Dozens—no, hundredsof pairs of thighs. This school’s dress code might actually fucking kill me. Cause of death: erection lasting more than four hours. There are all kinds of girls here, in all shapes and sizes. Blondes, brunettes, redheads, even a few pushing the dress code with rainbow-colored hair. Everywhere I look, I see little hints of skin beneath skirts. The swell of perky tits under a tight button-down shirt. Firm asses swaying around all over the place. I feel like a pervert, twenty-four-seven.
It’s a miracle I’m able to be productive at all. What was my dad even thinking, putting me in here? I’d just spent three years cooped up with sweaty, smelly, hormonally repressed boys. Mountain Point had reeked of feet and dried cum. Here? Every girl that passes smells like unicorns and dreams. Restraint, and a constant hard-on, has become my new normal. All I’d need to do is choose one and go for it.
The thought makes the back of my neck feel clammy.
I swallow a particularly dry bite of potatoes. “Still checking out my options.”
“What was it like there, anyway?” Carlton Wade asks. He’s a junior who plays running back on the team with us. He’s also got this slimy grin that constantly makes me want to put a boot in his face. “Was it just a bunch of dicks all the time? Circle jerks? On a scale of one to ten, how homoerotic are we talking?”
I swallow a mouthful of mac n’ cheese and wipe my mouth. “Not half as homoerotic as the way you look at everyone in the locker room.”
There’s a chorus of loud whooping, but Carlton just shrugs. “I’m not ashamed. I might be pussy-eating straight, but my boys got some fine asses.”
Emory returns with two cans of Dr. Pepper, tossing one to me. “Hell yeah, I do, and don’t you forget it.”
“But come on.” Carlton makes a horrified expression. “Three years without any girls? That’s some cruel and unusual shit.”
“There were girls. Sometimes.” The school administrators weren’t idiots. They knew we had to be around girls occasionally or we’d burn that fucker down. “Few times a year, they’d bus in students from the sister school for social events. Plus,” I add, popping the top on my can, “I had like a million hours of community service, and trust me, the kind of girls who are on probation?” I give him a look.
“Oh, shit!” Ben looks absolutely delighted. I don’t know much about the guy yet, except that he plays drums in the marching band, and that’s only because he’s constantly got his drumsticks out, tapping them on everything. It’s either monumentally stupid or completely genius that he’s also an offensive linesman on the team. He almost never has to actually march. “You get some of that rough trade?”
I shrug, but that’s basically the gist of it. “Had a semi-regular thing going on with an arsonist named Melody.” By the looks on their faces, they can’t decide if I’m jerking their chains or not. I won’t bother saying one way or another. Quick, flustered hook-ups in bathrooms, utility closets, and port-a-johns aren’t exactly brag-worthy. And that was only the summer before junior year. It’s been a long time.
Thank god for contraband phones, social media, and girls with either the high or low self-esteem to send sexy photos. But, Carlton isn’t wrong. Too many dicks and not enough tits. I glance over at a table of girls I’d seen the day before at cheerleading practice and feel the familiar tightening in my groin. “But yeah, but overall, it sucked. I’m glad to be back in the world of co-eds.”
“So what I want to know is,” Ben asks, gesturing with his fork, “is it true that you have a gnarly scar from the wreck?”
The whole table falls abruptly silent.
Emory slams his can on the table. “Jesus, Ben. What the fuck?”
“What?” Ben asks, totally clueless. “Chicks dig scars! I’m just saying, if it’s bad enough, maybe it’ll get you some ass.”
Carlton jabs him in the side with his elbow and gives Ben a dark look. Looks like even that asshole gets the dynamic going on. Talking about my scar like that is so fucking far from being okay. Not in front of Emory. Not after what happened to his sister.
It’s been the elephant in the room for days now—years, actually, if I’m counting all the calls and chats where we both completely ignore the issue