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Authors: Larry Duplechan
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up. I don’t even know what I would have said.
Gee, kid, sorry your chick’s knocked up?
The news about Todd and Leslie, and especially Mom and Mrs. Johnson’s attitude, took a lot of the shine off my good mood about the auditions. I thought about the fact that if they, two of the less rabid adults in town, felt that way, there were probably people in the congregation who’d want to see Todd drawn and quartered as an example to all other horny teenagers, and pretty soon I was quite depressed.
I’m like that sometimes. Hearing about somebody else’s troubles – Todd’s or Efrem’s or the starving children in Africa – I’ll just get so depressed. Not all the time, of course, and not every bit of bad news I ever hear – heaven knows, a person could stay depressed. Just every now and then, I’ll hear something – about some baby with leukemia, or the number of times over we could kill every living soul on earth with our nuclear weapons or something – and I’ll begin to feel like life just makes no sense at all. Just none at all.
And I’ll want to cry like a baby, or break things. Usually, though, I’ll just go to my room and listen to my stereo, a big old Magnavox mahogany cabinet model that Dad let me keep in my room after he finally broke down and bought a set of components for the living room.
So I went to my room, threw my books on the bed, and put Court and Spark on the turntable. I sat on the floor with my back up against the cabinet and let Joni’s voice pour over me like cool honey. I figure, if you’re going to be depressed anyway, you might as well listen to Joni Mitchell.
Chapter Five
I was almost late to school the next day. Despite the fact that I woke up a full hour early, being so anxious about getting to school to check the bulletin board outside the Drama building. The reason why I was almost late was because I was locked in the bathroom jerking off. As I mentioned before, I get an awful lot of hard-ons, and a pretty good percentage of them seem to end up in my right hand. In other words, I jerk off quite a lot. Which bothers me sometimes, like maybe I do it too much. Johnnie Ray Rousseau, boy nympho – film at eleven. But, how much is too much? Twice a day? Five times? Ten? I’m sure Pastor Crandall would say that it’s too much if you do it at all. And some days, I actually lose count. I’ll do it in the morning before school in the bathroom, and at night against the sheets, maybe one or two quick ones in the head at school between classes. Sometimes, if I’m left alone in the house on a weekend or in the evening, I’ll do it over and over, just to see how many times I can. One Saturday, I did it twenty-two times. I finally stopped for fear I might come blood or something.
Anyway, this morning I’d awakened from a delicious dream about me and Coach Newcomb – I always have my best dreams in the morning right before I wake up – and I continued the fantasy after my shower, sitting on the toilet seat. Coach is in just his jockstrap and I’m totally naked, and I’m standing right on his big bare feet and running my hands all over his body, and we’re kissing. And I’m really into this, stroking and stroking and licking and kissing at the air, when Mom knocks bum-bum-bum-BUM on the bathroom door.
“Johnnie Ray, you’re gonna miss the bus if you don’t hurry up.”
“I’m hurrying, Mother.”
“Well, you’d better just keep on hurrying. Honestly, Johnnie Ray, I just don’t know what you could be do ing all that time in the bathroom. I swear, you take longer to get ready than I do.” And her voice faded down the hall with the sound of her quick, pink-slippered footsteps. Sometimes I wonder if Mom really doesn’t know what I do in the bathroom, or if she just pretends not to know.
Anyway, so I hurried it up. And Coach and I are really kissing now, and he’s rubbing me up and down with his big hands, and just as I was getting really, really close, I hear Mom
Gee, kid, sorry your chick’s knocked up?
The news about Todd and Leslie, and especially Mom and Mrs. Johnson’s attitude, took a lot of the shine off my good mood about the auditions. I thought about the fact that if they, two of the less rabid adults in town, felt that way, there were probably people in the congregation who’d want to see Todd drawn and quartered as an example to all other horny teenagers, and pretty soon I was quite depressed.
I’m like that sometimes. Hearing about somebody else’s troubles – Todd’s or Efrem’s or the starving children in Africa – I’ll just get so depressed. Not all the time, of course, and not every bit of bad news I ever hear – heaven knows, a person could stay depressed. Just every now and then, I’ll hear something – about some baby with leukemia, or the number of times over we could kill every living soul on earth with our nuclear weapons or something – and I’ll begin to feel like life just makes no sense at all. Just none at all.
And I’ll want to cry like a baby, or break things. Usually, though, I’ll just go to my room and listen to my stereo, a big old Magnavox mahogany cabinet model that Dad let me keep in my room after he finally broke down and bought a set of components for the living room.
So I went to my room, threw my books on the bed, and put Court and Spark on the turntable. I sat on the floor with my back up against the cabinet and let Joni’s voice pour over me like cool honey. I figure, if you’re going to be depressed anyway, you might as well listen to Joni Mitchell.
Chapter Five
I was almost late to school the next day. Despite the fact that I woke up a full hour early, being so anxious about getting to school to check the bulletin board outside the Drama building. The reason why I was almost late was because I was locked in the bathroom jerking off. As I mentioned before, I get an awful lot of hard-ons, and a pretty good percentage of them seem to end up in my right hand. In other words, I jerk off quite a lot. Which bothers me sometimes, like maybe I do it too much. Johnnie Ray Rousseau, boy nympho – film at eleven. But, how much is too much? Twice a day? Five times? Ten? I’m sure Pastor Crandall would say that it’s too much if you do it at all. And some days, I actually lose count. I’ll do it in the morning before school in the bathroom, and at night against the sheets, maybe one or two quick ones in the head at school between classes. Sometimes, if I’m left alone in the house on a weekend or in the evening, I’ll do it over and over, just to see how many times I can. One Saturday, I did it twenty-two times. I finally stopped for fear I might come blood or something.
Anyway, this morning I’d awakened from a delicious dream about me and Coach Newcomb – I always have my best dreams in the morning right before I wake up – and I continued the fantasy after my shower, sitting on the toilet seat. Coach is in just his jockstrap and I’m totally naked, and I’m standing right on his big bare feet and running my hands all over his body, and we’re kissing. And I’m really into this, stroking and stroking and licking and kissing at the air, when Mom knocks bum-bum-bum-BUM on the bathroom door.
“Johnnie Ray, you’re gonna miss the bus if you don’t hurry up.”
“I’m hurrying, Mother.”
“Well, you’d better just keep on hurrying. Honestly, Johnnie Ray, I just don’t know what you could be do ing all that time in the bathroom. I swear, you take longer to get ready than I do.” And her voice faded down the hall with the sound of her quick, pink-slippered footsteps. Sometimes I wonder if Mom really doesn’t know what I do in the bathroom, or if she just pretends not to know.
Anyway, so I hurried it up. And Coach and I are really kissing now, and he’s rubbing me up and down with his big hands, and just as I was getting really, really close, I hear Mom
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