Part One

Monday – Howl

by Ersatz

Jake

I can't believe it. I just cannot fucking believe it.

First thing Monday morning, I was called from my homeroom to the school's office. Smug, smarmy Mr. Handley, the school's principal, stood in front of us; seven students and me. He was about to issue a proclamation. Every time he starts to lay down the law he's got this same stupid ritual. He runs his hand over what little hair he's managed to comb over his bald spot, straightens his tie and puts his hands on his hips. Oh yes, very alpha male, in a middle-aged, polyester sort of way.

It's obvious why we're all here: The Program. We all know all about it. We all know all the rules. Of course, he's still going to tell us about it anyway.

“I suppose you've already guessed that you're in The Program this week.” After a pause, Mr. Handley continued, “Just to be clear about this, we're going to go over the rules, and your extra responsibilities this week.”

No one looked surprised. The youngest kids, freshmen and sophomores I suppose, looked scared. I recognized the juniors: Tina Johnson and Tom Something (couldn't remember his last name). Tom is a short, thin guy who's on the school newspaper. He just had a blank look on his face. Tina looked grim, but determined. The other senior was Linda Benton. I didn't know her very well. She was in a couple of my classes, but she was a cheerleader. Linda just looked calm and serene.

Me? I was pissed. Rip-roaring pissed.

“Okay, the obvious stuff,” Mr. Handley continued. “For the rest of the week, you'll be naked during school hours and any school activities. That includes any activities over the weekend.”

“Uh... Mr. Handley?” I interrupted.

“Each morning, when you arrive at school, you will place all your clothing except shoes and socks in the labeled lockers by the entrance. Each locker will have your name on it this week, so there will be no confusion,” Mr. Handley continued, while sending a slight frown in my direction.

“Mr. Handley?” I repeated.

“All right, what is it, Mr. Bergman?” Mr. Handley said with an exasperated sigh.

“I've already done my week on The Program,” I said.

“No, Jake, you haven't,” he replied.

“Yeah, I have. I did it when I was a sophomore at my old school in Amherst.”

“You didn't do it here at South Hastings High. It's a graduation requirement here so you've got to complete it here.”

“Algebra is a graduation requirement, also. I got credit for taking that at my old high school. Why not this?” The pleading note in my voice annoyed even me.

“You also demonstrated proficiency in Algebra in your other math classes. If you hadn't we'd have made you take that over, too. The Program fosters social interaction and sexual awareness and openness. You certainly haven't demonstrated proficiency in social interaction here at South Hastings High.” There was a smug tone in Mr. Handley's voice. “Now, if you'll allow me to continue?”

I had known that reasoning with him wouldn't do me any good. I'd also known that I would have kicked myself later if I didn't at least try to talk some sense into him. Okay, so I'd tried.

“As I was saying... since the goal of this exercise is to foster social and sexual awareness, you will be exposed to the opposite sex as much as possible this week. At gym you will use the showers of the opposite sex and you will use the rest rooms of the opposite sex. The Program rules, as specified in your pamphlets, limit you to at most three trips to the bathroom per day. While we don't strictly enforce minor rules like that, if we find you hiding from other students we will take corrective measures.

“You are required to comply with students' Reasonable Requests. There have been occasions where Reasonable Requests have crossed over the line of what is acceptable. There will be no intercourse in the hallways. And we will not tolerate other students demeaning the students in The Program. But you may not prevent yourself from being exposed or even respectfully touched by other students.

“During the first five minutes of each class, and only during that time, you may elect to have 'relief' from the natural sexual tension that you will be feeling. Please do not be embarrassed. It is natural, and, in fact, enlightening for you and the other students.”

Mr. Handley droned on through his recitation of the rest of the rules. I didn't really listen to most of it.

“Now, I'm sure that you've noticed that you have a partner of the opposite sex in your grade. It's likely that each of you will have moments this week that you find upsetting. Talk to your partners and help each other through these times. You all have at least two classes, and have the same lunch period with your partner. Please be sure to sit at the same lunch table with your partners.

“It's time for you to undress. Put your clothes in the labeled bins and someone will put them into your lockers. Spend the time until the bell rings familiarizing yourselves with your partners. Be sure to exchange phone numbers and email addresses.”

I have to admit that I was a bit of a pig. I couldn't resist covertly checking out the girls as they undressed. Hey, I was a seventeen-year-old guy. What do you expect?

The sophomore girl (who's name I still didn't know) was pretty cute. Very petite, pert breasts and thin wisps of brown pubic hair. The junior girl, Tina, was a little overweight, but still nice looking. Her breasts were large with really big nipples. I didn't want to appear to stare at the freshman girl at all. She looked like she was on the verge of crying.

I had to stop peeking at the girls as Linda walked over to me and started to undress. My partner Linda was a complete babe -- just what you'd expect in a cheerleader. She was a bit shorter than me; I'm 5' 10”, so I guess she was about 5' 6'. Some of her shoulder-length light brown hair was pulled up by static cling as she pulled her sweater over her head. It took me quite a bit longer than usual to undo my buttons when Linda opened the clasps on her bra and dropped it into the bin. Her nipples were just a couple of feet away pointing straight at me.

“Very nice,” I said quietly.

She gave me a small smile and continued taking off her pants.

I know that I've paraded naked in front of everyone at my old school, but that was a couple of years ago. I couldn't help feeling self-conscious. Linda, standing next to me, looked great, while I was just a pretty average-looking guy. I had thick, kind of frizzy, brown hair and I was fairly scrawny. I had some muscles in my shoulders from years of swimming (I decided not to join the swim team when we moved to Kansas) but I never looked like an especially athletic guy. I was definitely no match for the fine girl next to me.

I said hello to Linda, and exchanged phone numbers, email and IM contacts with her. While I can't say I was a fan of The Program, one thing I learned was how to talk to a naked girl without speaking into her tits. I still felt uneasy sporting a huge boner in front of a room of people I hardly knew, but I could function. That poor freshman guy was stuttering and staring straight at his partner's pussy.

The bell rang and I put Linda's info into my backpack. I told Linda I'd see her later in English.

They'd been running The Program at South Hastings High for about five years, so everyone was used to seeing a few nude kids roaming the halls. You'd think Hastings, Kansas would be the last place in the world to adopt The Program. Never heard of Hastings, Kansas? I can't blame you. Neither had I until I was exiled there the year before. Hastings was a medium-sized town on the western edge of Kansas. The only thing resembling civilization is a small University of Kansas satellite campus. That's what forced me there; my mother accepted a position as provost of the UK-Hastings campus.

Anyway, walking to my first naked class was relatively uneventful. A small group of freshman girls stopped to inspect my dick. A drop of precum oozed out when one of the girls grabbed it. I didn't have much time left before my French class, so I said to her “Now look what you've done. You made him cry.” She blushed; the rest of the girls giggled as they all walked off.

French class was pretty routine -- well, as routine as you can get conjugating future imperfect verbs in the nude. Madam Sanders did ask me if I wanted relief (“Vous avez besoin de soulagement?”) which I refused (“Aucun merci”). Being in The Program in the middle of the year wasn't really all that bad. Madam Sanders had already labeled the body parts of earlier participants. Last month, to Paul Naismith's and Becky Ermine's horror, they were brought to the head of the class to discuss “en Francais” an exhaustive list of sexual acts, several of which I'd never heard of. Useful knowledge, I suppose, if I ever need to negotiate with a whore in Marseilles.

So maybe my week in the program would be easy and uneventful. I did have to go to the front of the class for a review of the names of all the male naughty bits in French. I was a good sport and soon sported le boner and discussed the ways I could use it to conjugate a few irregular verbs.

This was minor league embarrassment. English class was where it began to get strange. But then, I suppose I brought it on myself. I'd spent my entire time at Hastings High sitting quietly in class, only participating when I was called upon. I'd already decided I couldn't take it any more.

We were in the middle of our poetry assignment. Each student picked a poem and read it to the class. Most of the poems so far had been terrible pieces of fluff. Hallmark card quality. One student even tried to use the lyrics of a popular song. I couldn't stand it any more. I felt like I was surrounded by placid sheep. I'd already decided that when it was my turn I'd see if I could shake things up a bit. Well, it was my turn now.

After some routine class announcements and asking for relief (Linda, who is also in my English class, and I both refused) Mr. Larsen, my English teacher, said it was time to continue our poetry recital and called me to the head of the class.

I hauled my naked butt up front holding a few sheets of paper.

“I didn't know I'd be on The Program when I picked this poem, but I think that maybe it's even better reading this nude. The poem is kind of long, so I'm reading just part one. My poem is Howl, by Allen Ginsberg.”

Most of the class was still sitting there with the same blank stare they used as they tried to endure all the other painful recitations. When I said “Howl, by Allen Ginsberg,” Mr. Larsen's head jerked up with his eyes open wide in surprise. A girl in the front, Amy Nyland, whispered, “Oh my!” just loud enough for me to hear. Interesting. While Howl is pretty notorious, I didn't expect any of the kids in the class to recognize it. Literate and cute as hell, too; it was a crying shame Amy had a boyfriend. Oh well.

Seeing that Mr. Larsen knew the poem, I immediately started before he decided to stop me.

I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by madness, starving hysterical naked,
dragging themselves through the negro streets at dawn looking for an angry fix,
angelheaded hipsters burning for the ancient heavenly connection to the starry dynamo
in the machinery of night,

who poverty and tatters and hollow-eyed and high sat up smoking in the supernatural
darkness of cold-water flats floating across the tops of cities contemplating jazz,

who bared their brains to Heaven under the El and saw Mohammedan angels staggering
on tenement roofs illuminated,

who passed through universities with radiant cool eyes hallucinating Arkansas and Blake-
light tragedy among the scholars of war,

who were expelled from the academies for crazy & publishing obscene odes on the
windows of the skull,

who cowered in unshaven rooms in underwear, burning their money in wastebaskets and
listening to the Terror through the wall,

who got busted in their pubic beards returning through Laredo with a belt of marijuana
for New York,

who ate fire in paint hotels or drank turpentine in Paradise Alley, death, or purgatoried
their torsos night after night,

with dreams, and drugs, with waking nightmares, alcohol and cock and endless balls...

Well that woke them up. During every other poem the class was full of kids doodling and staring at the walls while the unfortunate one forced to recite droned on monotonously about trees or flowers or some other crap. Apparently “alcohol and cock and endless balls” is a real attention-getter.

...who chained themselves to subways for the endless ride from Battery to holy Bronx on
benzedrine until the noise of wheels and children brought them down shuddering
mouth-wracked and battered bleak of brain all drained of brilliance in the drear light
of Zoo,

who sank all night in submarine light of Bickford's floated out and sat through the stale
beer afternooon in desolate Fugazzi's, listening to the crack of doom on the hydrogen jukebox...

They didn't have Bickford's here in Kansas, and I had no idea what Fugazzi's is, but I think the idea comes across.

...who broke down crying in white gymnasiums naked and trembling before the machinery
of other skeletons,

who bit detectives in the neck and shrieked with delight in policecars for committing
no crime but their own wild cooking pederasty and intoxication,

who howled on their knees in the subway and were dragged off the roof waving genitals
and manuscripts,

who let themselves be fucked in the ass by saintly motorcyclists, and screamed with
joy...

I actually heard some gasps when I got to the “fucked in the ass by saintly motorcyclists” part. There were some nervous titters and I heard Amy in the front row giggle. Mr. Larsen had an odd expression. Amused? Pissed off? I continued.

...who hiccupped endlessly trying to giggle but wound up with a sob behind a partition
in a Turkish bath when the blonde & naked angel came to pierce them with a sword,

who lost their loveboys to the three old shrews of fate the one eyed shrew of the
heterosexual dollar the one eyed shrew that winks out of the womb and the one
eyed shrew that does nothing but sit on her ass and snip the intellectual golden
threads of the craftsman's loom,

who copulated ecstatic and insatiate with a bottle of beer a sweetheart a package of
cigarettes a candle and fell off the bed, and continued along the floor and down
the hall and ended fainting on the wall with a vision of ultimate cunt and come
eluding the last gyzym of consciousness,

who sweetened the snatches of a million girls trembling in the sunset, and were red eyed
in the morning but were prepared to sweeten the snatch of the sunrise, flashing buttocks
under barns and naked in the lake...

I think the class was split at this point. Half of the kids were shocked at the language -- not that they didn't use those words, but they didn't expect them in class, and certainly not in a poem -- and the other half were amused that I thought I could get away with saying things like “ultimate cunt” in class.

...who journeyed to Denver, who died in Denver, who came back to Denver & waited in
vain, who watched over Denver & brooded & loned in Denver and finally went away
to find out the Time, & now Denver is lonesome for her heroes,

who fell on their knees in hopeless cathedrals praying for each other's salvation and light
and breasts, until the soul illuminated its hair for a second...

After this, Amy's expression changed from amusement to something else. She still had a grin, but she looked more thoughtful, or pensive... or something.

...the madman bum and angel beat in Time, unknown, yet putting down here what might
be left to say in time come after death,

and rose reincarnate in the ghostly clothes of jazz in the goldhorn shadow of the band
and blew the suffering of America's naked mind for love into an eli eli lamma lamma
sabacthani saxophone cry that shivered the cities down to the last radio,

with the absolute heart of the poem of life butchered out of their own bodies good to
eat a thousand years.

I stopped and everyone just stared at me. I'd been very quiet in all of my classes since moving to Hastings. None of the other kids really knew anything about me -- I tried to make some friends but was always rebuffed as that geeky new kid. After shouting obscenities at them for the past ten minutes, they obviously thought that shy geek had gone insane. They didn't know me at all. Okay, maybe I was a geek, but I certainly wasn't shy.

Mr. Larsen walked to the front of the class. “Well that was certainly a different sort of poem,” he said. “Any reactions?”

The silence was deafening.

“So Jake, what do you think Ginsberg was thinking when he wrote Howl?” asked Mr Larsen.

“He was frustrated and angry,” I said.

“Why?”

“He saw so many of his friends and other people of his generation being hurt or killed by their rebellion. He believed in their rebellion, which added to his frustration.”

Mr. Larsen gave me an appraising stare. “What do you think this says about your generation? Are you likely to be hurt by rebellion?”

I gave a snort. “Rebelling? Our generation? You've got to be kidding. We are exactly the opposite of his generation. We are complete conformists. You can shove any ludicrous idea at us and we follow it blindly. We listen to prepackaged music because MTV and our radio stations tell us we like it. We're stripped naked and told to march to the front of the class to jerk off; and we go up and do it calmly and without passion, like ewes being serviced by their ram. We are sheep.”

“Were you trying to get suspended for reading an obscene poem so you'd get out of The Program? That won't work, you know. You'd just have to repeat it later,” said Mr. Larsen flatly.

“You can't suspend, or even punish, me for reading it. It isn't obscene” I said. I was beginning to be a little worried, but I didn't think I let it show. I didn't think it could come to anything, but I didn't want to go through the hassle, and I certainly didn't want yet another week of The Program.

“How so?” he asked.

“When the poem came out, the government said it was obscene, but there was a trial and the courts declared that it wasn't obscene. It was a real big deal in the '60s,” I said.

“1957, actually,” he said. “A bit before the '60s.” So crafty Mr. Larsen was playing me after all. “Nice to know you did your homework on this one.

“I could still call your parents. How do you think they'd react to your reading a poem like that?” he asked.

I actually laughed. “Are you kidding? Both of my parents are academics. My mother was an English Lit. professor. I'd never hear the end of it. For the rest of my life at every family gathering, I'd hear the story of how cute little Jakey read Howl in school. She'd be insufferable.”

“Okay,” he said. “So I won't punish you. I'll reward you. For the rest of the week, at the beginning of each class you will read a new poem. A different poem each time, Mr. Bergman.”

Then Mr. Larsen took my copy of the poem and read some of the lines and we spent about half of the class discussing Howl. It was just surreal listening to Mr. Larsen talk about a “vision of ultimate cunt.” We had the longest discussion about what “the last gyzym of consciousness” means.

Amy

English class was certainly better than it's been for a while. That Jake guy had been in most of my classes since spring semester last year, but he'd hardly said a word. I knew he must be pretty smart since we're in all the AP classes that Hastings offers, but I pegged him as being terminally shy. Then he got up and read Howl in the nude. He really got into it, too. He talked a lot during the discussion of the poem, also.

In my experience, guys would say anything until they're naked; when they're naked that was when they stop talking to you. Apparently it worked the other way 'round with Jake.

I was surprised that Mr. Larsen let the language slide. He put Greg Trumbull in detention for a week for calling someone a motherfucker. Then he spent half the class talking about cunts, balls, and getting fucked in the ass. Not what I expected.

Then we went back to recitals of lame poems about trees and true love. After three or four of these Greg Trumbull got up for his poem. I don't know whether football attracts assholes or if football turns guys into assholes -- my boyfriend John being the obvious exception that proved the rule. Greg must have figured at this point he could say anything, so he stood in front of the class and started to go into that old limerick “There once was a man from Nantucket/Whose dick was so long he could suck it.” Mr. Larsen had him out of the classroom and on the way to the school office before he got out another line.

After class I walked with John and some of his friends to Civics class as usual. Linda Benton passed us. Guys followed her like she was leading a parade. I suppose a cheerleader on The Program was an event. They weren't just following her, either. Hands stroked across her breasts and ass as she went. Her nipples were all crinkled up and her face was flushed. Oh yeah, she was turned on. When she passed us John said “Looking good, Linda.” She winked at him, the tart! And then John said “Okay, Reasonable Request time.”

He reached out with both hands and lightly tweaked her nipples. She exhaled in surprise and he ran his hands down her torso until he reached her thighs. Then he slowly ran one finger from between her legs up her pussy and lightly over her clit.

I was just standing there watching my boyfriend finger this girl. At first I was so surprised I didn't know what to think. Okay, so it was The Program and this was the sort of thing that's supposed to happen. But he was my boyfriend. Then I noticed that I wasn't actually feeling jealous or mad; what I felt was turned on. I actually got wet. And John was really turned on. I hadn't seen him that hot in months.

Sex with John had always been good (not that I've had sex with anyone else), but I think we were mostly going through the motions for a while. Neither one of us had been horny and excited like that lately. Hmmmm.... so John liked public sex – and apparently I did, too! That gave me a wicked idea. Maybe I could spice things up a bit. If only I had the guts to do it.

John's finger circled the edge of her labia and dipped in. It weaved in, out, then up at the top of her pussy and circled her clit. Linda put her hands on John's shoulders and whispered “Right there: faster, faster.”

John obeyed and Linda closed her eyes. In a few moments her mouth opened in a silent “Oh” but instead of saying anything she shuddered and exhaled slowly. She opened her eyes and says “Thanks. You trained him well, Amy.”

We hurried to get to our classes before the bell rang.

Jake

I'd been on The Program when I was a sophomore, so parading around naked wouldn't be too hard, right? There was, however, one thing that I wasn't prepared for. I was walking to Civics class when I walked through the intersections of A and B hallways. Turning the corner was my little sister Shelly and two of her friends. Shelly is two years younger than me so she was in middle school when I was in The Program the first time. Now, she was a sophomore. This, I wasn't prepared for.

But if I wasn't prepared to walk up to my little sister while buck naked and sporting an iron-hard woody, it was nothing compared to her reaction. She stopped dead in the middle of the hallway with a classic jaw-dropping look of astonishment.

“Hey, Shelly,” I said with one-hundred-percent fake nonchalance.

“Jake?”

“Having a nice day, Shell?” I asked.

“Oh my god! Shelly,” her friend Trish blurted, “is that your brother? He must be on The Program!”

Shelly and I simultaneously rolled our eyes at her amazing deduction.

“But you've already been in The Program!” Shelly said.

“Yep. Doesn't count,” I replied.

“That's so completely unfair!” Shelly said. “Let's tell Mom. She'll rip that moron Handley a new asshole.”

“No, Shell, let's just let this one go. I've done The Program before, it's not such a big deal.”

“Well, I still think it sucks,” Shelly said.

There was a pause. I didn't really feel like chatting with Shelly until I had clothes on and apparently she didn't either. So I walked on toward class. Shelly and her friends continued on behind me.

“Shelly,” Trish whispered, not quite quietly enough to prevent me from hearing, “your brother is cute!”

“You've got to be kidding me. He's just my dorky older brother,” Shelly said. “That's just repulsive.”

“No, really,” said her other friend, Joan.

“You know,” Trish continued, “according to the rules of The Program, he has to do what we say. I wanna touch it.”

“Eeewww!” was Shelly's reply.

I turned around. “You know, girls,” I said, “when I took off my clothes this morning, it made me naked. It didn't make me deaf.”

They gave an embarrassed giggle.

“I told you he was my geeky big brother.” Shelly repeated.

“Stand still, Jake,” Trish spoke up. “I want to touch it.”

“Yeah,” Joan chimed in. “Me too.”

“Oh gross!” Shelly said.

I sighed. Joan and Trish walked up to me. Trish reached out and gingerly grabbed my dick.

“Come on!” Shelly insisted. “All right, he is an okay guy, but really, you just can't do this. He's my brother.”

“Well, he's not our brother,” Joan said.

Joan watched intently as Trish held my dick firmly. Shelly looked away.

“It's really warm,” Trish commented.

“Let me see,” said Joan. Trish let go and Joan took her place. Joan started stroking it up and down.

“How's this?” Joan asked.

“Well, it does feel nice,” I said, “but it's going to take years of therapy for Shelly and me to get over this.”

Joan giggled. “Well, she can just look away if it bothers her.” She started pumping a little faster.

“You're going to make it squirt, you know,” Trish said.

“I'm amazed you figured that out, Trish,” Joan replied. Trish gave Joan a dark look and leaned forward to watch closer.

“Trish...” Joan warned.

“I've never seen this,” Trish interrupted, “I want a good look.”

“You're going to get more than just a good look,” Joan said. The little minx jerked me even faster. “Don't tell me I didn't warn you.”

That was all it took. I shot my load all over Trish; some went in her hair, some on her cheek, and quite a lot on her blouse.

I was gasping for breath after my orgasm while Joan and Shelly were rolling on the floor laughing.

“We better clean up,” I told Trish. “There's a bathroom over there.” Due to another stupid rule of The Program, participants had to use the bathrooms of the opposite sex. I took Trish's hand and walked her over to the bathroom.

Just before we got to the door, Trish looked at me and winked. Then she stuck her tongue out and licked a drop of my sperm off of her upper lip and gave me a sly smile.

I was floored. She'd taken me in completely!

The moment we were inside the bathroom, Trish wrapped her arms around me and gave me a deep, heated kiss with plenty of tongue. Then she grabbed some paper towels and quickly wiped me off. Then she started wiping herself.

“You should head off to class,” Trish said, “At least one of us should be on time.”

“Uh, okay,” I said. “That was great. You fooled me completely. Thanks.”

“Maybe you can return the favor sometime, Jake,” she said coyly.

“I'd love to,” I said. Then I walked off to Civics class shaking my head in wonder.

Mr. Conway, my Civics teacher, was a champion of The Program and, for that matter, all things politically correct. He didn't really teach. What he did was preach. When you combined his shallow mind, his desire to enforce conformity, and the general fluff of the Civics material in general, his class was a real ordeal. It wasn't hard to keep on his good side, though. All you had to do was repeat back whatever he said and never let on that you could think for yourself.

“Would you like some relief, Jake?” he asked.

“No thanks” I replied.

“Have you asked for relief yet today?”

“Not yet.”

“Well, you should,” he said. “That's the whole point of the program, you know: to explore your sexuality, learn to be comfortable with yourself, and open yourself to new experiences.”

Oh no, he was on a roll now. Every time someone in The Program was in his class, Mr. Conway felt obligated to practically read The Program pamphlet to us. He had this whole shpiel. I must have heard it five times already that year. It started with him telling us how lucky we were.

“You know, you kids are really lucky that our society has opened itself up,” he said with the same predictability as the sun rising in the east. “That wasn't always the case. A decade ago, we were quite repressed. There were strong political movements trying to force the schools to compel students to pray, forbidding birth control or any knowledge of sexuality, and even banning teaching scientific theories that conflict with their religion. Those religious zealots were using public schools as a tool to convert kids to their religion and repressed view of sexuality.”

This was supposed to fill me with gratitude and inspire me to walk to the head of the class and jerk off. Really. I was pretty sure that was what he actually thought. The very idea of Mr. Conway smiling kindly down at me while I masturbated in front of the class made me wonder if I'd ever be able to have an erection again.

Mr. Conway started to pace as he lectured. “We've grown so much. Now we teach not just intellectual subjects, but we teach students who they really are inside. We're a more fair, open, and egalitarian community.”

“What a crock,” I blurted out before I caught myself. Oops. I was in for it now.

“What?” he asked.

“You're exactly the same as they were,” I replied. “They wanted to compel us to adopt their beliefs, well, so do you. The Program is a perfect example. I'm not asked or encouraged to be naked and explore my sexuality. I'm forced. You say you're open and they're zealots. What you mean is that you want to be the ones shoving your beliefs down people's throats.”

“The Program isn't particularly egalitarian, either,” I continued. “It just enforces your social hierarchy where some of us are second-class students.”

“Students in The Program are all treated exactly the same,” Mr. Conway maintained. His face was starting to get red. “The school's administration treats all students the same, there are no second-class students.”

“Oh come on! When one of the guys in the AV club is on The Program you couldn't get most girls to help them get relief if you paid them. What happens when a football or basketball player is on The Program? There's a contest to see which jock can get his rocks off the most times. There's even a web page that shows the current tally. There's no way everyone on The Program is treated the same.” In the back of the class Dirk Wayland, a linebacker who had the current high score, swelled with pride.

“Well, that's completely unofficial, the school administration treats every student equally. There are no second-class students,” he claimed.

“Really? So who's up for valedictorian this year?” I asked.

“It isn't decided until this spring. We're not supposed to disclose students' GPAs,” he said.

Andy Davis chimed in, “Everyone knows. It's between Beth Robertson and Dennis Walker.”

Beth was in the class and blushed. She's very smart, but very shy.

“Right,” I said. “So what senior has the highest GPA?”

“Obviously one of those two,” Andy replied.

“Nope,” I said. “It's me. I have the highest GPA, but I can't be the valedictorian. I'm sure that Beth and Dennis have great GPAs, but mine is higher because the school weighs AP courses and college classes more. I used to live in Amherst, Massachusetts. They call that 'the five college area' because, well, it's pretty obvious -- there are five major universities there. It was easy for my friends and I to take classes there. It really beefed up my GPA.”

“Mr. Bergman transferred to Hastings High during the spring semester of last year,” Mr. Conway explained. “There's a rule that students have to spend at least three complete semesters here to be eligible for valedictorian and salutatorian.”

“Yes, but I'm the reason they have that rule. It used to be two semesters. Your egalitarian community got together the month after I transferred and voted to change the requirements. One of my mother's friends was at the meeting. He told us that one of your egalitarian members of the community said 'No east-coast Jew boy is going to waltz in here and take what my kid has earned.' Not being valedictorian doesn't especially bother me. I wouldn't have been valedictorian at my old school. It's being treated that way that gets to me.”

After my rant, I noticed that Beth Robertson looked like she was about to cry. Oh crap. That was probably her father. Now I felt like I was the one who was the asshole. I didn't mean to make her feel bad. She didn't do anything to me.

Amy

This morning I just didn't feel like school cafeteria food, so I made sandwiches for myself and my Dad. For a while after mom died I made lunch for dad every morning. Mom always made lunch for him and it was one of my odd ways of remembering her and simultaneously pretending things were exactly the same as they'd always been. After time passed, I stopped feeling like I had to keep everything the same as when she was alive. But I do get this mixed feeling of fond memories and sadness whenever I repeat her old rituals. Anyway, I made my own lunch this morning so at lunchtime I went straight for my usual table and waited for John and our friends to make their way through the lunch line.

Jake, from English class, walked by on his way to the lunch line.

“Hey, nice poem. Great to hear an interesting one for a change,” I called out.

He was clearly surprised. He stopped and looked at me for a bit. You see lots of photos and paintings of nude people with passionate, pensive, or just plain horny expressions. I don't think I'll ever get used to seeing naked guys do normal everyday things like being startled.

After a moment, Jake walked over to me. “I noticed that you recognized the poem before I began,” he said.

“Yeah,” I said. “It was kind of roundabout. I'm a Johnny Depp fan. I saw the movie Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas and got interested. I read a lot. So I read the book and then a couple of other books by Hunter S. Thomson. That lead me to some Kerouac, then to Ginsberg. So I've read Howl. You hit it dead on. This place is just the opposite of Howl.”

I paused for a moment. “I've got to say it took guts to read it in class.”

“Well, I'm already walking around nude. At least the poem was my own choice.”

“One of the things that surprised me the most was that it was you that read it. I thought you were really shy and that's not a poem for someone who's shy.” He pulled out a chair and sat down. There was something really intense about his eyes. People were streaming past us but he looked right into me like I was the only person there. Nope, this guy wasn't shy.

“No, I'm not shy,” he said.

“Yeah. What you said about the poem made me realize that I had you all wrong. Now I think you just never fit in. I guess I can relate to that.”

“That doesn't surprise me at all. In fact, I'm amazed that you get along with everyone so well.”

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“You stick out,” he said. “It's easy to see, but kind of hard for me to put into words; for example the way you dress.”

“So you don't like my clothes?” I said with mock offense.

“Oh no! It's just that pretty much every other girl here dresses to look alike. Look at what you're wearing right now. You stick out and you don't care. That T-shirt is just wicked cool. But I'll bet that there aren't many kids our age that get it. They mix and match their clothes from The Gap so they look like some weird combination of June Cleaver and Britney Spears. You look more like Picabo Street.”

I suppose I could see what he was talking about. I was wearing one of my favorite T-shirts over a North Face base layer shirt and jeans. The T-shirt was a version of the Beatles' Abbey Road album cover except it had the Simpsons rather than the Beatles. Bart was barefoot in place of John Lennon. And yes, I'd gotten some chuckles from teachers, but none of my friends got it. It's not like it was that obscure.

“Well, I like Picabo Street,” I said, “but she just skis. My idols are Gretchen Bleller and Lisa Kosglow from the U.S. Olympic snowboard A-team. Lisa Kosglow is from Boulder, too.”

“You moved here from Colorado?” he asked.

I nodded. “Three years ago. It was really hard for several reasons. One of them was I was into boarding in a big way. It's absolutely flat here.”

“In more ways than one,” he said with a rueful smile.

John set his tray on the table and sat down next to me. Greg and Dirk sat down on the other side, next to Jake.

“Hey, Bergman,” Greg said, “that stuff you said in Civics; why'd you want to take a bunch of boring college classes if you didn't have to?”

“I didn't take any that I thought would be boring,” Jake said. “But I suppose there were other interesting things: college girls for one.”

“Right,” Greg said sarcastically. “Why would any college girls be interested in a scrawny dude like you?”

“You'd have to ask them, I suppose,” Jake said. The corner of his mouth twitched into a grin momentarily and vanished. “One reason must be that most college guys are exactly like you, Greg, just one year older.”

“Oh yeah!” Greg turned to Dirk who gave him a high-five. “One more year and we're college guys!”

I couldn't stifle a giggle. Those idiots couldn't even tell the difference between a subtle insult and a complement.

“Well, I gotta get my lunch,” Jake said and walked off.

John shook his head and said to Greg and Dirk “You guys have got to cut down on the steroids.”

At the end of lunch John took me aside and asked “Was Bergman hitting on you?”

“Not at all,” I said. “I told him I liked his poem and he said he liked my T-shirt.”

“Yeah,” John said. “I like the Simpsons too. But that was some freaky poem.”

I just sighed.

Jake

I stood in the cafeteria line, waited my turn, and chose the most edible-looking food they had. That was a nice chat with Amy. I hadn't had many of those lately. I didn't really understand why she hung out with John and the other football players. I dunno, maybe it helped her fit in? Still, she was so much deeper than they were, I was surprised she enjoyed it. It was pretty easy to see why they liked having her around; she was very smart, very cool, and I suppose it didn't hurt that she's completely gorgeous.

I paid for my food and found an empty table. I got out the book I was reading and started to eat.

“Hey partner, how's it hanging?” I looked up and saw Linda standing there with her lunch tray.

“One great thing about The Program; you want to know how it's hanging? You can just look for yourself.”

“Is there room for another naked student here?” she asked.

“Oh, sure. Please, take a seat,” I said.

She sat down across from me. “Partners in The Program are supposed to have lunch together. You know, that support thing we're supposed to do?”

“Oh yeah, I forgot. Sorry.”

“It's okay. How's it going so far?” Linda asked.

“No problems here. A little fondling here and there. Mostly seems to be freshmen girls. You senior girls are just too jaded.”

“Nah. We're just demure ladies,” she said with a smirk.

“Oh sure. So how's it been for you? I'm not really freaked out at this partially because I've done this before. But this is your first time and you're just so... I dunno, serene? It doesn't seem to bother you any more than if you were clothed.”

“I haven't really thought about it,” she said. “I guess it must be that being a cheerleader, I'm used to wearing a fairly revealing outfit in front of thousands of people who are staring at my tits, ass, and legs.”

“I suppose that's one way of looking at it.” I paused for a moment. “You know, I owe you an apology.”

“For what?”

“I'd always assumed that cheerleaders are shallow, stuck-up eye-candy for the jocks. You're not. I should have known. You're in most of my AP classes, so you've got to be a smart cookie. And you're certainly not stuck-up.”

“Oh, so you don't think I'm eye-candy!” she joked.

“I don't think you're just eye-candy. Anyway, it was nice of you to have lunch and chat with me. Thanks.”

“No problem. And you don't know all of the cheerleaders. A few of them are extremely stuck-up and shallow.”

We sat and ate our lunches quietly for a few moments.

“Hey. Stand up for a moment.” Linda said. I just looked at her. “So, you want to be difficult?” She smirked at me. “Reasonable Request time. Linda says: stand up.”

I sighed and stood up.

“Turn around.”

I turned around.

“Okay, sit down.”

“What was that all about?” I asked. “I mean, you're on The Program too. I could play the old Reasonable Request game with you, too.”

“You want Reasonable Requests?” she bellowed. “You can't handle my Reasonable Requests.”

She was parodying Jack Nicholson in A Few Good Men. Badly.

“That's the worst Jack Nicholson impression I've ever heard,” I chuckled.

“Yeah, yeah,” Linda said. “Enough complaining.”

“Seriously, what was that 'stand up and turn around' stuff all about?”

“Just figured something out,” she said. “You're a swimmer aren't you? You've been so quiet that most of us thought you were an antisocial, skinny, wimpy geek, but now that I see you naked, I see you're thin, but you've got a fair amount of upper body development and muscles in your legs. You're a swimmer, right?”

“Okay, you caught me,” I admitted. “I was on the swim team in my old school. I'm not shy, I don't think of myself as wimpy -- I've never really been bullied much -- but I'll grant you the skinny and geek part.”

“Why didn't you try out for our swim team?” she asked.

“I'm not sure I want to go into it. You might think it's a little childish,” I said.

“Try me,” she said.

“That's exactly the sort of thing a naked girl shouldn't say to a naked guy unless she really knows what she's getting into -- or maybe what might be getting into her.”

Linda laughed. “Okay, you've convinced me. You're definitely not shy and you're not a wimp. So what's the deal with the swim team?”

“I suppose I have been antisocial. Last spring I was just so pissed at this place and my parents for moving me here, that I would've preferred to swim against our team rather than help it win. I wasn't really a swimming star, anyway. I decided I'd rather not swim at all than to swim for our school.”

“You know, maybe it sounds childish because it is? I mean, you didn't really hurt the school or the team. The only thing you did was lose out on something you enjoyed.”

“I still swim at the university pool a few times a week, but yeah, I think you're right,” I admitted.

“Why were you so pissed at this place?” she asked. “I heard the stuff you said in Civics about not being valedictorian. Is that it?”

“That's only a small part of it,” I said. “I started off hating it here. I left all my friends, I left my girlfriend. And I didn't seem to be able to make any connection with anyone here. When the school board made my GPA not count, it was just one extra slap in the face.”

“It's easy to understand how you felt, but you know, none of those reasons you were angry really had anything to do with this place.”

“You seem to have this annoying habit of being sensible and correct,” I said.

“Listen to your partner. You need to break out of your shell. Make some connection with the folks around here,” she chuckled, “What you really need is to get laid.”

“Are you volunteering?”

“You seem like a nice guy, Jake, but no, I'm not interested. Sorry,” she paused for a moment. “I mean, don't get me wrong, you're smart and nice looking, I don't know why, but you just don't do anything for me. And I'm really not into casual sex. I might call on you for relief in one of our classes while I'm in The Program, but I don't really see a relationship developing.”

“No problem, I'm not offended.” I really wasn't. She was such a social butterfly, I didn't really think she was coming on to me. She is really cute, even naked and flirtatious, she didn't seem to be offering me anything.

“Good. You seem like a nice guy and I would like to be friends.”

“Ah, the old 'let's be friends' line... No seriously, I am okay with that. I could use a friend around here,” I said.

“Good. And I could use some help in our AP Calculus class. It's a real bitch and driving me up the wall,” she joked.

“You're on,” I said. “You have my phone number, email and IM addresses. Feel free to give me a call about Calculus or anything else whenever you want.”

It was time for gym again. I know I'm starting to sound repetitious, but just having to take gym as a senior exasperates me. I'd finished all my physical education credit crap back in Amherst so I wouldn't have to do it again as a senior. I could have skipped a different year, but no, senior year is the one I picked. Now I'm here at good old South Hastings High and I have to do it anyway. Sigh.

I suppose it really wasn't all that bad. It was pretty mindless and undemanding. I wasn't fat, excessively wimpy, or grossly uncoordinated so I wasn't one of those unfortunate kids who got tormented in gym. I just never especially cared for it.

Today's drill was basketball on one half of the big gym while the other half was claimed by the girls doing volleyball. Basketball's not really my thing. I wasn't horrible, but I was not particularly good at it; no real interest in getting better, either.

The longer I spent parading around naked, the more difficult it had become to concentrate on anything. I don't know if I was embarrassed or just horny, but I'd become easily distracted. So I found myself trotting across the court while some of my teammates fielded the ball after the other team made a basket. I didn't have much enthusiasm, so this wasn't a fast break – it was a very slow, leisurely break.

I glanced across the gym and saw the girl's volleyball game. The team facing me was setting the ball for a spike. Michelle Swanson lofted the ball and a girl I didn't know leaped up for the spike. It was one of those moments that exposes the beauty that can only be found in sport or dance. The girl leaped to make the spike, her right arm above her head, her back arched with tension that I could feel from across the gym, as she rose to meet the ball. At the peak of her jump, she twisted the entire top half of her body -- not just her arm -- to power the ball across the net, hitting the floor, scoring a point.

Okay, so I was just fascinated by this great moment in sport, on the other side of the gym. I was pretty much the only one on my side of the gym who was, because while mindlessly trotting down the court gazing at the graceful curves of this girl I didn't know, everyone else on my side of the gym was under the impression that there was a basketball game going on. My teammates must have thought the vacant, doltish expression on my face was concealing the slick move I was going to make on our opponents, because that's when someone decided to pass me the ball. This wasn't a lazy bounce-pass, this was a shoulder-fired missile -- exactly the way our gym teacher showed us.

So while the people on the other side of the gym were treated with a graceful volleyball play, anyone watching my side of the gym had the pleasure of watching the ball smack me square in the face, knocking me flat on my ass. I'm told it was quite an impressive performance.

I slowly climbed back on my feet to the roars and jeers of everyone on my side, and I noticed quite a few of the girls on the other side of the gym were laughing, also. I noticed Pam Dawson, a cute brunette who's in the drama club, giving me a funny look. Everyone else was just laughing. She looked amused, but also thoughtful.

One of the more exotic rules of The Program is that participants in gym must use the dressing and shower facilities of the opposite sex. That's a fairly dry recitation of a situation with huge potential to be both erotic and humiliating. At the end of the gym period, Pam Dawson walked up to me and simply said, “Follow me.”

Well, this was certainly going to be interesting. Pam Dawson is really cute. She was a tall, willowy brunette. Actually, I had no idea what her real hair color was. She'd changed it at least three times since I had transferred to South Hastings. Perhaps I was about to find out. She had the lead in Kiss Me, Kate, so maybe she colored it for that role (although I'd always thought of Katherine as a redhead).

I followed her into the girl's locker room and over to her locker. She looked at me and said, “Well... off with the jock strap.”

One of the rules in The Program allowed people to wear “protective equipment” for athletic events. So I got to wear a jock for basketball. I don't know what made me feel the more foolish, being buck naked, or wearing nothing but a jock strap. Anyway, it seemed like a good idea, so I took off the jock.

Pam handed me a towel, a soap container, and a bottle of shampoo. Then it was her turn to strip. Either she really was a brunette, or she was very conscientious when she dyed her hair.

“This way,” she said. Then she grabbed my dick and led me into the shower. This amused the other girls to no end. Hell, it amused me too, I just wasn't that into giggling. When we got to the shower, I hung the towel on a hook and followed my dick as she pulled me inside.

“Soap first,” she said. I set the shampoo bottle down and then handed her the soap.

A wicked smile spread across her face. “Nope,” she said, “today you're my shower slave.” Giggles from all the girls in earshot. Shower slave to a rather beautiful naked girl? I supposed there were worse fates.

I shrugged my agreement, took the soap back, and started lathering her back.

Pam raised her right arm and I washed her armpit. An armpit isn't normally what I would consider the most erotic portion of the female anatomy, but for some reason, at that moment, it was. I was hard as a rock. She had her long graceful arm raised above her head and her neck curved to the other side as I stood close behind her with my dick bobbing against her ass while I washed her armpit. I couldn't help myself; I softly kissed her neck.

Pam shuddered slightly and said, “Hey! None of that. You're the shower slave, remember. Just do what I tell you. Nothing more.”

She rinsed and raised her other arm. I started washing her other side. “Do I need to shave?” she asked.

“Umm... No. Feels very smooth to me,” I stammered. Yeah, that was me: Mr. Suave the shower slave.

“Down the back now,” she ordered. “Don't forget the crack.”

I washed her ass. It was firm and succulent. If my dick got any harder it would pop right off.

Pam turned, giving me a perfect view of her lovely breasts. They were pert, nipples crinkled, and they were calling to me. Dirty, dirty titties, I thought. You need a good cleaning. I reached to start washing them.

“I think I'll do the front,” she said as she grabbed the soap. She obviously noticed my disappointment. “Everyone likes a cheerful, perky shower slave.” She tweaked my dick. “You've got perky down pat, but you need to work on cheerful.” She washed her tits and pussy.

“Shampoo,” she ordered.

I lathered her hair and massaged it into her scalp. A pleasant balsam smell surrounded us. She rinsed off.

“Okay. Your turn now. You're a very dirty shower slave. Tsk, tsk. Turn around.” Another round of giggles coursed through the showers.

She washed my back, doing an especially thorough job on my ass. She toyed with my asshole a bit. I jumped.

Rather than telling me to turn around, she reached around me and started washing my chest. Her breasts pressed into my back. There's really a lot to be said for being a shower slave. I had a new career goal.

She washed lower and lathered first my pubic hair, then she started washing my dick. Her hand was soft, firm, slick, and seemed to be everywhere. Her other hand washed lazy circles across my chest. She was really quite talented.

Pam leaned closer to me, her mouth touching my right ear. I heard and felt her warm breath across my ear. I was dizzy with the sensation of her hand on my dick, her hand on my chest, and the puffs of her breath drilling into me like she was fucking me with her breath.

“How's this?” she whispered.

“Ohhhh. Oh my god...” was all I could say. Have I mentioned how witty and erudite I could be?

“Hmmmmm?” she said.

“Yessss,” I moaned.

She slowed the movement of her hand on my cock. She rubbed the head lightly, tickled down the shaft. I was going to explode, but I couldn't, quite.

“Do you want to cum?” she whispered into my ear.

“Oh yes, please.”

“How polite” she whispered. “Ask me. Say 'Pam, make me cum, please'”

“Pam,” I said, “please, please make me cum.” The world narrowed to her hand on my dick and her mouth on my ear.

“Okay. I am a tease, but I'm not mean,” she said. “Well, not too mean. I'll make you cum, but in a few minutes. Ask for relief next period in Psychology and pick me to help you.”

“Now,” I insisted.

She ran the tip of her tongue over the outside of my ear. She kissed my neck. I was sure I was going to explode even if she didn't touch me again.

“Nope,” she said. “Next class.” She stepped away. “Dry me now.”

I followed her out of the shower and grabbed the towel from the hook, rubbed her as she slowly twirled and then wrapped the towel around her. She grabbed my hand and led me, dripping, to her locker. Then she dried me with her damp towel. She dressed. I couldn't help noticing that her panties were blue and French cut.

I wanted to throw her to the floor and ravish her. I wanted to slam myself into her. That's not what happened, of course. She finished dressing, grabbed me and led me by the dick out of the locker room, through the halls to our Psychology class. There must have been other students roaming the halls, but I didn't notice them.

We walked into the class and took our seats. The other students trickled in. I knew we had a quiz this week, but I couldn't remember what day it was on. I hoped it wasn't today. I couldn't recall any of the reading material at all. The only things on my mind were my throbbing dick and Pam two rows away.

Finally the bell rang and Ms. Emerson started the class. “Do you need relief, Jake?” she asked.

“Yes please,” I croaked. She pulled a chair up to the front of the class. I walked up and sat down. “Ummm... would anyone like to help?” I was surprised that a couple of girls other than Pam also raised their hands. I picked Pam.

Pam walked up to me leaned down and very softly said, “stand up.”

I stood and she walked behind me again. Pam leaned into my ear again and whispered, “shut your eyes.”

I shut my eyes. She reached around me under my arms, rubbed my chest and down my abdomen, and breathed softly into my ear again. I could smell the aromatic scent of her balsamic hair.

“Think about the warm, wet time we had in the shower a few minutes ago. Remember how my boobs felt pressed against your back,” she quietly whispered. “Remember how it felt when I brought you to the edge. Nod your head when you're back on the edge again.”

She grasped my dick and softly ran her fingers up and down. Then she stroked me with a bit more authority and I recalled how she enveloped me in the shower. I was about to burst again. I nodded my head. She slowed down. God damn it! She slowed down!

“Hold back,” she whispered. “We have plenty of time. Don't come yet. Wait a bit longer. Wait until I tell you to cum.”

She sped up, she slowed down. She squeezed and she ran her fingers up and down. It was excruciating. It was intoxicating.

Just when I thought I couldn't take it anymore, she whispered into my ear, “now, Jake, now. Cum for me.” Then her hand went into overdrive. My legs clenched, my breath stopped and everything inside me spewed out through my dick.

I'm not a virgin. I've had sex, I've had blowjobs, but I don't think I've ever had a more intense orgasm. It seemed to go on spurt after spurt. Finally, I could breathe again and I collapsed bonelessly into the chair next to me.

I opened my eyes and looked at Pam and said, “Wow, thanks, that was amazing. I owe you one.”

“Yes, you do,” Pam said and the class howled with laughter.

Ms. Emerson said, “show's over. Back to your seats, folks.”

As I walked down the aisle, I noticed my sperm shot at least four or five feet down the aisle past the first couple of seats. I avoided slipping on my own cum – I don't think I could ever live it down if I tripped on my jizm like a banana peal in a cartoon. I made it back to my seat, but I have absolutely no recollection of anything that happened during the rest of that class.

Amy

Psychology started off with this amazing show. Jake asked for relief and picked Pam Dawson. She's nice, I suppose, but she was a terrible show-off. She wasn't the president of the drama club – she was the queen. All the guys in the drama club, and a few others beside, followed her around. She would flit between them like a bee pollinating her field of flowers.

Jake sat in a chair in front of everyone, but Pam told him to stand. Then she walked behind him and sort of hugged him while rubbing up and down his front. Then she started whispering into his ear. She didn't touch his dick, but it twitched and started to leak. She started stroking him while whispering all the time. Jake's dick grew darker, his breathing became deeper, he held his breath, and then suddenly he erupted, ejaculating more sperm than I thought could possibly fit into a guy's balls.

I realized I had been holding my breath with him. And, wow, I was wet. That was just so erotic. I knew I'd be thinking about that scene when masturbating that evening, if I could wait that long. Now I knew why the drama guys followed her around.

Jake was pretty cute, too. I never thought of him as hot before -- he's attractive, but not a beefcake sort of guy -- I could see that he was rather erotic and intense. His time in The Program would probably get him a few dates.

“Hey, Pumpkin,” my Dad said when I got home from school. “How was your day?”

“Pretty good, Daddy.” I gave him a peck on the cheek, walked into the kitchen and opened the fridge. “What should we do for dinner?”

“Do you have much homework?”

“What does that have to do with dinner?” I asked.

“Well, how much homework do you have?” he repeated.

“Not much. I've finished everything that's due tomorrow. I've got some physics due Wednesday and a Psychology quiz Thursday I still need to study for.”

“Great. How about we go out for dinner and then see a movie? There's a movie I'd like to see showing at the film noir series at the university.”

“What is it?” I said, with a little hesitation. We had a movie night every other week or so. It had become almost a ritual. We took turns picking the movie. It was his turn, and I'd subjected him to lots of fluff – action movies or chick flicks – so I really couldn't object. But a few weeks ago he picked Wild Strawberries by Ingmar Bergman. I usually liked the old movies he picked and he picked a fair number of foreign films with subtitles. But I was just not in the mood for a gloomy soul-rending Swedish epic. We usually just rented a DVD, so a movie theater would be a nice change.

“The Stranger,” he replied. “It's pretty dark – well, I suppose pretty much all film noir movies are – but I like it and haven't seen it in ages.”

“Okay, but I get to pick the restaurant.”

“If we're going anywhere near the campus, I already know where you want to eat,” he chuckled. Yeah, like the Hacienda wasn't one of his very favorite restaurants, also.

We had our favorite fabulous Mexican feast. The Hacienda was a little family-owned hole-in-the-wall place just off campus. I simply adored their enchiladas rancheros. They stacked the tortillas, rather than rolled them, put a fried egg on the top, and served it in a sauce that was so spicy it almost blew the top of my head off. Yum.

I was nicely stuffed and contented as Daddy and I walked across campus to the auditorium showing the movie. It was a cold November evening, but after the spicy hot meal I was nice and warm inside. The sky was clear and moonless, so we had a beautiful starry sky to walk under. Saturn was spectacularly bright. I guess I have inherited Daddy's taste; a good film would be just right.

We got our tickets and I went to find seats while Daddy stood in line for popcorn. I sat down and waited.

Suddenly, I heard “Hey there. So you like poetry and old movies?” It was Jake.

“Are you alone? Mind if I sit here?” he said.

“Are you stalking me, or something?” I asked with a smile.

“Season tickets to the film noir series.” He held up a card with holes punched in it. “It's no coincidence to find me here, but I haven't seen you at any of the other films.”

“Oh. But no, I'm not alone.”

“Are you here with John? He does have good taste,” he said.

“No. John doesn't like old movies,” I said.

“Well, trust me, he still has good taste.”

Before I could respond to that flirtatious remark – he had to be flirting, right? I mean.. no... maybe he was gay and had a thing for John? Nah... flirting, it's gotta be. That scene in Psychology class with Pam left no doubt about Jake's sexual orientation. Anyway, before I could say anything Daddy arrived hauling a bag of popcorn and two sodas.

“So, I'm gone a few minutes and you've replaced me already?” Daddy joked.

“Huh? Oh, uh no,” Jake stammered. I couldn't help the giggles. That's the second time today I've seen him startled by something unexpected. This was cute, but it was more fun when I startled him while he was naked. I think Jake focused a bit more than most people on whatever was occupying him.

“Oh sit down, Jake. Daddy, this is Jake Bergman. Jake's in most of my classes. Jake, this is my Dad.”

“Nice to meet you Mr. Nyland.” Jake finally regained a little composure. Jake sat down next to me and Daddy next to him.

“So Jake, is this some sort of school project, or do you actually like old movies?” Daddy asked.

“I love movies: old and new ones – well, some new ones. Lots of them are mostly trash. Then again, I suppose most old movies are pretty bad also. We just get to pick the great ones in hindsight.”

“That's a pretty good point,” Daddy acknowledged.

“I've enjoyed the entire film noir series, but I'm really looking forward to this one. I love Orson Welles, but I've never seen this movie.”

The lights dimmed and trailers for the next few films in the series started. After a while, Daddy leaned forward and whispered, “Have some popcorn, Pumpkin. You too, Jake.”

He passed the bag to Jake who grabbed a bit and handed it to me. “Here you go... Pumpkin,” he whispered.

I took the bag and punched him in the arm, mostly playfully. Mostly.

Jake rubbed his arm and chuckled, and the movie started.

The film was black and white and very, very dark. I was sucked into it completely. Orson Welles played a guy who moved into a small town in Connecticut and got a job as a teacher in a small prep school. He was dark, brooding, witty, intelligent and extremely handsome. He swept the headmaster's beautiful daughter (Loretta Young) off her feet and they were married just like the end of a fairytale. But this was the beginning of the movie. I was drawn into witty scenes of the newlyweds living in this picturesque New England village and baroque visual scenes of Orson Welles indulging in his hobby: trying to fix the antique clock in the town's clock tower. Then Edward G. Robinson appeared. He was a Nazi hunter looking for a war criminal who had been in charge of death camps in Germany. It became pretty clear that Orson Welles was the bad guy. The tension in the film centered on his wife as she slowly came to the realization that the man she loved was evil. The final scene in the clock tower drained all the emotion from me.

The lights came on and Jake said, “Wow.”

We grabbed our coats and shuffled out of the auditorium with the rest of the audience.

When we got to the lobby of the building, Jake said, “Thanks for the popcorn, Mr. Nyland. Can I buy you guys coffee at the student union?”

I was starting to feel a bit nervous about spending so much time with Jake. I didn't want to lead him on.

Daddy said, “Sure” at exactly the same time I said, “No thanks.”

So I said what I was really thinking, “You know, I am going out with John.”

Jake smiled and said, “It's settled then. Mr. Nyland, I'll buy you a cup of coffee and John can buy Amy's.”

The two of them laughed. I rolled my eyes and said, “Okay, fine,” and we walked off to the student union building, got some coffee and sat down at a table.

“Jake,” Daddy said, “you seem to really feel at home here at the university.”

“Both of my parents are faculty. They've been professors and my mom is the new provost. That's why we moved here. So I've hung out at student unions all my life. I'm actually a lot more comfortable here than at our high school.”

We chatted about the movie for a while.

“You mentioned that you love Orson Welles,” Daddy said. “So do I. What's your favorite of his films?”

“That's a setup. I'm supposed to say Citizen Kane, otherwise I'm an illiterate yokel. And I do love that movie. So pretend that's what I said and I'll tell you my real favorite. I like The Lady From Shanghai. That last scene is amazing.”

“That's a good choice,” Daddy agreed. “It is wonderful.”

“I've never seen it,” I admitted.

“I'll bet you've seen clips from it, though,” Jake said. “It's the one with the gunfight in the hall of mirrors. That scene has been borrowed in lots of movies. They all came from The Lady From Shanghai.”

“I guess I have seen those clips,” I said.

“I have it on DVD – it was recently remastered. You're invited to my clock tower to see the film some time. Bring John. I know you said he doesn't like old movies, but this one has lots of action. He's sure to like it. Don't worry about my tower – I'm too young to be a Nazi.”

We chatted about movies for a while. I could tell that Daddy liked Jake. It was too bad that he hadn't made any connection like that to John. It was always strained when John was over at my house.

After a while we said goodnight and went home. I had dreams that night of Loretta Young standing behind Orson Welles, whispering into his ear as massive clock gears erupted from his cock. Each gear struck me painfully as they shot out.

Copyright © 2004 Ersatz. All rights reserved