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I don’t suppose you know how to fix a hymen do you? No? Rats! Never mind, it was worth asking. You see, high school isn’t all it’s cracked up to be, particularly when every sophomore in state thinks you’re nothing more than a dick glove. Right now I feel harshly adjudged and every last one of my so-called friends has abandoned me in my hour of need. What’s worse, prom is only two weeks away, and I dare not show my face as I know precisely what all the mean girls will be saying about me the very moment my back is turned. I think it would be fair to say that I’m at my wit’s end and the only audience I have is you, a leather-bound journal with absolutely no means of providing me the half-time pep talk I desperately need. That said, a problem shared is halved I hear, and it just feels good to finally get some of this stuff off my chest. At least here my words aren’t twisted for dramatic effect; 100% of what I’m about to tell you is authentic and I’ve got nothing to gain by bending the truth or offering a false representation of myself. Anyways, I guess I should start at the beginning and see where that leads us.
My family moved here from Seattle in 2012, despite my frantic pleas for us to remain where my friends were. Dad had just been offered a promotion and significant pay rise, but it meant uprooting the family and relocating, much to my abject horror. Needless to say I let him know in no uncertain terms that he’d ruined my life and I don’t think my mother was best pleased either, not that it stopped her from backing him up as she always did. I was miserable when we arrived and determined to do everything in my power not to settle into any kind of routine as I still held onto the vague hope that I could twist his arm. However, for as much as I bitter about the move, this place actually didn’t seem so bad. Within no time I’d made new friends and acceptance didn’t pose a problem. Indeed, the other girls flocked around me, while the boys didn’t even attempt to disguise that they all wanted to be the one who popped the new girl’s cherry. The offers soon came rolling in but I dismissed them all out of hand as it was fast becoming clear that I could have the pick of the bunch.
Most of my girlfriends were sheep and the fact that I stuck to my guns under duress made me something of a role-model to them. It wasn’t as though I hadn’t been popular back in my hometown, but never quite to this extent, and I have to admit that I was kind of digging on the whole reinvention deal and all the newfound hero-worship that came with it. Eventually I pretty much forgot what had been keeping me there in the first place and surrendered to my father that his judgement may have been sound after all. Life was sweet, popularity sweeter still, and this translated to a spring in my stride which drove all the boys gaga with only one notable exception – the impossibly beautiful Dean Rushmore. It’s maddening to think that the only dreamboat within a fifty kilometre radius that I found even faintly attractive just so happened to be the one least likely to bat an eyelid if I passed him in the halls but I have to admit to being more than a little excited by the challenge.
Dean wasn’t just hot, he was white-hot with diamante freckles and the poster boy for cool in this small town. Aside from being breathtakingly handsome and possessing a pair of eyes so shockingly blue that the Blue Man Group were forced to rename themselves Man Group, he was also both incredibly knowledgeable and massively likeable. Every time he opened his mouth, people flocked around expectantly, and he never let his audience down as he always seemed to have something meaningful to impart and did so with considerable eloquence. Given that everyone hung from his every syllable, Dean could have been forgiven for turning into something of an arrogant prick but, remarkably, not once did all this adulation appear to go to his head. They say that you never forget your first love and have my full corroboration as I’ve nary had a dream since that Dean Rushmore wasn’t smack bang in the middle of. Head over heels I believe is the term.
Not that I let on about my intense infatuation to a solitary soul as I knew doing so would compromise my game plan and luring him into my arms was clearly not going to be an overnight endeavor. Despite the fact that he could pretty much have the pick of any chick in the nest and probably half of their mothers too, Dean remained fiercely committed to his studies and had little to no time for such unnecessary distractions as dating. This effectively wiped out the competition as nobody in their right mind suspected they would stand so much as a glimmer of a chance of snagging themselves this prize alpha. Predictably, he excelled at everything he turned his hand to, and this extended to the playing field as he made captain of the football team, barely making a sweat as he beat off all-comers. I actually had little interest in football up until that point but, curiously, it started to appeal a lot more every time he slid on those tight white shorts and provided his adoring audience a “hut, hut, hike!” I’d get moist with every offensive play and damn near gush through my gusset when he scored that match-winning touchdown.
Two years passed and, while Dean was never less than polite and respectful when we passed in the halls each morning, there still hadn’t been an opportunity to place myself squarely on his radar. This is where adolescence came rushing gallantly to my aid and my breasts, previously modest handfuls, suddenly graduated into something far more capable of turning heads. The whole menstruation gig I could have done without and the stomach cramps that came bundled with it. But I was now starting my transition from pretty girl into beautiful young lady and knew just how to turn this to my advantage. I had to act fast, infiltrate his senses without throwing myself at his feet, and use every last tool in my now flourishing armory to stay with him while he washed away all that post-match grime. I’m more than aware how this works for the fellas, the moment you provide the mental screen saver for a single act of self-defilement, the battle has been won in the mind. And damn did I know how to puff up my pom-poms.
Interestingly, my addition to the cheerleader squad and swift promotion to captain, coincided with a run of form that soon had the major leagues sending their scouts out to find out what all the fuss was about. However, Dean didn’t let the attention go to his head, and neither did he allow himself to get carried away with the excitement of being hotly tipped as the most valuable quarterback in not one, but three states. Everyone wanted a piece and that included yours truly, but I was increasingly mindful that the window of opportunity was growing ever more slight. Security was tight in the Dean camp and, while every last student in the faculty idolized him in one way or all of them, his network of friends was actually pretty miniscule. I even considered finally succumbing to the incessant advances of his closest confidant Jackson even though I despised the very sight of him for hogging my beloved Dean, just to infiltrate this inner circle but couldn’t risk everything I’d worked for and promptly thought better of it.
However things turned out, one thing was for sure, as I hadn’t put a single foot wrong on my path to recognition and could take great pride from the way I’d conducted myself. It would have been all too easy forgetting to slip on my white cotton panties on the morning of a big match but that is how a girl gets a name for herself, and my chastity was my one remaining USP as big tits evidently wasn’t cutting the ribbons from his heart cradle. While nobody knew for sure as he conducted his personal affairs like he did everything else – dignified – general consensus was that Dean Rushmore was yet to pop his own cork and this common ground could yet provide the all-important swing vote when looking to take his distinguished gentleman to the oval office so to speak. I think this is where all the sheep were going wrong as they failed to recognize that one’s virginity is the most potent weapon in their armory. Their loss, my gain, all is fair in love and war – you know the routine. God I love that predatory instinct. It gets me off at night. We all gotta release the valve sometime right?
Speaking of which, this is where things began to take a turn far less than savory. Alcohol never particularly appealed to me prior to last Saturday night but, the thing about peer pressure, is that every one of us has an off-day and it preys on such instances with ruthless efficiency. One of the jocks was throwing a party while his parents were away for on one of their dirty weekends and his gatherings had become legendary in these parts as the Robinsons just so happened to be minted. We’re talking heated and fully lit pool complete with deep end and accompanying jacuzzi, top of the range P.A. system, hell he even had a half-pipe for the slackers and potheads. Everyone was catered for in some way, regardless of social status, and that kind of camaraderie makes ordinary people do things that they may not ordinarily do under more ordinary circumstances. I didn’t wish to place all my eggs in one basket but swore blind that this night would herald advancement. Something was heralded for sure, but I’m not entirely at ease with where this sudden shift in momentum was about to take me.
There should have been a klaxon going off in my ear when my friend Melissa (who I’m reasonably certain detests my very bones for the record) offered me a glass of Jack’s tampered homemade punch but I had so much invested in this night that my ordinarily steely resolve was found somewhat wanting. To my surprise, this bittersweet concoction was actually rather moreish, thus I sank two more measures in short succession and instantly felt my cool front begin to slip. It’s heartbreaking to think that you spend your entire scholarship acting a certain way, presenting yourself in a certain manner, and conveying a sense of dignity only for one reckless evening to define you evermore. Already three sheets to the wind and far less steady on my feet than I would have liked, I then proceeded to really push the boat out, until which time as I was barely cognizant of my surroundings.
The thing is, there is only one degree of separation between bad and worse and, by around the tenth serving of this 60% proof toxic brew, there was only one way the rest of the party was headed and, with it, my good girl reputation swiftly disintegrated before my glazed eyes. Quite what prompted me to flash my prize assets for every camera phone in the vicinity I’m never destined to know but, as a dozen or so clips were uploaded to YouTube in unison, it should have appeared something of a bum steer. Did it? Did it fuck, I adored the attention and didn’t concern myself with the inevitable repercussions as that was what the morning after was for. Instead, I decided to give the fast-swelling crowd what they really wanted to see, and unwittingly took my strip to the next level. The cheers were ringing out as I slid out of my underwear and only continued to intensify as I then alerted all comers to my close shave. There must have been something in my subconscious telling me that I was making the most monumental error in my entire high school tenure but, whatever it was saying, it wasn’t saying loud enough as logic failed to kick in at any stage.
Of all the things that gave me a sense of pride, holding onto my virginity while all around faltered was right up there at the apex. However, one ill-thought out decision and a skinful of judgement impairing alcohol later, my copybook had been well and truly blotted. I’ve actually blanked out most of the events of that evening but one vision that remains with me even now is that of Jack Robinson’s parents’ wedding photo as he snatched my innocence away in their marital bed while I struggled in vain to keep the rising vomit down. Whether I consented or not was irrelevant as I knew full well that I wouldn’t have agreed to this had I not been so inebriated and that the hangover was to be more severe than anything I’d ever experienced previously. What saddens me most in retrospect is that my first time was supposed to be special and there was only one suitor I intended on providing the honor. Interestingly, while I remember numerous leering faces egging me on to make an event bigger twat of myself than I already had, Dean’s wasn’t one of them and I’m not even sure how that makes me feel you know.
On one hand, it shows that he is every bit the gentleman I had him down as, and my respect for him multiplied tenfold. However, on the other, I was downright livid that he still hadn’t noticed me and, with the new nickname “Slutty Suzie” now doing the rounds, any hopes I clung onto of finally wearing his defences down were soundly vanquished. The last two weeks have been excruciating and the bad news just keeps on coming as it has since come to light that Dean Rushmore’s indifference to the ladies is more than simply careful selection. Apparantly he came out six months ago to his parents and had managed to keep this under wraps until a similar incident later on the very same night that I was plummeting to new depths. To be fair, he and Jackson actually make rather a cute couple and it doesn’t seem to have harmed his reputation none. As for me, well I only wish I was granted the same leeway as my one simple indiscretion appears to be my cross to bear indefinitely.
So there you have it, my entire social status determined by an act of madness and I’m actually glad that my father has decided to move us back to Seattle as at least there I can start again with a clean slate. That said, should that YouTube video ever surface, then my reprisal will likely be swift and ultimately excruciating. But do you know what needles me most? I hate to go all women’s lib here but it really is one rule for boys and an entirely different one for us girls. It was pats on the back all round for Jackson, while I discovered how steep the drop was from widely favored captain of the cheerleader squad to little more than tainted meat. My sole consolation right now is that the twenties couldn’t possibly be so troublesome to navigate and I’ll use every last dash of knowledge I’ve gleaned from this unfortunate episode to inform all of my future decisions. For now however, I feel it only right that I hang up those pom-poms one final time and take up the clarinet instead.
Truly, Really, Clearly, Sincerely,
Richard Charles Stevens
Keeper of the Crimson Quill
Copyright: Grueheads Films 2016