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Message-ID: <49137asstr$1094685004@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: "Gina Marie Wylie" <gmwylie98260@hotmail.com>
Subject: {ASSM} Spitfire and Messerschmitt Ch 12 {Gina Marie Wylie}  (teen, mf, cons)
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Date: Wed,  8 Sep 2004 19:10:04 -0400
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<1st attachment, "Davey Ch 12.doc" begin>

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

	The following is fiction of an adult nature.  If I believed in
setting age limits for things, you'd have to be eighteen to read
this and I'd never have bothered to write it.  IMHO, if you can
read and enjoy, then you're old enough to read and enjoy.

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

	All persons here depicted are figments of my imagination and any
resemblance to persons living or dead is strictly a blunder on my
part.

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

	Official stuff:  Story codes: teen, mf, cons.

	If stories like this offend you, you will offend ME if you read
further and complain. Copyright 2004, by Gina Marie Wylie. 

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

	I can be reached at gmwylie98260@hothothotmail.com, at least if
you remove some of the hots.  All comments and reasoned
discussion welcome.

Below is my site on ASSTR:
http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/Gina_Marie_Wylie/www/

My stories are also posted on StoriesOnline:
http://Storiesonline.net/

And on Electronic Wilderness Publishing:
http://www.ewpub.org/

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++


Spitfire and Messerschmitt

Chapter 12 :: Explaining the Inexplicable

Mercedes and I went to the school office instead of going to our
MS Office class.  Hammer was there and directed us to the right
room.  Dad was talking to Mercedes' dad and Mom was talking to
her mother.  Wanda and Emily were sitting and chatting with a
couple of young people Wanda's age.

"Twins run in the family," Mercedes whispered to me, nodding at
the group with Wanda.  "Mom had two sets of twins, and four other
kids," she told me.

Wanda knew all of Mercedes' brothers and sisters, it turned out,
including Mercedes' oldest sister who had moved out.

Blade came in, then Hammer and Willy Coy.  Chief Ortega arrived
with a man I recognized from the newspaper and TV, the Right
Honorable Thomas Homer Green, mayor of San Angelo.

Blade was carrying a number of bags of sub sandwiches; Hammer a
stack of pizza thermos bags, and Willy Coy a flat plastic
container with ice and mixed soda pop, water and other beverages.
 Another man came in with a flat tray that had bags of chips and
a couple plastic containers of cookies.  They were followed by
two more people, a man and a woman bearing paper plates, plastic
silverware and napkins.

"Eat up," Blade told us.  "I'm going to talk for a while on
background, then Hammer, there," he pointed to Hammer, "will
discuss weapons and tactics.  Willy Coy," he nodded to Willy,
"will end with a few closing thoughts.  We'll have about twenty
minutes for questions.  We will give you an email address to send
any other questions you have.

"We ask you not to discuss the contents of this meeting.  There
is nothing secret or classified, everything you hear is something
you can read in newspapers or magazines or has been on TV.  It's
the context that's important.  Now, just to be sure we all start
on the same page, I'm going to name names."

He started with Dad and my family, including me.  Mercedes'
father and her family, then the mayor and Chief of Police.  "Also
with us are Principal Herman Ruiz and vice principals Simon Two
Crows and Vonda Braud."  He pronounced her name like 'bro' and
spelled it out.  "Vonda is twice over a ragin' Cajun so you
should watch out for her temper!"

He did not further introduce himself or the other two.

He gestured at Hammer, now in the back of the room.  Willy Coy
got most of the lights and the room dimmed.  "This," Blade said,
"is the face of our enemy."

I wasn't the only one upset.  It was a picture of a kid, barely
out of toddler stage, wearing a vest with what looked like
dynamite sticks in it.

"That's disgusting!" the mayor said.  "Who would treat his son
like that?"

"These pictures are cropped," Blade told us, "so you can't see
the girl's father.  He was standing next to her with an AK-47 in
his hands and an RPG launcher strapped to his back.  He was
wearing a vest, too."

The picture changed.  A young woman, her head wrapped in a
colored scarf, who looked defiantly into the camera, a banner
with something in Arabic over her head.

"This woman blew herself up in a supermarket in Jerusalem.  She
killed two people, wounded twenty more.  One of the dead was a
school girl roughly her own age."

"And there are people like that, here in San Angelo?" the mayor
demanded.

"We aren't sure.  We were conducting a routine investigation into
a person of interest," Blade said.  "Events in the last week or
so have left us with more questions than answers.  Hannelore
Kimmel did not come to work today, although she did leave a
message on the teacher's voice mail system saying a family
emergency had come up and she had to return to Germany for a week
or so and that she'd be in touch.  The switchboard at the school
is manned until 5:00 pm; she called at a quarter after.  Fifteen
minutes or so before the attack on David Harper and Mercedes
d'Silva."

Blade nodded at the mayor.  "Sir, if you will hold your questions
until the end, we will endeavor to answer some of your questions
as we go along."

Blade started into a history of what he called "asymmetric
warfare," guerilla war by another name.  Where one side is not
strong enough to challenge a vastly stronger opponent or occupier
militarily, and who then resort to what are called "guerilla" or
"irregular" warfare tactics.  Basically sneaking around and
blowing up people on the other side.  For most of history that
meant doing it to the other side's soldiers.

"Terrorism," he told us, "is an offshoot of this sort of warfare.
 It is an attempt to change the political, rather than military
balance.  To convince one side that continuing the fight isn't
worth the cost in lives and property.  The targets of choice are
innocents going about their daily affairs, women and children,
the old, the infirm.  They like to make spectacular splashes,
like the multiple attacks on the World Trade Center.

"These tactics have been used effectively most notably in
Northern Ireland and the Middle East.  Please note I say
effective, not successful.  The situation in Ireland seems to be
in a lull now; there is an ongoing conflict in the Middle East."
He went on, talking about other conflicts around the world.

I'd read about some of what he covered, but not all of it.  It
was, I thought, pretty impressive when you're not talking from
notes.  Some of the slides he showed us were scary, bomb craters
left by people intent on killing others by detonating themselves
or their vehicles.

Then it was Hammer's turn.  "I only have one slide."  Blade was
back at the projector, and it clicked.  There on the screen was a
large hammer.

"Like me, a hammer.  A hammer is a tool for doing a particular
set of jobs.  Terrorists use certain tools to perform their
operations.  Those tools range from paint cans filled with screws
and a stick of dynamite, to a modern jet filled with passengers,
crew and thousands of gallons of jet fuel."

Hammer went on, describing the weapons and tactics of people who
blow up innocents.  It was not just a little scary; it was
terrifying.

I looked around just a few minutes before he finished.  Say what
you want about equality of the sexes and all of that, but the
women uniformly looked ill, all of them were upset, some had
cried at the descriptions.  The men in the room had grim faces,
hard faces.  Their eyes were intent and focused.

Willy Coy got up last.  "About now, you're all wondering what
this has to do with you.

"If you came up with the answer 'Nothing,' then you have come to
the right conclusion.  A woman appears to have taken personal
umbrage to David Harper being dealt a better poker hand than she
had.  It's impossible to leave out that she dealt the hand
herself.  It's also impossible to leave out that she and David
played the last round without anyone else betting.  She had a
full house.

"David Harper was sure he could beat that.  Since he didn't
appear to have a full house, the reasonable conclusion was four
of a kind.  He had four of kind.  I wasn't surprised; I'd folded.
 Everyone else had folded.  Hannelore Kimmel was positive that no
bare-cheeked thirteen-year-old could possibly beat her in a
"fair" fight.  But she wasn't fighting; she was playing poker.

"In the world of professional agents, this would never have
happened.  Miss Kimmel had a mission, I'm convinced that she did;
what that mission was, I have no idea.  Instead, she let a
personal issue come to occupy her thoughts and she used her
assets against a peripheral target.

"Americans have difficulty dealing with enemies who seek our
personal destruction, as individuals and as a culture.  That's
not how we think in our country; it's alien.  It is not alien to
our enemies.  They will almost certainly come again.  The purpose
of this meeting was to give you some idea of what to look for.

"The truth?" he swept the room with his eyes.  "If you are lucky
and actually do notice something, like it or not, you have one or
two seconds of life left.  Your only hope of doing anything
worthwhile is diving to the floor, yelling 'Bomb!  Bomb!'  Some
may take heed, duck and take cover themselves, thus, perhaps,
saving their lives.  Most likely, the terrorists will kill you
while you sleep or are looking the other way."

Mercedes was sitting with her parents, across the room.  I wanted
to wrap my arms around her and tell her that it would never
happen, not if I had anything to do about it.

The mayor was once again the only one who asked questions
afterwards.  Principal Ruiz was the target though, not Blade. 
"What possessed you to hire this woman?"

"She had valid teaching credentials, she is a native German, she
had good grades at the university, she came here last spring and
several of us interviewed her.  We thought she was fine and hired
her."

"Miss Kimmel," Blade said smoothly, interrupting, "was a graduate
of the Free University in Berlin.  That's a university with a
reputation similar to Berkeley, here in the United States. 
However, like Berkeley, not all Free University students go on to
become bomb-throwing radicals.

"Miss Kimmel befriended Judge Warren last May, then started going
to his poker parties in June.  When she asked me out on a date,
as a matter of course, I ran a background check on her.  It was
clean.  We have, in the last few days, redoubled our efforts on
her background; that is still in process."

The mayor looked perplexed, as was I.  "A terrorist asked you on
a date?"

Blade shook his head.  "A pretty girl I met at Judge Warren's
asked me out on a date.  While I like to think of myself as an
attractive man, it is unusual for someone to ask me out. 
Considering my job, I thought it worthwhile to have her checked
out.  She did check out.  Like Principal Ruiz said, there was
nothing to take exception to or to raise caution flags.

"I saw Miss Kimmel get angry during a poker hand.  It struck me
as odd -- there had been other hands where she had lost and
sometimes there had been more money than usual involved in those
hands, although not as much as this time.  She usually played
much better poker.  David Harper had four of a kind.  The only
person who didn't know that at the table was Miss Kimmel. 
Usually she is a sharp reader of cards.  There were too many
inconsistencies in the events of that evening.  I asked David
Harper to stick his head in Miss Kimmel's classroom and wave
hello on the first day of school.  He did.

"Miss Kimmel threw not one, but two erasers at David.  A few
minutes later she apologized to him and explained that her joke
with erasers had been in bad taste.  Yesterday, they passed in
the schoolyard and exchanged a few civil words and that was
that.

"Except, as David rightly pointed out to me when he called right
afterwards, she lied to him in those few words, saying she was
working during her prep period.  It was a stupid lie, at that. 
There is a major issue of contention amongst the teachers at his
school, one that's been around for more than a year.  Some
teachers want to have a prep period instead of teaching a class
during one of the lunch periods.  The administration, because of
the nature of the schedule, need most of the teachers in their
classrooms.  The current arrangement is that exactly two
teachers, one each lunch period, have a prep period.  Which
teacher receives this benefit is chosen based on seniority.

"The younger teachers want a lottery, it's a topic of
considerable debate at the start of every school year.  The
newest teacher at the school isn't going to have a prep period
during lunch; while it is certainly possible she misspoke, David
said she was lying.  He was there, and I'll go with his gut
feeling when I have reason to believe she could well have been
lying.

"Sir, there was no reason to assume she was anything or anyone
other than what she purported.  She could have, in fact, stayed
in place and ridden this out.  Unless there is something that
will clearly link her to the attempt on David Harper.  Which is
what my gut says is going to be found.

"We've investigated the car used in the attack.  It was stolen
nearly a month ago in Dallas.  The car is unusual, as it has a
rear license plate that appears to be a front plate  stolen from
another vehicle and then altered to look like a rear plate.  The
car's front plate was different from the rear plate and was also
stolen from yet another car.

"This is professional work.  At this point, we are simply looking
for her, and if we find her, we have some questions to ask. 
Unless we find the driver of the car, it is unlikely that we can
tie it back to her.  If she walked through the door of the school
tomorrow morning, she'd be home from the police station by dinner
time."

Things wound down from there and finally those of us in school
left, leaving the adults behind to continue to talk.  Mercedes
and I agreed to meet after school to talk between ourselves.  The
lunch period was almost over and neither of us wanted to talk
about what we'd just seen and heard without time to digest it
first.

I'd sort of liked Colonel Terrell's teaching style before, now I
found myself hanging on his every word.  In PE it was now
official: I was now part of the jock-track, which did a lot more
warm-ups and exercises than the others.  After we did those, I
was called over to meet with a man I recognized from Saturday.

"I'm Sol Delgado," he told me.  "I'm the pitching coach.  I
understand you don't know how to throw a curveball."

"Yes, sir.  A friend showed me Monday, but my arm has been a
little tender, so I haven't done much to practice it."

He went through the mechanics of it, and then had me throw a few
pitches to someone catching.  I wasn't supposed to pitch so much
as hold the ball right and then get it close to the catcher.  I
threw about twenty pitches like that and I was feeling fine.

Coach Delgado had been watching all the time and now he told me
to throw a couple of fastballs, aiming for the catcher's glove. 
The catcher held it belt high, and I threw another half dozen
pitches.  Most of them were pretty good, I thought.

"I like your arm motion," the Coach told me.  "Not sidearm, not
over the top.  It's a comfortable way to throw?"

I hadn't even thought about it, I went through the motion going
slowly.  I nodded to him, "It just feels right, Coach."

"Until we see what you can do," he told me, "we'll leave it the
way it is.  We can redo the mechanics, but it takes a while.  Now
try a couple of curveballs again, only this time for real."

I did.  The first one was high, didn't curve and the catcher
didn't bother to run it down.  The second one was much better,
and I could actually watch it curve.  I felt odd for a few
seconds after that, remembering the way the ball looked as it
flew towards the catcher.  It was a really warm, pleasant
feeling.  A little like what I felt like after sex, but this
wasn't sex, this was the satisfaction of having done something
right.

The next two pitches were also pretty good and I was feeling on
top of the world.  Then, of course, it was time to do something
else, so I spent the last ten minutes of the PE period running
around chasing fly balls that a couple of the coaches were
hitting to us.

The last bell of the day rang and I met Mercedes.  I'd told Wanda
I was going to get home on my own, so I wasn't worried about
being missed.  "Come home and study with me," Mercedes told me.

She was insistent, so I fell in alongside her for the walk to her
house, about a half-mile from school.  We talked baseball; we
gossiped about kids in school.  We talked about everything but
what had happened yesterday evening after the movie.  We had just
about reached her house when she stopped, so I did too.

There was a kind of amused glint in her eyes.  "One thing, very
important, before we go inside."

"Okay."  I was curious, I really was.

"A couple of times in the last few days I've heard you use the
word 'Mexican.'"

I nodded.

She waved towards her house, about a hundred yards away.  "Unless
you are cussing, don't use that word inside our house.  Unless
you want to find out about really bad tempers, don't use the
word.  You don't know what it means to my family."

I thought for a second.  It sure didn't sound like she was
kidding; there was, I thought, a perfectly reasonable way to go
here.  "I don't understand," I told her.

"Texas history, Davey.  Surely you've studied it."

"Oh, yes!"  A required subject since first grade.  Texans are
inordinately proud of their history.

"Juan Seguin, Davey.  Have you ever heard of him?"

I shook my head.

"He was one of those at the Alamo -- except he lived.  He was
sent to get reinforcements, then because he was the leader of the
Tejanos, the Spanish natives of Texas, he was ordered to join Sam
Houston where he did a really heroic job.  Then, of course, once
the war was over, you Anglos screwed him over."

"Not me," I told her.  "I'm sorry about whatever it was that
happened to him."

"He'd been a big war hero, he was elected Mayor of San Antonio,
but once Texas became a state, the Anglos started stealing
everything the Tejanos had.  They were Mexicans, they said, the
enemy.  They ran him out of town, forced him and his family to
flee to Mexico."

That seemed really unfair.  I'd never really been interested in
Texas history; maybe it was because of the continual exposure to
it, I thought I knew it.  Evidently the stuff we got at school
wasn't complete.

"We're Spanish, Davey.  Don't forget that word!  You don't study
Mexican last period, you study Spanish.  Mexicans are people who
come from Mexico, Spanish are the people who were in Texas before
there was a Mexico, who didn't like Mexico or Mexicans, and who
are still in Texas.  It might not be politically correct, but my
family, and a lot of others like us, are prejudiced against
Mexicans.  We don't like them, they're criminals, scum.  They
break the law just to get here."

I decided that laughing or smiling wouldn't be a good thing.  I'd
heard something similar to that from my dad.  Then I remembered
the name of the guy who'd raped Emily.  A Mexican.

"Davey, forget and say Mexican in my house and my family will
think you're a stupid Anglo.  Someone will say something about
Spanish people.  Say Mexican again and..."

I got the message.  It seems like the world is a very complicated
place.  But really, if you'd been loyal to Texas against the
Mexican dictators, if you'd fought alongside other Texans to win
independence, why would you want to be called the same name as
those who marched to put down the revolt?

Mercedes grinned at me, and we started walking again.  Her house
was almost as large as ours and just as well-kept.  The two of us
sat down at the table in their dining room and studied.  There
was a lot of work and we didn't get done until after six.  For
the last few minutes, I was aware that her father had come home
and was standing in the kitchen, talking to Mercedes' mother.

My cell phone went off; it was Wanda wanting to know if I was
going to be home for dinner.  I said I was just about ready and
she volunteered to come pick me up.  I put the phone away, and
saw that Mercedes' father had taken my seat.  He saw me and
gestured so I went to see what he wanted.

"Mercedes tells me you and she are friends.  You're lab partners
in biology, in a study group for algebra, have the same English
class.  You understand that my first instinct is to tell you to
keep at least a mile away from her?"

"Yes, sir."

"Except that's not going to work.  I looked in her eyes and I can
see it won't work.  I look into your eyes and I see the same
thing.

"I'm a teacher, I teach chemistry; odds are the two of you will
be in my class next year.  I wasn't always a teacher.  In order
to get through college I was in ROTC.  After I graduated I spent
four years in the army, then two more in the reserves.

"Never give an order, I was taught, that you know isn't going to
be obeyed.  As a teacher, that doesn't always apply because you
know some of your students are going to blow you off.  Right now,
looking at the two of you, I think I truly understand what was
meant and why it's important.

"I treated my own kids like I do kids in school.  I told them
what was expected of them, and when they ignored us, particularly
me, I was as helpless as I am at school.  I have one daughter
who's left home already, before she was ready.  We have two sets
of twin girls, one set your sister's age; they aren't home right
now because they are someplace with their boyfriends.  The two
that are a year older than Mercedes are at a friend's house.  So
they say.  It's possible they are studying, but I doubt it.

"I have two sons who aren't home either.  They, too, are out with
friends.

"Maybe it's time I paid attention to what I was told before I
lose my last daughter."

I felt helpless.  There were so many conflicting emotions running
through my mind.  That had been true since I'd seen Hannelore
yesterday at lunch.

"Sir, all my life my parents, particularly my dad, have told me
how to live my life.  I've ignored them as much as I could.  It
wasn't me they were talking to but someone they wished was their
son.  Only in the last couple of weeks have I come to realize
that it wasn't just BS they were telling me.

"And they've come to respect me, I think, too.  I'm less than a
month from my fourteenth birthday, but I've come to understand
that I don't know nearly as much as I thought I did.

"Yesterday, someone tried to kill me.  At the time, I wasn't
doing much thinking, just reacting.  I thought he was  trying to
hit both of us.  Then, at the last second, he swerved towards me.
 I've looked a madman in the face, sir.  I'm pretty sure I've
seen a madwoman as well."

I paused, reached out and took Mercedes' hand.  "I love your
daughter.  I haven't known her long, but the longer I'm around
her, the more positive I am.  I promise you, sir, I will do
nothing to hurt her.  Ever.  I will do everything I can to
protect her.  I don't know what I can do to earn your trust, but
I'd like to."

"If you can't trust Davey," Mercedes said, squeezing my fingers,
"trust me.  You haven't done as badly as you think with us."

When it was time for me to leave, Mercedes gave me a hug. 
Sometime in the period between when we'd arrived at house and
when I said goodbye, she'd taken off her bra.  Once again two
very nice breasts pressed against my chest.  I'd been emotionally
drained by events, but part of me filled right up when I felt
them!

I chuckled, leaned close and whispered in her ear, "I love you!"

She grinned and blew me a kiss.  "Tomorrow," Mercedes told me, "I
go to the doctor for an exam.  By afternoon, I too will be on the
team!"  I felt happy and excited as I went out and climbed into
Wanda's car.

I was surprised when we stopped on the way home.  "Are you okay,
Davey?  I mean, really okay?" Wanda asked.

"I'm fine," I told her, "although I'm not sure why you're
asking."

"Because if I had a nutcase try to kill me, I wouldn't be okay. 
A nutcase bomber, maybe not only would I be a little scared, I'd
be a lot scared.  Cars are bad enough, Davey.  I was screaming
yesterday, I tell you true.  First I tried to warn you, then I
was wishing I could chase the bastard who almost hit you.  I'm
glad Emily stayed home.  She didn't need to see something like
that."

"How is she?" I asked, concerned.

"Worried about you," Wanda told me, "which is actually a good
thing because she's not thinking about her own situation.  The
whole thing this afternoon?  I think Emily believes it was like a
TV show on the Discovery channel.  That it really doesn't apply
to her."

I nodded.  I hoped this was people being very cautious and that
Emily was right.

"She needs more time, Davey.  I think she's doing well but it's
just going to take more time."

"I want her to be okay," I told my sister.  "I want you and
everyone else to be okay."

She started up the car again and we finished the drive home.

Dinner was all of us for a change; there was a moratorium about
unpleasant topics at the dinner table so it was actually quite a
nice meal.

Later, I spent a while reading Wizenbeak, the book I'd bought. 
It was definitely fascinating fantasy, written with a dry wit
that milked the most from one line zingers and clever ideas. 
Wizenbeak seemed to be ready to take on the universe at the drop
of his wizard's hat.

I liked the idea of clever comebacks, little zingers to lighten
conversation.  If nothing else, to cheer me up.

I was thinking about bed when Wanda came in, wearing one of the
long t-shirts that I had empirically decided she slept in.  "Hold
me," she said.  "Just wrap your arms around me and hold me."

I did, and she did the same thing to me.  For at least five
minutes we stood in my room doing nothing but hugging, and on
Wanda's part she was hugging me very tightly.

Finally she let loose, pushed me to arm's length.  "Dad wants me
to give Jack another chance."

She was crying, I realized.  Not big tears, but her eyes were
watering.

"I tried to tell him it was more than just how much Jack had
changed this summer.  But Dad told me that it wasn't right to
kick someone when he's at the bottom of his life.  Jack is
fucked, really fucked.  He's off the football team; he's getting
shit from his parents, his coaches, his teachers... and me.

"It isn't fair, Dad told me, that when someone hits bottom like
that, when everyone in your world kicks you in the face because
you screwed up, that your girlfriend dumps you, too.

"Dad got Jack to open up the other day.  At that camp they
hounded Jack, morning, noon and night to 'get right.'"  Wanda
snorted.  "That's what Pammie's father is always saying, you have
to get right with the Lord.

"Jack was weak.  There wasn't anyone there to help him.  I'm not
exactly a great letter writer.  He wrote me once, and I wrote him
once.  One letter in two months.  I don't know, Davey.  Dad's
right.  It's just really bad timing, really bad.  No one deserves
to be treated like that."

I kissed her on the nose, little brother to big sister.  Then I
asked a little brother question.  "Why are you telling me all
this, Wanda?"

"Because, I'm going out with Jack here in the next couple of
days.  Because I can't see you for a while or I will be so
totally confused I won't know which way is up or down.  Because I
don't want to hurt you, because I don't want you hating me.  So
please, Davey, pat me on the butt, tell me that one of these days
you'll fuck my socks off again, right after you've eaten me raw.
But not today."

I patted her on the butt and gave her another kiss and promised
everything she wanted promised.  My sister smiled sadly at me,
turned and walked away.

I had a raging hard-on; I didn't know why.  She'd just told me
that I wasn't likely going to have sex with her any time soon. 
It hadn't been that many times, but Mom had been right.  More
than once or twice, it starts to mean more than just physical. 
It was why I could go turn out my light, strip nude and crawl
back into my bed.  It was true, since that first time with Wanda
we'd gone from barely civil to doing favors for each other.

I remembered something I'd tried once before.  I slid my pillow
down, so it was between my abdomen and my erection, while I was
laying face down.  Then I tried to fuck a hole in my sheet.

After I came, I cleaned up the mess, rolled over on my back and
cursed being a teenager.  There has to be a better way, I
thought.  Abstinence sucked; although the threat of unintended
pregnancy made it seem attractive.  You were trapped every which
way you turned.  Would regular sex settle me down?  I thought so.
 I laughed.  It wasn't going to happen with my sister.  It wasn't
going to happen with Pammie, Karen or Emily.

Mercedes said it was going to happen with her, but it was clear
she hadn't had time to see the school nurse for a shot yet.  What
did I owe her parents?  I had hormones, Mercedes had hormones;
we'd more or less agreed to deal with that.  Her father would, I
was sure, think I was a liar and hypocrite if he found out.

It was enough, I thought, to make you want to cry in frustration.
 Whacking off was okay, but now that I knew what the real thing
was like, I wasn't ever going to be satisfied for very long with
something less.  And giving masturbation second place was doing
it a favor, because there was no other competition.  Masturbation
was infinitely better than the alternative of not having sex at
all.  Still, it was a lousy alternative to the real thing.

<1st attachment end>


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