to tell the whole story here.

It was also the first time anybody saw my bare-naked tits for real. I only had B-cups back then, but it definitely counts.

But at some point, near the end of the night, Amy’s brother Jeremy looked over at me and smiled. He fucking smiled at me! It was a cool, subdued little smile, but it was definitely directed at me.

Then he simply walked away. Nothing else happened.

Sucks when the highlight of your entire month is an incident that was gone in a blink, and nobody else in the universe even knew it took place.

But shooting stars are beautiful, too, I guess.

🙠 ♥ 🙢

I took my first airplane ride around that time, too. I was making plans to head over for my weekly sleepover with Amy, and mom tells me I can’t go because there’s a funeral. I was disappointed, but then she tells me we have to take a plane ride and stay in a hotel in Wichita.

Mom and uncle Johnny had an older sister it turns out, and she’d died. She was like twenty years older than them, and had already moved out on her own by the time they were born. That’s why I’d never even heard of her until then. They weren’t that close. I’d never met her either, so I wasn’t sad or anything. She was a librarian and she lived in Kansas. That’s all mom told me. I couldn’t imagine a person knowing or caring so little about their own sister. Their family is weird, I guess.

Mom didn’t even seem all that sad. She seemed like she didn’t want to waste vacation days dragging me across the country, spending all that money, and she grumbled to herself as she packed about “family obligations”.

I told her I wished I had a big sister, thinking of Jenny, but not mentioning her name. She told me that for all we knew, I probably do. That was a jab at my father, of course. But I was more saddened than amused by the quip.

Uncle Johnny dropped us off at the airport, and just sent his regards.

But off we went. I took my first plane ride. I stayed in my first hotel room. And I went to my first funeral.

I wasn’t sure how to feel or behave. Everybody was so quiet, like it was against the law to talk louder than a soft murmur, even when nothing else was going on but that terribly sad organ music. I wondered why at first, but then I saw Aunty Josephine laying there in the casket at the front of the hall. She looked thin and frail, and very old. But she also looked so very plain. So average. The kind of person you wouldn’t notice at all unless she talked to you, but I imagine she’d had a very soft and timid voice, working at a library.

And there in the casket, she looked like she was sleeping. I guess that’s why everybody was being so quiet.

A man got up and talked about her. He told us her life story, about how she’d been a bright kid, but shy. She graduated with top marks and always wanted to be a veterinarian. But instead, she wound up working as a librarian for forty-five years. She lived alone her entire life, just her and her cats, Mickey and Bongo. She never married. She never even had a boyfriend her whole life. This guy was talking about that like it was a good thing. “So devoted was she to her work, she never even went on a single date! Nothing could distract her from her life’s work at the A.L.L.”

I sat there staring at her with terror as the audience chuckled. I suddenly saw her in a whole new light. I knew what it was like to be surrounded by people and still be so terribly lonely. I mean, there was only actually about twenty people in attendance. And most of them seemed like they didn’t even know her either.

When the long speech was over, there was a line-up of people to say goodbye. Mom went off to the bathroom instead, leaving me with the dozen or so strangers who hadn’t snuck out during the eulogy. They all patted her hand, nodded at her a bit. Some shook their heads and grumbled about how cancer sucks and they should find a cure for it. Nobody cried, though. There wasn’t a single tear spilled. They honestly seemed more interested in the snacks.

I was last in line, and I found myself all alone in the quiet parlor. I just stared at her for a long time, thinking about how a person could possibly spend forty-five years of their life without going out on a single date. That probably meant she’d never even been hugged or kissed either. And she’d most definitely died a virgin.

A tear spilled down my cheek. I imagined all those thousands of lonely nights, of coming home, feeding her cats, watching TV, reading a book, and going to bed all alone. I tried to imagine living a life of such solitude that even your brother and sister didn’t even talk to you, or about you. It didn’t help that the song in the background was talking about how much the singer needed somebody. “When I need you... I hold out my hand and I touch you...” They’d said it was one of her favorites. You don’t have a favorite song like that without actually needing somebody, at least secretly, in your heart.

And then my sadness and sympathy turned to terror. There was a slideshow projected across a big screen behind the casket. They were showing pictures of her throughout her life as the soft music played. One particular picture faded on. She was a teenager, dressed in some style from another era in fashion. But she had long blonde hair, and bright blue eyes, and a sunny, happy smile. Her chest was a little flatter, but she looked almost exactly like me.

And now she was dead.

“It’s cold out, so hold out... and do like I do...” the singer sang.

“No,” I said aloud, wiping a tear away with the back of my wrist. “I’m not going to hold out. I’m not going to be like you. I’m going to date, and love, and have fun with boys every chance I get. I won’t be plain. I won’t be boring. I won’t be nobody. I’ll kiss anybody and everybody. I’ll go crazy if I have to. But I will not be all alone!”

If nobody wants you, are you even really alive?

🙠 ♥ 🙢

That was actually a year of many firsts for me. I got my first period that year, too. It was early for my age. Mom said she got hers when she was thirteen, and grandma got hers when she was fourteen. Uncle Johnny said it was because of all the hormones they’re putting in the meat at the farms.

“S’makin’ kids’ go friggin’ nuts! They’re out there boinking like rabbits these days! When I was twelve, I couldn’t even get to second base!”

I blushed about a hundred shades of pink. Why’d she have to go and tell my conspiracy nutter uncle about my personal girl issues?

But, long story short, one night I went to bed with weird stomach cramps, and when I woke up, my panties were full of blood. It had even leaked down onto the sheets. I wasn’t traumatized or anything. I actually remember being mildly amused. Geeze, it looked like somebody stabbed me, like one of those slasher movies I watched with Amy, with the teen girls getting butchered by a lunatic in the woods, except this maniac got me right in the pussy.

I’d taken sex-ed in health class that year, so I knew it was coming. And mom and I finally had the real sex talk, where babies come from and how they get in there. All the physical mechanics of sex this time: Boys’ thingies get hard, from all that special kissy-kissing, and touching, and stuff, and the girl gets all slippery in this little hole that ladies have, and he’s able to stick it in. Then after a few minutes of rubbing around, he gets all excited and squirts out semen, and that stuff gets up into her tummy and makes her pregnant.

I’d thought sex was fascinating even back then, and mom seemed almost alarmed at how many questions I had. But she answered them all as best she could. She even had a good laugh at some of the crazy notions I’d come up with on my own, like getting pregnant from having your titties suckled.

“If it was that easy, the world would be overrun with humans!”

Then, of course, she went on to lecture me about how you absolutely have to be head over heels in love with a boy, a boy who’s going to stay with you forever and ever, and help you take care of any babies you make together. “If you don’t know enough about the guy to know if he’s going to stay with you forever and ever, keep your legs shut, no matter what he promises you! Boys lie, and you do not want to wind up raising a damn kid all by yourself!”

I was only twelve, but even I already knew that all that forever after fairy tale romance stuff was bullshit. Her own husband had run out on her. What the hell did she know about forever?

Of course I didn’t say any of this out loud.

Then, when I went to sleep over at Amy’s that Friday night, I told her all about the sex talk. Well, as much as mom had explained to me, anyway.

Of course she already knew all about it, and she treated me like an idiot for being so clued-out about something so important.

“What’re you, five!?”

“Nobody ever told me! Why would I know anything about it!?”

“I knew all about it since I was nine!”

“How!? Who told you!?” I wanted to know, genuinely curious.

But she changed the subject. She apparently thought the whole concept was disgusting. “Why would anybody want to kiss a boy, never mind doing anything else with them? Gross! Boys are smelly, and stupid, and ugly! Penises and vaginas do not go together!”

“Vaginas?” I asked, puzzled at her pronunciation.

“You don’t know what a vagina is? Oh my God, you’re so stupid!”

I suddenly realized she was talking about my vaggina, as Clark had called it. But I wasn’t about to correct her pronunciation.

“I know what it is! Of course I know what it is! I was just kidding! It’s that slippery little hole the boy sticks his thing in, when he kisses you! And he gets all hard, and you get wet, and he sticks it in and rubs it around, all ticklish and pretty, and you moan and breathe all hard, until he-”

“Gross!” she said again, cutting me off.

I disagreed. The only thing stopping me from wanting to kiss a boy, and jump on a boy, and rub myself all over a boy, and let him have his way with all my secret lady parts was the hot, frantic panic in my tummy every time I even thought about it. But I guess when Amy thought of boys, she thought of idiots like Francis French. When I thought of boys, I thought of her brother Jeremy.

Fuck...

Happy Freak

Millie Martin

That was a preview of Happy Freak. To read the rest purchase the book.

Add «Happy Freak» to Cart