Read Online The Anti-Cool Girl by Rosie Waterland - Free Book Online
Authors: Rosie Waterland
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didnât touch my fanny at least three times a day. (Sidenote: this also set me up for a massive amount of disappointment when I first started having sex. After watching many sex scenes in many movies, and after seventeen years of getting myself off on cue, I was under the assumption that I would have a special place explosion every time a penis entered my vagina. How wrong I was.)
Things had been good at Smurf Village. Iâd privately built up a lot of experience and felt that I had my technique down to a fine art. I could get the urge and be done within half an hour. Then Mum married Joe the Removalist and we moved into our fancy private rental, in which I had to share a bedroom with Rhiannon.
This made things particularly difficult for me, since touching my special place was definitely a bedroom activity. If Iâd asked for time alone in our room, Rhiannon would have immediatelysensed something was up and set about torturing me until I revealed my secret.
I thought about stopping, just giving up cold turkey, but after a few days without a special place explosion, I was just about ready to drop my pants and hump the first leg that walked past me. I realised that if I was going to continue functioning as a useful eight-year-old member of society, I was going to have to come up with a way to make this work. Humping my mattress was priority one.
I was both militant and organised in my approach. It took careful scheduling and a very particular set of working conditions before I was able to narrow down the perfect time to pencil in a standing appointment with my special place.
It couldnât be at night, obviously, because my sister slept on the bottom bunk and the possibility of her thinking Iâd been possessed was too high. It had to be in my bed, because the only way I could make it happen was when I face-planted on my mattress. And I needed about half an hour (it was hit and miss, but generally if I worked hard enough for that amount of time I could get positive results).
So, all variables considered, I concluded that the only possible opportunity for some âmeâ time was after school, in my room, while I was watching Rugrats.
As Rhiannon was now eleven and had continued to widen the cool gap between us with every passing year, we did notoften agree on the same television shows. And at 4pm on weekday afternoons, there was a clash in our preferred viewing schedules. She wanted to watch Degrassi Junior High, which was on at the same time as my choice, Rugrats. I didnât understand Degrassi, with all those denim jackets and lockers and velvet scrunchies. All the kids on that show looked like Rhiannon, and she watched it like she knew it was about her people and not mine.
It was perfect. I put up a bit of a fight at first, just to throw her off the scent, but after ten minutes of nagging each other, I kindly offered, out of the goodness of my generous and horny heart, to watch Rugrats in the bedroom, so that Rhiannon could watch her show on the good TV.
And so it began. Each day, at 4pm, I would âwatch Rugratsâ in the bedroom. With the door closed. In my bed. Under the covers.
Never mind that my head faced the opposite direction of the television, and that sometimes I was in such a rush to get things started, I completely forgot to turn it on. But this was my alone time, and it didnât look like I was ever going to get caught, so after a few weeks, I relaxed into a routine. Once I was done, Iâd take a breath, wipe my brow and leave the bedroom, sufficiently flushed and ready to join my sister in the living room for Clarissa Explains It All.
It was the perfect crime. Until it wasnât.
One afternoon, I skipped into the bedroom for my daily appointment. I closed the door, switched on the TV and swung up onto the top bunk with anticipation. Lying on my stomach? Check. Covers all the way up to my head? Check. Is the coast clear? Ch â wait a second, I was already off
Things had been good at Smurf Village. Iâd privately built up a lot of experience and felt that I had my technique down to a fine art. I could get the urge and be done within half an hour. Then Mum married Joe the Removalist and we moved into our fancy private rental, in which I had to share a bedroom with Rhiannon.
This made things particularly difficult for me, since touching my special place was definitely a bedroom activity. If Iâd asked for time alone in our room, Rhiannon would have immediatelysensed something was up and set about torturing me until I revealed my secret.
I thought about stopping, just giving up cold turkey, but after a few days without a special place explosion, I was just about ready to drop my pants and hump the first leg that walked past me. I realised that if I was going to continue functioning as a useful eight-year-old member of society, I was going to have to come up with a way to make this work. Humping my mattress was priority one.
I was both militant and organised in my approach. It took careful scheduling and a very particular set of working conditions before I was able to narrow down the perfect time to pencil in a standing appointment with my special place.
It couldnât be at night, obviously, because my sister slept on the bottom bunk and the possibility of her thinking Iâd been possessed was too high. It had to be in my bed, because the only way I could make it happen was when I face-planted on my mattress. And I needed about half an hour (it was hit and miss, but generally if I worked hard enough for that amount of time I could get positive results).
So, all variables considered, I concluded that the only possible opportunity for some âmeâ time was after school, in my room, while I was watching Rugrats.
As Rhiannon was now eleven and had continued to widen the cool gap between us with every passing year, we did notoften agree on the same television shows. And at 4pm on weekday afternoons, there was a clash in our preferred viewing schedules. She wanted to watch Degrassi Junior High, which was on at the same time as my choice, Rugrats. I didnât understand Degrassi, with all those denim jackets and lockers and velvet scrunchies. All the kids on that show looked like Rhiannon, and she watched it like she knew it was about her people and not mine.
It was perfect. I put up a bit of a fight at first, just to throw her off the scent, but after ten minutes of nagging each other, I kindly offered, out of the goodness of my generous and horny heart, to watch Rugrats in the bedroom, so that Rhiannon could watch her show on the good TV.
And so it began. Each day, at 4pm, I would âwatch Rugratsâ in the bedroom. With the door closed. In my bed. Under the covers.
Never mind that my head faced the opposite direction of the television, and that sometimes I was in such a rush to get things started, I completely forgot to turn it on. But this was my alone time, and it didnât look like I was ever going to get caught, so after a few weeks, I relaxed into a routine. Once I was done, Iâd take a breath, wipe my brow and leave the bedroom, sufficiently flushed and ready to join my sister in the living room for Clarissa Explains It All.
It was the perfect crime. Until it wasnât.
One afternoon, I skipped into the bedroom for my daily appointment. I closed the door, switched on the TV and swung up onto the top bunk with anticipation. Lying on my stomach? Check. Covers all the way up to my head? Check. Is the coast clear? Ch â wait a second, I was already off
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