Saturday, July 9, 2011

The scariest girl in class

The scariest girl in class
Author Unknown
Everybody in freshman English was scared shitless of Zoe. And I don't just mean the students--I mean the teachers too. I wish I had a photo of that expression: the cold gray-green eyes over flawless pink-freckled cheekbones, one eyebrow slightly curled up so as to ever so daintily express, "Is that all you've got?" It was the body that made her scary. Tall, round, wide, gravity-defiant breasts--I'd guess 36C minimum, but I bet bigger--held, EVERY DAY OF THE WEEK, in taut cantilevered push-up bras underneath baby Ts that belonged only on a grade-schooler, leaving plenty of room for her surreally tiny waist (the product of a Victorian corset in her spare time?) over cashmere minis. Below: a tear-inducing swatch of butterscotch-colored thigh so toned you could bounce a quarter off, then a fillip of knee, then white socks that climbed that high over red trainers. Or, half the week, beat-up Doc Martens that added a touch of cruelty to the Catholic-school-Lolita shtik.

Zoe had a sexual power that felt like an atom bomb in a baby's hands. It was obviously unfair to everyone that someone so callous and immature had so much power through a genetic dice-throw. I don't think there was one moment of the day when Zoe was too tired or bored or, heaven forfend, struck with a sudden capricious squirt of compassion to torture everyone around her with her superior desirability.

The fat girls got it really bad. "Do you think a guy is going to want to fuck YOU? Looking like that? Do you think anyone can stomach looking at that ass naked? How can YOU stand to look at it? Doesn't it make you sick to take your clothes off at night? It makes me sick just to think about it." The computer geeks, especially the ones that dared to say hi in the hallways: I shuddered to think of the therapy bills of the ones that collided with Zoe. "What must it be like to realize that you're going to spend the whole rest of your life jerking off? To think that you will never, ever have sex with a woman who's even mildly attractive? Doesn't that make you, like, want to kill yourself now?" Even attractive girls with small flaws--a too-big nose, inherited wideish hips--got napalmed. But no one stopped her. Because Zoe, through a combination of arrogance and painful-to-behold beauty, had a way of making everyone around want to...bow down.

I admit it; I was complicit. I didn't say a word when Zoe tortured the ugly girls in my class. I must confess: when I heard those ugly girls cry after class...it turned me on. It made Zoe seem more godlike. Zoe didn't fuck with me too much, because I was a teacher; but it was clear from her curt, sarcastic responses in class that she thought I was unattractive, that if I were one of her classmates she would torment me as she did the poor computer nerds and Ho-Ho-eating uncool Southern girls.

And then I found myself in class trying to unpeel my attention from the butterscotch thighs (she crossed her legs again; and again) and from the breasts I longed to crush my mouth against by looking down, down:

...at Zoe's feet.

And here is the Greek-tragedy part of my story: She noticed.

And I noticed she noticed. And the minute we noticed each other noticing my Zoe's Feet Problem, her behavior changed. She became cool toward me: not mean, not contemptuous, just very, very neutral.

And her footwear changed.

The trainers stayed, but in class she would take them off and scratch at her foot, all the while looking me in the eyes and mock-submissively nodding at some dumb remark I was making about Edith Wharton. And I would notice the soles of her socks: black, blacker, filthy. She was wearing the same socks every day for a week.

I would, in the middle of pompously wandering around class talking about some short story or other I hadn't really read, circle around her desk; getting a little bit closer. Why? Hoping that those ever-blacker socks...were stinky. And that in passing I could catch just a whiff, a momentary olfactory glimpse, the foot equivalent of passing by a recently cut fart. I never got that whiff. But I got the feeling that she knew what my new closeness was about; and it was not, as with other males, about looking at her tits.

Her smiles got crueler. I swore she knew.

Then it became obvious. She'd wear silly dominatrix boots, thigh-highs, with skirts that were inappropriate, drawing attention in class (which then turned into fodder for more Zoe meanness). She'd wear Twin Peaks saddle shoes. One day she slicked down her pert blond hair, wore a Foreigner tour T shirt with the arms cut off, men's work pants, and chewed-up Docs: rich girl playing diesel dyke for Halloween. It worked; I tented my pants.

Remember please that all this time zero communication happened between us--overt communication that is, spoken-word stuff. The eyes said it all. And what did the eyes say?

The Zoe eyes said, "I know. I've got you. And I'm gonna come up with weird stuff for you to jerk off over until I figure out how to use this to really fuck you up."

And my eyes said, "Yes. Thank you. More, please."

I think the tease might have gone on indefinitely had I not come up with an arbitrary bullshit excuse to call Zoe into my office hours. Looking back, I think she probably knew I would be the one to fold first.

The door opened. Zoe plunked down on the chair next to my desk in my tiny broom-closet-sized office. Blue baby T ("daddy's girl"--I shit you not at all), daisy dukes, black Keds. Up the shoes go on my desk. Big SMACK! of bubble gum. Saucy-baby-whore routine. Okay, I'm with it; I'll pull back, think about puppies, do something to get through this. I totally lacked the courage of my phone call.

"I just, I, wanted to, to have a few words with you about--"

"WHAT? Is it? I really don't have a lotta time, I have PRACTICE, I gotta--"

"No, yes, I understand that, Zoe, I just think that, that you've lost focus in the second half of the semester, and your work--not your speaking in class, your written, written work, it has, uh, lost, LOST, some of the..."

On and on I go like this as I notice her feet tapping. Just swatting on my desk, supernally fast, like Zoe's on speed. Is she? Does she do lines before my class? Is that what makes her so cunty? That somehow just adds to the allure. But okay, I try to hang in there, stay with it, keep talking about her performance in class and not notice that she's leaning backwards, arms behind her head, cracking her knuckles in this fake-tough, "what a rich little girl thinks a big mean dyke is like" way, and when she does that...I see these cute little curls of blond hair in her armpits. And I can smell her pits. And they're stinky: not bad stinky, girl-in-the-gym stinky. And I can feel my hard-on getting ginormous and I hope to fuck she doesn't see that.

"The, you know, the work you did on 'Gatsby,' the work on thematics--"

"So what is it exactly you want me to DO? Now. Mr. Jeter? 'Cause, I don't really have a lot of TIME, to be honest--I AM SO HOT."

Those words hang in the air. I look really really really scared. Then she giggles.

"What I mean is, I was just working out and my TEMPERATURE is raised. God! You must think I'm totally conceited!"

"No, no, I--"

"All I meant was that I'm, like, HOT!"

A silly "Oops, I said it again!" giggle: "...Would it bother you if I took my shoes off? They are so pinching me and I had such a rough day and I must be getting hormonal or something, it's like menopause, I am FUH-REAKING OUT FROM THE HEAT!"

While she says those last five words, she actually SHAKES the baby t, making her tits stick out like a flag rattling against a flagpole. Red herring, decoy: ska-thump ska-thump, off go the Keds. And the feet go up.

"Oh." Silence. Air conditioner. Sound of librarians talking to Korean girls outside my office.

"I am SO sorry." My eyes are right on the feet. Fuck it. My life's over. Why not just let it all go?

"I am SO SO sorry that my feet smell so bad."

I look into her eyes. She looks like a Nazi aiming a Mauser at an old Jewish man who didn't make his hinges fast enough. "I am so sorry that they reek!"

My eyes make an expression like: Huh? What? Did you say something? Because I was ogling this teenage girl's dirty feet and didn't notice.

"I mean, Lesley told me they reek like I popped a bag of Cool Ranch Doritos. Do you think they have a Dorito smell?"

Caught, twisting, like a limbless guy writhing on black ice: "I...no. You don't... you know, have any problem with that?"

"With what?" Silence. Tick, waiting.

"In...you know. With, with smell."

"With smell what?"

Her right foot comes up. It's like a plane passing overhead. Two smells: moisturizer or something clean and nice on her toned calf (I can almost feel the shaved skin and the tight muscle) and raunchy, cheesy foot, a dark smell, spicy, a real B.O. smell, a knockout, so strong it's almost boyish.

"I don't mean to be gross, but...I mean, would you say that my feet smell really bad? Is that inappropriate to ask that?"

I shake my head no, but then the other foot comes up. She zooms them around, playfully. The smell--a real gasser, strong now, brighter, lighting up the room, like a whole bagful of takeout food opened up--slides past me and over me, in and out, there and not: incredible, a striptease of foot-stink! And the best part: I'm looking past the dirty sole-blackened socks and right into her eyes which say, I have you.

Suddenly both feet are down on the floor and she is leaning in very close to me and I realize how close those famous breasts, the breasts that are talked about in staff meetings (after the women have left, in hushed, fear-of-litigation tones), are to my throat:

"You can do what you want to. It's okay."

"I...whih?"

Her forehead bonks gently into mine, she is looking straight into my eyes, with normal people this would be one of those I-am-about-to-give-you-a-kiss moments, but not me, uh-unh, no way. She touches the hair on my forehead gently, parting it, smoothing it:

"It's okay. I like it. I like it when guys get excited like this. It's okay. You can take it out. I promise I like it."

Then the killer. The super-gentle voice, never before heard, the voice of compassion, the voice she uses on retarded girls and fat aging men who have never had sex and the poor hapless eight-dollar-an-hour rent-a-cop: the voice of Total Power bestowing some tender gift on the unworthy, out of pity.

"It'll be our thing. I'm like that too. I'm a perv. It really is cool. Don't be afraid. Okay?"

Like a child, a small child crying in a big empty building, I nod, I take the comfort.

"Don't be afraid of me. So many people are afraid of me. Will you trust me?"

I nod.

"Will you be my friend?"

I nod. I start to cry. My whole torso shakes. I am so afraid.

"Shhh, shh. Will you trust me? And smell my stinky Dorito feet?"

I laugh, breaking the tears. She kisses my eyes. She leans back. With perfect yoga stoicism, she holds her feet high in the air, calf muscles throbbing, stinky blackened soles right up against my nose. I lean in ever so gently: they mat my face. Soft creamy soles over my mouth, cheeks. And the sweet spot, the stink heaven known to all foot fetishists, the stink-deposit just underneath the knuckles of the toes, goes right over my nose. I let out a whimper--part relief, part fear, part abject humiliation. That last part is the best.

"Dickwad. Ugly stupid fuck. Old fucker. Old lechin' on little girls fucker. Tell me you like me to call you that."

Yes doesn't come out. A stupid ungainly Frankenstein groan does.

"Say I like to sniff the hottest girl in school's feet."

I say that--or something like that, right into her soles, which are amazingly firm and yet soft. Like the foot equivalent of A-plus breasts.

Then her voice changes--not the dominant, fantasy-bitch voice she uses to get me entranced and docile. Now it's the "real" voice--the gentle voice.

"Take it out, sweet." She pushes feet against my face and points quickly at my dick. "Take it out, sweetheart." She rubs against my face, HARD, in a circular direction, as if she were pouring her foot-stink on me like a bottle of wine. "Let's do this now. 'Kay?"

I nod. Listen. Air conditioning. Korean girls gone. I quickly unzip my fly. I move my boxers aside slightly and my dick comes sproinging out, harder than I've ever seen it, swaddled in precum.

"Good baby," she says. "Take a big whiff."

I inhale deep, jerking on my precum-slippery dick. At exactly this moment:

The door bursts open and two big jocks, must be football guys, huge really, almost too tall for the doors, wide too, come barreling in: one with an old-school Weegee-style flash camera (WHAP! it goes) and one with a video camera. There it is: my dick, her feet, her terrified face, her recoil, her tears, the word rape, all of it caught for posterity.

And that was that.

I don't mind it so much here. The getting fucked in the ass, that takes some getting used to. But I work with it. To be honest? I pretend it's her. When some big ugly buck lays me down over a sink and writes the word BITCH in magic marker right above my ass, and plows in for a good evening's fuck, I have got to tell you the God's honest truth:

I pretend it's Zoe behind me. And I pretend that evil man-stink is her tender girly one.

I picture her at graduation as I'm getting it up the pooper. I picture her and her mom and dad and brothers going to a fancy restaurant as I'm getting a pork sword in the keester. I picture her going down on the whole varsity squad as jizz hits my bowels. And it makes it better, it does. Cause I picture it's her behind me--jabbing me with the most expensive strap-on she could find on the Net, gagging me with her puke-inducing socks, and talking to me in that voice she only used on retards and fat girls.

Thank you, Zoe. You ruined my life and made me come harder than ever--the only two things I ever wanted from you.
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