Read Online Fly on the Wall: How One Girl Saw Everything by E. Lockhart - Free Book Online
Authors: E. Lockhart
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the beach, including one European guy whose bathing suit was so small it looked like nothing more than a little orange hammock for his package,
swimmers and divers on television, who are nice to look at but you can never look for long before they hurtle themselves into the water,
black-and-white illustrations in our biology textbook from last semester, which showed the gherkin circumcised and not,plus one of it being erect, which surprised me since I had figured it would stick out perpendicular to the body but really it turns out to point upward at like an eighty-degree angle,
and
Shane with his shirt off last fall, but nothing showing below the belt.
Oh, and we sometimes have models for drawing class, but because we're underage they always keep most of their clothes on.
I fly down to have a closer look at Hugh, who is taking off the argyles. I'm ashamed of myself, but I go in for close-up gherkin-information-gathering right away. I mean, I don't consider Hugh's privacy at all.
I'm a total Peeping Tom. Or Peeping Sally. Whatever.
Hm.
It's a blob of skin and hair.
It looks floppy and kind of humorous, actually.
You know how there are all these phallic symbols? Like giant skyscrapers and cannons and swords and things that are big and macho and shaped like a gherkin, supposedly, and they're symbols of masculine power?
Well, the actual gherkin doesn't look anything like a phallic symbol. Honestly, the idea that Spider-Man and Orlando Bloom and the president of the United States all have these blobs of skin and hair flopping off their midsections underneath their clothes and bouncing around when they walk—it's actually funny. Worse than biscuits; those bounce a bit when I run but it'sreally not a problem. Honestly, if I had what Hugh has got between my legs, I don't know how I'd ever even sit down or pull on a pair of pants, much less play dodgeball.
It's a major liability.
I think he's medium-size, though I don't have anything to compare it to. It's floppy and even shrively-looking. Like in this state, at least, none of those words people use seems to fit.
My sword,
my torpedo,
my pink trombone,
my rocket,
my Longfellow,
my voodoo stick,
my staff of life.
It's nothing like what you'd think when guys are bragging about being well hung, or sticking it in some girl, or some crap like that. I mean, it's got a kind of magnetism about it, like it's ugly and good-looking at the same time.
But not what I had imagined.
It's more human, I guess.
Hugh swats at me vaguely as I buzz around his midsection. I fly up to the top of the lockers and keep staring at him.
It is interesting to see a boy's body up close. My own body has a thousand imperfections; I mean, my human body did, when I had one. Fuzzy-looking eyebrows, no muscle definition, thickish ankles, bitten fingernails—but I never gave any thought to the idea that a popular guy like Hugh would have imperfections,too. I mean, overall he has a great physique. Girls look at him all the time. But he's got a spray of zits across his shoulders,
and his belly hangs over his waistband when he bends over,
and his butt has curly black hairs on it, like they didn't know they were supposed to stop at the top of his legs,
and one of his nipples is pierced, which is not my thing, but I guess he must like it,
and his feet are bony and have hairy knuckles,
and his skin looks dry in patches, here and there,
and his legs are kind of thin in proportion to his top half. None of the Greek statues ever has legs like that.
So it's like I simultaneously have this lust thing going on and this objective evaluation of his flaws.
You wouldn't think you could do both at the same time, but you can. I can.
I must still be at least partly human, or he wouldn't make me hot and bothered the way he does.
Hugh is nearly dressed and the clock reads 7:50 when the door slams open again and I can hear shouts in the hallway and a horde of senior boys comes into the locker room and starts
swimmers and divers on television, who are nice to look at but you can never look for long before they hurtle themselves into the water,
black-and-white illustrations in our biology textbook from last semester, which showed the gherkin circumcised and not,plus one of it being erect, which surprised me since I had figured it would stick out perpendicular to the body but really it turns out to point upward at like an eighty-degree angle,
and
Shane with his shirt off last fall, but nothing showing below the belt.
Oh, and we sometimes have models for drawing class, but because we're underage they always keep most of their clothes on.
I fly down to have a closer look at Hugh, who is taking off the argyles. I'm ashamed of myself, but I go in for close-up gherkin-information-gathering right away. I mean, I don't consider Hugh's privacy at all.
I'm a total Peeping Tom. Or Peeping Sally. Whatever.
Hm.
It's a blob of skin and hair.
It looks floppy and kind of humorous, actually.
You know how there are all these phallic symbols? Like giant skyscrapers and cannons and swords and things that are big and macho and shaped like a gherkin, supposedly, and they're symbols of masculine power?
Well, the actual gherkin doesn't look anything like a phallic symbol. Honestly, the idea that Spider-Man and Orlando Bloom and the president of the United States all have these blobs of skin and hair flopping off their midsections underneath their clothes and bouncing around when they walk—it's actually funny. Worse than biscuits; those bounce a bit when I run but it'sreally not a problem. Honestly, if I had what Hugh has got between my legs, I don't know how I'd ever even sit down or pull on a pair of pants, much less play dodgeball.
It's a major liability.
I think he's medium-size, though I don't have anything to compare it to. It's floppy and even shrively-looking. Like in this state, at least, none of those words people use seems to fit.
My sword,
my torpedo,
my pink trombone,
my rocket,
my Longfellow,
my voodoo stick,
my staff of life.
It's nothing like what you'd think when guys are bragging about being well hung, or sticking it in some girl, or some crap like that. I mean, it's got a kind of magnetism about it, like it's ugly and good-looking at the same time.
But not what I had imagined.
It's more human, I guess.
Hugh swats at me vaguely as I buzz around his midsection. I fly up to the top of the lockers and keep staring at him.
It is interesting to see a boy's body up close. My own body has a thousand imperfections; I mean, my human body did, when I had one. Fuzzy-looking eyebrows, no muscle definition, thickish ankles, bitten fingernails—but I never gave any thought to the idea that a popular guy like Hugh would have imperfections,too. I mean, overall he has a great physique. Girls look at him all the time. But he's got a spray of zits across his shoulders,
and his belly hangs over his waistband when he bends over,
and his butt has curly black hairs on it, like they didn't know they were supposed to stop at the top of his legs,
and one of his nipples is pierced, which is not my thing, but I guess he must like it,
and his feet are bony and have hairy knuckles,
and his skin looks dry in patches, here and there,
and his legs are kind of thin in proportion to his top half. None of the Greek statues ever has legs like that.
So it's like I simultaneously have this lust thing going on and this objective evaluation of his flaws.
You wouldn't think you could do both at the same time, but you can. I can.
I must still be at least partly human, or he wouldn't make me hot and bothered the way he does.
Hugh is nearly dressed and the clock reads 7:50 when the door slams open again and I can hear shouts in the hallway and a horde of senior boys comes into the locker room and starts
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