As I mentioned, I’d switched schools. I went to a private school, a small school, further away from my neighborhood, because my friend Adam, was there and wanted me to join him.
(Being in the program for fuckups wasn’t too pleasant either; I was fortunate to leave such a toxic environment.)
The new school wasn’t toxic, was far more laidback. And it was small, really small.
Only fifty or so students. It was a Quaker school, but didn’t force its beliefs on us.
The only Quaker thing we were made to do was attend morning “meetings,”
school gatherings, where we’d sit in a circle, in silence for fifteen minutes.
One might imagine this would be difficult for teens, but I never recall an incident of anyone speaking up or causing mischief. It really would be completely, like totally, could-hear-a-pin-drop silent…
The school had a vast array of students. Nerds, outcasts, jocks, cool kids, misfits, fuckups, everything. But opposed to public school, with its cliques, there weren’t cliques at the school. It was too small for that.
Everyone knew everyone. Everyone hung out, pretty much, with everyone. There was little to no bullying. I think that was the point of the school. It was a refuge from the public-school system.
There were a couple kids there who indeed couldn’t function in public schools, and I can only imagine the torment they’d suffer if they did attend a place like my middle school. The Quaker school was like a sanctuary for such kids…
Buffalo Bangkok: Juvenile Delinquent One such kid was an adopted girl from Thailand who’d been abused, locked in a room, in total isolation, for the first ten years of her life. As you can imagine, she had trouble functioning in social situations, was tragically awkward, and would randomly scream things at people, in Thai or English. She’d occasionally masturbate in class and have to be removed, taken to the office, and would sometimes disappear, run away for hours, sometimes days, but would always return.
Another kid was a former linebacker, who kept getting in trouble for pissing and shitting in public places. He’d drop his pants and shit anywhere. As he’d shit, he’d stare and laugh at people’s reactions. He’d shit in the shower, too, and had shit in front of his teammates, several times, once on the practice field. He’d shit on the bathroom floor a few times, in our school’s bathroom, which, for him, I guess was an improvement. I’m not sure if he was mental or if it was his sense of humor, his shitting. I’m guessing it was some of both.
(Another classmate I had there was Big Jim, a skinhead, but I’m not sure if he was a racist skinhead or just liked the look. He’d been dating a girl my friend also liked, and the two of them beefed over her, when my friend and her fucked while high at a party... Big Jim and my friend nearly came to blows, but settled it, with no fists being thrown, and we three ditched 5th period to smoke weed together in Big Jim’s old bucket of a car.)
((I had thought it was all good. But later, my friend and his older cousin, a somewhat scary Cuban gangster type, had been talking about various insidious ways to kill the “puto” and were fucking livid about the whole situation. My friend’s cousin was into Santeria, too, and said he’d thrown a curse on the skinhead.))
(((I’m not sure if it was the curse, or Big Jim’s youth, stupidity, but whatever it was, Big Jim was tripping on acid with his skinhead friends and was out “train-surfing,” jumping from bridges down onto the top of trains, riding the trains to wherever. But when Big Jim leapt from the bridge, he fell in between the train carriages and one of his legs was ripped off by the machinery.))) ((((Amazingly, he survived, but lost his leg, and a couple girls from the school visited him in the hospital, brought him coloring books and juice boxes. He came back to our school once, only to visit, but then went elsewhere, to another school,
Buffalo Bangkok: Juvenile Delinquent designed for those with disabilities. My friend and I never spoke of what happened to Big Jim, and I never heard his cousin mention it.)))) There was another girl at the Quaker school, a girl, who like me, was the child of psychiatrists, and her dad a very famous psychiatrist. She was very sexually free and like anytime I saw her, she was openly discussing sex. She had big tits but a flat ass and super skinny body. I suspect her tits were fake.
She slept with nearly every boy at the school, but drew the line at threesomes, and when Adam and me had her over to his house, we tried to double team her, but she’d only fuck us one at a time, saying how the “last time I had a threesome, my boyfriend, Tom, got so fucking pissed,” so she fucked us one at a time, which I guess her boyfriend was cooler with.
There was another girl with big tits, Jessica, who’d been attacked by a boy at her previous high school.
The boy would always comment on her large breasts, and the comments went from verbal harassment, to him forcibly touching her, and one day him trying to tear off her shirt in the hallway, after school.
She was so traumatized that, for a while, she dropped out. She’d taken to binge-eating to dull her psychic pain and had gained around thirty pounds.
Though she was chubby, she was still pretty, had a gorgeous face, a face that was practically perfect, with these high cheekbones, their symmetry complemented by her bright blue eyes and rosy cheeks. Di Vinci, I bet, would have painted her portrait. Her facial structure was that flawless…
Jessica and I became an item after I’d stopped seeing a girl who lived down the street.
That one was a heartache, far worse than the quiet girl in fifth grade…
The girl down the street, Jan, was smoking hot. She’d been the first girl I’d really been in love with, or at least what I thought was love.
She was part Egyptian, part Colombian and 100% hot. An olive-skinned exotic looking beauty with a crown of wavy long blood red dyed hair, she’d constantly be clad in sexy clothes, like hot pants and fishnet stockings.
Buffalo Bangkok: Juvenile Delinquent She’d paint on tons of makeup, too, eye liner, eye shadow, and her puffy and pouty lips were usually coated fire red... And it was as if every time I saw her, she’d be smiling, sporting these sly, crooked smiles that were mesmerizing.
I’d probably be smiling too, if I was a girl that hot. If I had a face and a body like that. Her body was incredible, practically flawless. With her taut tummy, juicy thighs, callipygian curves, and perky, upturned C-cup tits. Her cleavage always compressed in tight tank tops, tits scrunched up and forming deep valleys that’d be overflowing, protruding and testing fabrics’ limits.
She was a knockout. A dime. She was the first girl my age I can remember who dressed as provocatively as the ladies I’d seen in music videos.
And I liked that about her. A lot.
The lone flaw in her physiognomy was a thin, four-inch pacemaker scar over her left breast. She, as a kid, had a heart problem and a pacemaker was installed to keep her alive. It was weird to see a teenage girl with a pacemaker, but it didn’t bother me. It wasn’t something I gave much thought to, aside from seeing the small scar and asking her about it.
I was happy she’d survived her heart problem and that she was alive and with me.
In fact, I was gaga over her.
We met through a mutual friend, who set us up, and it turned out she lived down the street in this wickedly fucked up, dilapidated house that was painted the ugliest slime green color and looked like something from a horror movie. I’d always wondered who lived there and was shocked to discover it was such a pretty girl.
She was a year younger than me, in the grade below me, at another school. It was the first time I’d been with a “younger” girl…
Jan and I would hang out at my house or hers, smoke weed, and make out, for like an hour. She was a great kisser. Usually it’d go as far as her jerking me off and me fingering her. She was so smoking hot and her handjob technique was so perfect that she’d strangle my cock into spitting submission with deft quickness and expert precision. She could have been a professional masseuse the way she stroked…
Buffalo Bangkok: Juvenile Delinquent She’d only be able to stay over at my house for a short time, her domineering mother keeping close tabs on her, so once I’d cum, she’d have to leave shortly after. (I hoped she was also coming, and given how creamy her cunt would be, I’m guessing she did…)
Finally, though, I had to stick more than my fingers in her, and as we made out, I swiftly stopped her soft stroking hand before it could bring me to paradise, and I brought her over to the bed.
(This was in my stepsister’s room, which I’d taken over, after she’d been kicked out. I was now occupying the entire third floor. And I’d trashed my stepsister’s room, too, spray painting, graffiti scrawled, covering the walls. My friends and I partying in there, my mother too focused, busy with work to know or care much...)
So, I brought Jan to the bed and was about to fuck her, raw, when she asked me if I had a condom.
Smart girl. Smarter than me.
I rose from the bed to go get a rubber from my desk drawer, but I stopped in my tracks when I smelled a gross, burning plastic stench. I panned my mien over to the garbage can and saw it was on fire! A still-lit cigarette the likely culprit.
I ran over to put it out with some water. Fortunately, I didn’t burn the house down. (There had to be something with that house and fire, I figure.) But when I came back, the mood was killed. The room stank like burning plastic.
My throat was burning. I just couldn’t get excited, couldn’t get hard. It was the first time I’d failed sexually.
She was disappointed. I was embarrassed. We didn’t see or talk to each other for a couple days.
Then we got together one night, got high, snorted coke, and I wasted no time and fucked her, hard.
Although her mom called as we just finished, so there was no round two.
I found out later, through the grapevine, that the whole time I’d seen her, she’d been with other dudes. Lots of other dudes. Lots and lots and lots.
Buffalo Bangkok: Juvenile Delinquent Stories emerged. Sordid stories of her and this crackhead, homeless guy, a thirty or fortyish guy we called “Dirty Jeff,” who hung out with teens and bought us beer, partied with us.
She and this crackhead had made out. He’d fingered her. Fucked her.
Dirty Jeff and these other crackheads had smoked crack with her, and it became a tradition for them to tie her up, strip her naked, cover her in chocolate sauce and several of them at once would lick it off her, random guys would fuck her, in front of tons of people at parties.
But the craziest was a story of Jan, at one party, being tied up, stripped, and fucked with hot dogs, two of them at the same time, in front of a laughing, gawking crowd.
This was, fortunately, before the days of smartphones. Such an event would surely go viral, in this day and age, in the 2020s.
Perhaps one might think this was forced on her, nonconsensual. But it wasn’t. She was moaning, enjoying the experience, laughing. A good time was had by all.
Except me. Finding out this girl, the first I’d ever really been into, one I considered my girlfriend, was getting fucked by hot dogs, by crackheads, at a party, in front of a ton of people.
Rumors about the incident spread all over town, like a bad rash…
It wasn’t exactly the best way to begin my relationship with women. Which leads back to Jessica, who, sadly, would have to pay the price for this later.
Crazy enough, I’d broken up with Jan before discovering her exploits.
She’d broken up with me first, actually, gone back to this guy she’d been seeing, who used to brag about shaving her pussy.
She’d then come back to me, or at least fucked me, and then had asked to be my girlfriend, to which I refused.
(I’d refused because her friend had told me that Jan couldn’t help but cheat on any and every boyfriend she ever had. It was a compulsion of hers.) It was after I turned down her offer that I discovered the “hot dog” story.
Buffalo Bangkok: Juvenile Delinquent I spoke with a friend of mine about it, years later, and he said it was wrong to remember her by just that event. That she’s more than simply that event. It’s only one part of who she is or was. And he’s right. People generally shouldn’t be remembered for their worst moment, particularly when it’s one that happened in youth, high on drugs, and no one got killed or anything. She wasn’t one of the Columbine shooters or some shit…
We reconnected, years later, Jan and I, on Facebook. She said that through the
“fog of adolescence” she couldn’t remember why we broke up, stopped talking.
I did. I remember everything vividly. But I couldn’t bring myself to enlighten her on the details. Maybe, through selective memory or because of drug use, blackouts, she doesn’t even know. It’s probably best that way.
And I hold absolutely no animosity towards her. I wish her the best.
She’s become a beautiful grown woman, has a husband, two kids, and is an elementary school teacher in a West Coast state. She’s a wine connoisseur.
It makes me think how we don’t have one life, on this planet. We have many lives.
Her past life is just that. A past life.