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Subject: {ASSM} Girl: My Story part 2 <lit> (semi-group, caution)
Date: Wed, 10 May 2000 07:10:11 -0400
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Girl: My Story part 2
by Marit Larsen

After writing that first part, I guess what I want to do about writing all
this.  This isn't the first time I've tried to write this all out, but it's
the first time te words seem to write themselves. I'm not about to try and
stop the flow of words, no matter how disorganized and disjointed the story
may sound. I want to try to keep things in some sort of order, though, and I
guess the best way to do that is chronologically.

That doesn't do a shred to explain the first part of the story, and I
apologize for the jumping back and forth. That first part was more to set
the scene than anything else. I don't know what you gathered from it, but I
sure got a lot from reading it again.

I had no idea how shallow I sounded. I'm not going to change it just to make
me sound a little better. That's the way I was, and that's probably the way
I am now. No apologies for that one. Of course I didn't learn that lesson
until just last year - never apologize for who you are. Nobody will stand up
for you besides yourself, and you can't expect anybody to support you.
That's what I learned after I got my Icy contacts, the ones that gave me my
view of the world.

They were supposed to give me more confidence, but what they gave me instead
was addiction. I didn't want to be seen in public without them. So the one
thing that was supposed to make me less self-conscious only made me more so.

At school that first week after I got the contacts, nobody noticed at all
except the boy whose actions caused me to get them in the first place, and
my teacher. But luckily she didn't make a big a deal out of it, like make me
stand in front of the class and give a talk about them and how they worked.

For the rest of sixth grade, I might as well have disappeared from the
school. I didn't have many friends before I got the contacts, and my new eye
color didn't win me any new ones either. But knowing what was under the blue
lenses made me keep wearing them.

Knowing that nobody gave a rip about my eyes made me lose more confidence in
myself than ever. On the last day of school, everyone in the class was
invited to an end-of-the-school-year party, the same one that was thrown
every year since first grade by the same girl. Except this year, I didn't
go.

On Saturday, the day after the party, I called a girlfriend of mine just to
ask how the party went. She told me about a game of spin the bottle they had
played. It was a mild version, where the people who were chosen by the
bottle got to choose what kind of kiss they would perform for the other
kids. They could choose a small peck on the cheek, one on the lips, or if
both sides consented, a french kiss.

At first I thought the idea was revolting, but she made it sound good, as if
it was something that just happens and I was expected to like it. When
you're twelve, you don't make decisions like that on your own--your
decisions are made by those around you, whether you admit it to yourself or
not.

She told me about the party that was happening next week, and how I really
should go because I had missed the one on Friday. Having no better argument
than not wanting to, and knowing that it wouldn't stand against her
persistence, I agreed.

Almost everyone in my sixth grade class was at the party the next Saturday.
It was held in the same girl's house, a huge place with an unfinished
basement, the kind where all you'd need to do is add drywall and it would
pretty much be another floor in itself. That's where the party was.

The girl's parents left us alone for the whole thing. I guess they figured
there was only so much trouble a troupe of kids who just got out of
elementary school could get themselves into. And that's where I was, sitting
in a candle-lit basement room in the middle of June, where a group of
fifteen kids just out of elementary school were making out with each other
on the whim of a spun bottle.

The game started innocently, just little kisses at first, nobody wanting to
do much more than pecks on the cheek. I was cool with that for a while. I
only had one turn, and of the eight guys who were there, I only got spun by
one. So two kisses, and that was it at first.

The pecks on the cheek soon graduated to kisses on the lips, and I did that
once, very hesitantly. The guy I kissed was really nice about it, so it
wasn't too bad. Just a touch and go. We went through two rounds of this,
probably not more than about five minutes. It went very mechanically, each
person in the circle spinning the bottle on their turn almost before the
last couple had finished kissing.

On my friend's turn, she spun the boy I knew she liked. She grinned, looked
around the room, then at her boy, and asked for a french kiss. Everyone in
the room kind of gasped, like they didn't see this coming, like it was a big
shock that one of them would dare to ask for the big kiss. She just kept
grinning, and when I looked over, I saw that her guy was grinning too.

They came together in the middle of the circle, on their knees in front of
each other, and kissed. Everyone cheered when it finally happened, like they
had just won the Make-Out Super Bowl or something. I didn't know whether to
join in the cheering or just keep my mouth shut, so I cheered just so I
wouldn't stand out in the crowd. The kiss couldn't have lasted for more than
about ten seconds, but it seemed like they were going at it for so long.
Their eyes were closed, his hands were on her hips, her hands were holding
on to his shoulders. Like she was half holding on to him and half holding
him off. Meanwhile, he tried to keep them as mashed together as possible.

The rest of us just gawked, kids getting their first taste of sexuality in
the form of two of their own kissing for all they were worth in the cheesy
candle-lit atmosphere of an unfinished basement room. Short of the
occasional R-rated movie that we watched when the parents weren't home, or
some Playboy magazines tucked away in an older brother's room, this was all
we knew about sex. This was the only way we knew to go about learning for
ourselves what this whole sex thing was all about--watching as our friends
did it.

So there they were, my friend and this boy, lips squished together, their
heads pivoting back and forth on their connection as they tried their
hardest to imitate what little they've seen of kissing. Finally after what
seemed like forever, they parted, and she had this look on her face like she
had just seen what heaven was all about and now she was being dragged back
to Earth.

But the boy wasn't done yet. I couldn't imagine what kind of courage he had
to muster up to do this, and looking back I think it must have just been a
spur of the moment kind of thing. As they separated, he reached up and gave
my friend's tits a squeeze.

She jumped back like she had been bitten by a snake, half-screaming and
half-gasping, arms flying over her chest. She flopped back to her place in
the circle and the rest of them crowded around her, giggling and screaming
along with her. The thing that grabbed me was that ridiculous look on her
face, like she was revolted but somehow thrilled at the same time. Her arms
were folded in front of her, and she had pulled her knees up to her body. I
knew what she was feeling though. She wasn't curling up because she was
repulsed; she was curling up to preserve that tiny little tingle that being
touched on the tits gives you.

The boy, on the other hand, had a grin on his face for a completely
different reason. In that instant he had just become the king of all males.
He had his own contingent behind him, patting him on the back and screaming
out their congratulations in counterpoint to the girls' screams and
laughter.

So the girls were on her side of the circle, the boys were on the other, and
I was just frozen where I sat. I was smiling, but I was only doing it
because it seemed like the thing to do. And I knew the only reason I could
smile like that was because the bottle had to be spun ten more times before
I knew I had to spin.

After the rabble had calmed down and reformed their circle, the game
continued. Three boys in row were due up to spin, so I was really nervous
for all that. But I wasn't spun, and all they asked for were simple little
kisses on the lips. The tension stayed though, and when the next girl got to
spin, she asked for a french kiss. The boy she spun happily obliged, and at
the end of the kiss he reached up and squeezed her boobs just like my
friend's boy had. It didn't draw as much of a squeal as the first french
kiss did, but it set a standard--anyone asking for a french kiss was now
going to get her chest examined.

Only about half of the girls there had any boobs to speak of at all, and
even then all they had were little ones. I don't think any of us had gotten
into a B-cup yet. I knew I was one of the biggest, and I didn't even have
enough to sag. All I had were two nipples that stood out like pencil erasers
when they were cold, on top of a cone of flesh that wasn't even substantial
enough to carry a sag under its own weight. I didn't even worry about
wearing a bra, since what I had supported itself on its own. I wasn't like
some girls who bought their first training bras the second their nipples
started to show any indications of blossoming. I didn't give a hoot whether
or not I got to wear a bra like the next girl. I didn't have enough boobs to
warrant wearing a bra, so I didn't. That was that.

That didn't change the fact I had more than every other girl there but one,
and she didn't have that much on me. So when the boys finally wised up and
started asking for french kisses (and their subsequent feel-ups), every girl
who had breasts got theirs squeezed. But I managed to make it through six
guys without getting spun.

Finally, after watching as another guy kissed my friend and squeezed her
tits, the bottle was handed to me. It was my turn again.

I took a deep breath, and without even thinking about it, grabbed the bottle
and spun it as hard as I could. I watched it turn and turn, and I looked
around the room to see which boy the roulette would choose for me. The
bottle slowly coasted to a stop, and pointed to the boy directly across the
circle.

I knew he hadn't been spun yet, so he was anxious and ready to go. Before I
could blink, he was on his two knees in the middle of the circle, lips
puckered ready to kiss me. And I hadn't even said what kind of kiss I
wanted. He had just assumed I wanted my tits squeezed like all the other
girls.

There was no way anyone would let me out of this, so I got up onto my knees
and approached him. For a second, just a split second, I could see myself
doing it. I could see how our lips would press together, could feel his
intruder tongue fencing with mine, could sense the tension in the room as
fifteen twelve-year-olds were tasting sex for the first time.

I actually thought it was going to happen. But at the last second, my eyes
sort of snapped themselves open, and I saw him, the boy whom that cursed
bottle had condemned me to kiss. He was all ready, lips all puckered, eyes
closed, hands down by his sides ready to reach up and grope my chest.

And that did it. The thought of his hands on my body made me dizzy, and not
in a good way either. I fell backward onto my butt. It took a second, but I
heard it: the demeaning laughter of fourteen kids, all of them staring and
pointing at me, the only one who couldn't get up the courage to be kissed. I
saw them pointing at me, barely able to control their hysterical laughter.

I kept glancing around the room, looking for someone, anyone, who wasn't
laughing at me. Every giggle sent a painful stab into my side, stabs I can
still feel today when I think of how those kids laughed at me. Not a single
one held their laughter back. Every single kid looked at me like I was the
joke of the century.

I couldn't take it any more. I bolted for the door, stopping only to open
it, and ran out of the house.

Anchorage in June is some sort of luminescent paradise. It's not far enough
north to have 24-hour sunlight like a lot of people think--not all of Alaska
is the Land of the Midnight Sun--but what happens in Anchorage in June is
that the sun never completely goes away. You can see it high in the sky,
peaking some time around one in the afternoon. Sunset more often than not is
a spectacular show, and the sunlight gets refracted in the atmosphere into
thousands of pleasant shades of orange and pink. As midnight approaches and
the early morning hours tick by, a burst of light creeps its way around the
north edge of the horizon over to the mountains on the east. Sunset and
sunrise just mold into each other, and if you ever have the stamina to stay
awake the whole night and watch it, you're in for a real treat. You wouldn't
have to stay up long either. The sun starts to spill over the peaks at about
five in the morning.

But at seven at night, that night I fled from a simple kiss, the sun is
still obscenely high and bright in the sky. It might as well have been three
in the afternoon. That's what greeted me as I burst out of the house to the
seaside bike trail just across the street. I kept on running, letting my
eyes adjust from the dim basement to the evening sunlight as I went. I
didn't stop until I reached the trail and saw Cook Inlet at high tide gently
lapping against the rocky shores. I crossed the bike trail and stumbled down
to the rocks just above the water line.

The water looked soothing, relaxing, as if  it could wash away the whole
memory of that basement and everything that went on. Looking out into the
water, it was easy to pretend that things didn't go that way, that there
wasn't a houseful of sixth graders groping their way into semi-adulthood. I
closed my eyes and tried to forget the whole thing ever happened.

Then I heard footsteps scrambling down the rocks behind me, and I had a
pretty good idea who it would be.

I could see the moment in perfect crystal clarity. The boy I was supposed to
kiss ran out of the house to follow me. He ran to the trail, and saw me
sitting on the rocks by the shore. Overcome with guilt, he came down to talk
to me, and tell me that the semi-orgy was wrong. We would sit there and talk
for another hour, just sitting and talking, and just as the sun started to
fall toward the horizon over the inlet, I would tell him that I did want to
kiss him, but not when thirteen other kids were watching. I wanted to do it
now.

We'd kiss, and this time it would be perfect. We would make love for the
first time there, on the sunny inlet shore. I could feel it. I could sense
it.

But the person scrambling down the rocks wasn't the boy. It was my friend.

She came down to the shore and sat next to me. She could tell that I had
been crying. I started to feel better as she put an arm around my shoulder,
and I told her what had scared me back at the house, the thought of the
boy's passionless hands, slimy lips, of so many people not only watching,
but expecting it.

For about five minutes, she and I just sat there, her arm around me. I was
so close to feeling comfortable. Then she stood up, took my hand, and asked
me to come back to the house.

I started to cry again.

All she had really wanted was for me to go back to that house, to that
horrible basement. It didn't matter how much it had seemed as if she cared
about me and how I felt. She was still part of the mob, someone who didn't
care at all what I stood for.

Eventually she gave up. She cantered back to the house as if I never
existed.

I sat there for what must have been about half an hour, just staring out
into the inlet, struggling to convince myself that I was right for standing
up for myself. I found out that day that what's right isn't always popular,
and what's popular isn't always right. I thought I knew it then, but the
lesson really sunk in when I went back to the house to get the bag that I
had left inside.

Instead of walking through the front door, I went around to the back. The
last thing I needed was to get that girl's parents involved in the whole
ridiculous mess. I was sure that parents can go through the rest of their
lives without having to witness their child's blossoming sexuality
first-hand.

When I went into the basement, it took my eyes a second to adjust to the
darkness. And when they did, I wished that I hadn't seen what was happening.

The game of spin the bottle had degenerated to a random groping session.
Almost all the kids were still sitting in a circle, giggling and carrying
on. Except the spins meant more than kisses now. Every girl spun now allowed
the boys to play with their tits over their shirts. I couldn't tear my eyes
away from the couple in the middle of the circle, and how they ransacked
each other's mouths with their tongues in mock passion, the boy's hands
cupping what breasts the girl had.

Four people of the fourteen were sitting out of the circle. Two girls, who
had also apparently had enough of the game, were sitting off to the side of
the room, chatting about nothing. I envied them, the way they could sit so
close to this desecration of their standards and not even blink. Every now
and then, one of them would look at the action in the middle of the room,
make a face, and go back to conversation.

But my friend, on the other hand, was more involved than ever. She sat in
front of the boy she had a crush on, leaning back onto him. His legs were
spread out, knees up, and feet flat on the floor. He had his arms around
her, folded across her breasts. He had one in each hand.

She had her arms covering the action, crossed in front of his greedy hands.
Both of them had ridiculous grins on their faces. And they both looked like
they were on top of the world.

She, out of the rest, was the only one who noticed I had come back. She
motioned for me to join them. I looked down and shook my head no. I grabbed
my bag as quickly as possible and left.

My house was just a few minutes' walk through the quiet neighborhoods.
Halfway through the trip, I passed a park, where some other kids were
playing touch football. They were about my age, maybe a couple years older.
Having nothing better to do, and knowing that I wasn't expected home for
another two hours, I sat on a swing and watched them.

This, I thought, was what I was supposed to be. Not playing sex roulette in
a dim basement, but outside, happy and carefree. I wished I were in first
grade again. First grade, where your biggest problem was which socks you
should wear. Where you weren't faced with the idea that you should be madly
sexual.

I lost my mind for the next half hour or so. I was lost thinking about the
days when I was much younger, when I would come to this park and chase the
pigeons and ducks for hours. I would swing on the tire swing, hang on the
monkey bars, dig in the sand, walk across the beams.

I would have been lost there for hours longer had I not noticed one of the
boys take a break from the football game and head right for where I was
swinging.

I could see him out of the corner of my eye, but I pretended not to notice
him, not to hear him shout after me as I ran the rest of the way home. I
left my bag in the playground, and I left what remained of my innocence in
that basement. I didn't think I'd ever see either one again.

Marit Larsen
minimarit@hotmail.com

-- 
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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