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Wednesday, 27 April 2011

An excerpt From "The Very First Summer of Rebecca Emmons," a novel by Anthony Rosania.

But I'm not experienced. They had sex with her because they could. No other reason. Miss Sommers had sex with the girl because it was daring and different and wrong, and because she could. The girl knew that. She did not kid herself about it. With all of them, the ones she remembered, she had felt, then, apart from herself. She pushed these dangerous memories, which were not hers at all, away.

Think of the heat. Can't think of anything else.

Perspire, dammit. Forget the woman who seemed to not remember the eager girl in bed with her. The eager girl who had to tell the woman who was naked, except for the curious fact she never took her white bra off, that she was scared, that she felt used. Bought-and-paid-for. She asked the girl, who did as asked, to kiss through the lacy material, which was so wrong for such a prim lady; the asking, and the bra material, and all of it, when you came right down to it.

She was not perspiring on this very hot day. She had wished a teacher, who had always been kind to her, who had brought to her the stingingly sharp thunderclap of ecstasy, when no boy had, and to whom she had clung, died. She wished to have some films of her time with her sex partners, so she could review them at her leisure. And remember them, at least.

It was so horribly unfair, she having sex with them, and not remembering it more than a vague meal from a long time ago. The taste of it old and indifferent. A memory of a long series of memories really. When you came right down to it, she was not that kind of girl.

Would Miss Sommers help the girl, and whatever she was now, now that the world was scaring her to death with its darkness this long, hot afternoon of Saturday? She wished she could remember when she sat on the woman's face, and the woman's tongue went up inside her, and tickled the caves inside her, and the girl giggled. Did she giggle because she wanted to? Or because it was expected of her?

Did sexuality have to be a show? Did you have to do what they told you to do, even in that? Could anything be autonomously pleasurable at all to her? Or to anyone?

I'm tired, she thought, and hot, the heat has made me delirious. She mercifully began to perspire. She perspired like she did when one <> boy put it up her ass and another boy made her suck him off at the same time.

Miss Sommers had been curious what the girl did with boys, and she asked her to provide great detail. Miss Sommers found that especially fascinating, as she held the girl in her bed and stroked her butt crack and put her finger inside, forcing her to revisit the discomfort.

The girl, now most sadly, most gladly, herself again, had entered one of the neighborhoods near her home. She walked past a man in hairy bare chest and red swim trunks, heavy belly, waxing his car; she walked past a stick-bone woman in a swim suit, lying on a pink beach towel in her yard with overgrown grass, head to one side, sunglasses on.

The woman lay on her front, with her top undone, catching sun rays as though she could become summer through the heat and the tan that was easing onto the greasy Coppertone flesh of her, and through her.

Rebecca dallied for a moment with a thought: I could show her how women have sex. I could feel her hairy crotch, and I could insert a finger, and she would wriggle, and moan, and be left with that feeling. If she only knew what is passing her by, and she is dead out of luck, the summer grass sun worshipper.

There were children going to the corner grocery store, running past her in giggles and sweat. One or two of them bumped into each other. One bumped into her as though she was not there. Rebecca felt for a moment that airy chance of being invisible again, but then knew she was not, deflating again with it.

She knew now she was just a summer fixture. The thoughts she was having, these mad thoughts, were just the results of the sweaty hot sun dancing in her brain. Mad--now there was another word that smelled like dead flies or lighting bugs in a Mason jar, insects that had been smothered to death by cruel, insensitive little boys.

Rebecca was the school whore. Face it.

The story above is a satire or parody. It is entirely fictitious.

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