They put me in pervert school. I’d like to say I wasn’t embarrassed, but I was. My mother, the proud, stern woman who could never ask for help, who always insisted the schools were run by idiots and nepotists, who was flagrantly and shamelessly abusing the hired help in front of me daily, sent me to pervert school. The hypocrisy was almost too much to bear. The sessions happened after school, twice a week in a classroom with the other unfortunates, and once a week alone with Mrs. Lamley, the gym teacher and guidance counselor. Lamley wasn’t exactly a model of sexual function either, since rumors had surfaced about extra-late volleyball practices with less-than-normal dress code. In fact, she’d only started the program after they removed her from the coaching staff. She was pretty much your typical grown-up jock, shorter and angrier than she’d like to be, and probably a female supremacist, although she couldn’t acknowledge it publicly.
And then there was me, the talk of the school. One week envied, the next despised. Lamley made me explain the incident in front of the whole group, and I know that the fags were actually getting off to it. I mean, I have nothing against them personally, but I didn’t really want them schlicking off to my personal history. The whole thing was embarrassing, what else can I say.
In one-on-one, I told Lamley what she wanted to hear. He wasn’t the object, he was only a prop. Boy could have been any of my school friends (she liked that), but he was the only thing around. Hormones. Angst. Acting out. The usual. But not a case for therapy. Please, not a long-term commitment. Lamley wanted to keep me in group discussions for a while before making up her mind.
There was an introductory video featuring a tall brunette in a lab coat and a short blonde who looked vaguely familiar standing in an empty classroom. “Welcome to the Intergender Education program, brought to you by The Council for Sexual Health and Gender Relations. You are enrolled in this program because you are a young woman between the ages of twelve and eighteen, and you have acted inappropriately with a member of the male gender. First of all, don’t worry! Every individual is different, and she must decide for herself how to interact with the males in her life. We are here to help you decide for yourself what changes you’d like to make to life a happier, healthier life. We will be exploring the basic causes and results of various behaviors common in young women of your age, but first let me introduce myself. I’m TV’s Michelle Bagley. You’ve probably seen me on Hardly Matters or other daytime programs.” That sitcom was over 20 years old.
The camera zoomed in and followed the taller woman to the blackboard. “And I’m Dr. Tabitha Grey. Did you know that many women who act out with boys are searching for an outlet for their own sexual insecurities? Do you ever think about sex and feel insecure? Maybe you’re unsure about the shape of your body. Maybe your nose is too big or your hair is too flat. Or maybe you don’t think you’ll be good at sex, that you’ll disappoint your partner. By identifying these insecurities, we can start to understand why we behave the way that we do.
“For example:” She looked at the blackboard and it became an animated graphic, “Janie over here gets made fun of because she’s not as tall or thin as the other girls. Janie gets very angry but she doesn’t know how to express that anger. So Janie doesn’t let her boy eat so he gets very skinny and sad. She had her boy taken away from her because she doesn’t treat him right.
“Now Carla over here is a different sort. She reads all the fashion magazines, especially the explicit columns. Her big sister always tells her how important it is that she please her wife one day if she wants to be a good wife. Carla wants to learn about sex but she’s too afraid to approach any of her classmates or teachers. Instead Carla acts out sexually towards her boy. How her boy is in re-education for five years and Carla has to clean up her own room.”
It was as condescending as it was unrealistic. I watched as the boiled the incredible complexity of human relationships into five archetypes and recommended a simple fix for each. “Finding out which type of woman you are can be your key to appropriate intergender relations.”
Mrs. Lamley insisted at the end, “Just think about it and talk to me. Don’t worry, I won’t let you go gay like Alex.” Because everyone knew you could “go gay” just by interacting with boys too much. Antiquated bullshit thinking.
When word of my new extracurricular got out, my friends were less than understanding. I certainly didn’t think a person could “go gay”, but being treated like a fag day after day certainly wasn’t helping. Even my most understanding friends would get weird when the topic of cute girls came up in conversation. There was an unspoken, “not that you would be interested in that,” and a condescending disbelief when I joined in. The less understanding ones called me names: Taker, Boy-slut, Rape-starter, Pole Licker, Cock Slut, and of course the more perennial Queer, Whore, and Unlocker. Never mention that I didn’t actually have sex with him, that I never unlocked him, that I never put that weird appendage in my mouth or any other part. No one cared about the details.
There were weirder side effects of my new reputation. I had never really believed Aimee’s story about the boys from the woods riding up on her at the end of a hike and taking her roughly in the grass. I had touched myself a couple of times to the idea, but never considered it credible. Wild boys were an old husband’s tale, something mothers tell wayward girls to get them home before curfew. But if Aimee was faking, she knew how to act the part. The way she looked at me, not just the intense coldness that was becoming commonplace, but the sneer with which she spoke to me, the sudden hate. She never used the words “Rape-starter” but her implications were clear: she blamed me for something. Her abuse? She would have everyone believe so. Some people, not reasonable people, but some people, believed that arousing, or even worse, fucking boys, set off rape binges. That a “taste for pussy” could send any boy on an unstoppable rampage.
Even if the idea were the last bit credible, my event with Boy happened long after her assault. If it even happened. Such a drama queen.
I got the opposite reaction from Alex. “What was it like?” she asked me after class one day as we got a slushy from the corner store together. Two weeks before, I wouldn’t have been caught dead with her, but now she was the only one who wanted to get a slushy.
“What do you mean?” I asked. “You’ve been with plenty of boys.”
“Well sure,” she nodded, “but what was it like for you?”
Alex was a bit shorter than me, but otherwise my white doppelganger. She had my straight, brown hair, my wide-set eyes and full lips, even some of my ass (for a white girl). I had a few pounds on her, no doubt my Mom’s genes at work. Alex was pretty cute.
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“I liked it,” I said. “I’m probably not supposed to say that, but I did. Don’t tell anyone.”
“Who am I going to tell?” she asked with a pitifully weak smile.
“Sure,” I agreed. “He was really surprised. I was acting like I wanted to stick it in him, but then I had him wear the strap-on. His eyes were bulging out of his head. He probably could have died of a heart attack, he looked so excited. That was pretty fun.”
“Oh,” she said. “You didn’t get his thing out?”
“No. I didn’t really think about it,” I admitted. “I don’t know where his key is anyway. I don’t know if my mom bought it.”
“Sure. But how did it feel? Was he thrusting into you really hard or what?” She stared at me like a slice of moist cake. She was getting off on this, I could tell.
“Nah, I was riding on top of him. I don’t know, I wasn’t really paying attention to him. It just felt good and I could feel him sort of moving and squirming around under me. It just felt good to get it really deep inside of me.”
Alex laughed, “You really are a boy-slut, aren’t you.”
The spell was broken. She didn’t understand me any better than my shitty friends. “Yeah, whatever,” I replied.
“I wasn’t being mean,” she explained. “That’s just something gay people say. It’s endearing.”
“Well I’m not a gay person.”
And what about Mom? That stupid tyrant who ruined my whole social life? She couldn’t be bothered to talk to me and try to raise me like a real parent. No, she stuck to punishing defenseless Boy and let the school deal with the real problem, namely me. Mom was merciless. You would think he really had raped me the way she talked to him while giving it to him roughly.
“You disgusting pervert,” she would say, “you dirty, nasty creature. Looking at my daughter that way, disrespecting me in my own house. You sneaky animal. Accepting my hospitality while harboring nasty urges towards my daughter. You disgust me.” All the while rutting his ass like there’s no tomorrow. It was embarrassing, both the over-the-top scolding from Mom and the less-and-less stoic grunting (squealing) from Boy. You would think he had taken his enforcer off and was walking around with a swinging dick. You would think he was a wild boy, the way she treated him.
I must admit that I felt bad. Boy didn’t deserve to be punished. And yet, if I made that clear to Mom, what would she do to me? Would she even believe that it was my idea? I was scared to find out.
For her part, Mom wasn’t exactly a model of propriety. The wide, mad eyes, her violent thrusting and pumping, even the stream of hateful vulgarity coming from her mouth, it all pointed to an experience more intense than a simple punishment. I mean, Mom would fly off the handle at me from time to time, but there was a clear pleasure she took in punishing Boy, an animalistic pleasure. Which is not to mention her actual method: sex, essentially. She was fucking him, ramming her rod up his ass, taking him roughly. Call it punishment, call it effective, but it was still a kind of sex. It left Boy shaking and sweaty, and occasionally Mom as well. And if it was really punishment, why did I want it so bad? Poor, poor, Boy, I thought to myself as my hand made its journey southwards. Poor, panting, punished Boy.
“How can you do this to him?” I confronted her one night.
“This is how you teach boys. Everyone knows that. It’s the only thing they understand.”
“But it’s illegal!” I insisted in a loud whisper, hushing my voice for no reason.
“And that’s how the world works, baby girl. Not everything that’s right is legal, that’s the way of things. Boy could buy his freedom tomorrow and walk out of here, that would be legal, but it wouldn’t be right. He wouldn’t have an owner to teach and guide him. If we stopped him, what jury in the world would say we’d done wrong?”
It was a surprisingly direct answer from my usually wrathful Mom. She must have sensed my growing empathy because she started involving me more and more in the nightly punishments. Mind you, the jealous bitch would never let me touch him, but she insisted I watch his spanking and had him kiss my feet while she did the rutting, insisting he apologize to me directly. It nearly broke my heart.
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