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From: Incest Man <familyincest@graffiti.net>
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Subject: "Veronica" Chapter 11
Date: Tue, 14 Feb 2006 11:11:53 -0800
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http://www.incesttabooo.com/veronica.html
Veronica
CHAPTER 11
I spent most of the rest of the summer getting even with Dana and
Irene and -- most of all -- Dan...in my mind. I fucked everyone I
could, and with the figure I had, I could get just about anyone I
wanted. And I wanted a lot. Just before Labor Day, I hitched a ride
out to Perrysburg with three Mexicans. I was so dark and swarthy that
they assumed I was Mexican and were surprised that I didn't understand
their Spanish. Only one of them spoke English, and he wasn't very good
with it. None of them was more than 18. I was wearing a bandeau under
a tee-shirt and a pair of shorts and this goofy straw hat. It was
really hot -- about 90 degrees -- and there was no breeze. They were
riding in an old junker of a Rambler that didn't have a good muffler
in it.
The one who spoke English asked me how old I was. When I told him I
was 14 -- lying by two years -- and he translated, there was some
muttering from the others.
"We are unhappy. We believed you to have more years." He seemed
genuinely sad.
Well, I could understand the mistake. I measured 29-19-26 and would
have worn a C cup if there'd been such a thing in a bra that size. I
was taut and smooth, and with my hair long and tousled, I could easily
pass for older. So I said that was no reason to be sad, and he said,
Yes, it was, because they had thought I might like to have some fun,
but I was too young.
Now, I'd always heard stories and bad jokes -- What's a 10-year-old
Mexican virgin? A girl who can outrun her brothers -- and politely
tried to explain I'd thought 14 was not too young for a girl to have
fun, if she was Mexican.
They were unhappy at that. Every one of them had brothers and sisters
my "age" and younger, and they were very proud that their sibs--
[Siblings. Am I going too fast for you?
[Yeah, I know. I'm just feeling kind of bitchy and edgy. Ready?]
Well, they were proud that their little brothers and sisters were pure
and went to church regularly.
I turned and looked at the two in the back and then again at the one
in the front and said, I like to have fun, I have been having fun for
a long time, and would they like have some fun with me?
We want to an old maintenance shanty near the rail yards. They'd
adopted it and fixed it up as best they could with no money and had
turned it into a kind of club house. It was clearly bachelor --
covered with pinups from Playboy -- but it was neat and clean and they
were polite and solicitous.
I didn't get to Perrysburg. I stayed there with them for about five
hours. They were young, they were horny and they were incredibly
virile. I had each of them three or four times. One of them -- the
oldest -- wanted to try me in the ass, but as soon as I told him it
was hurting, he stopped, apologized and withdrew. Oddly, though they
were fascinated by my nearly hairless pussy, none of them would eat
me. Which was okay, as it turned out, because they had a good-natured
contest of seeing who could make me cum the most often just by
fucking.
[I forget. No -- wait: I won.]
They took turns, and the only time anyone was at all rough was when
they touched my tits. Even then, it wasn't that they were mauling me;
all three worked as day laborers and had very rough and calloused
hands.
One of the pinups on the wall was Gwen Wong, this Playmate with huge
tits and long nipples and a very young face. One of the guys said that
if my eyes were slanted, I could look a lot like her. The other two
protested that I was prettier. And we fucked some more.
I was sore for three days but never regretted it.
Then school started, my freshman year, and it was inevitable that I'd
be invited to try out for cheerleader. I had no interest in that,
though, and my refusal caused some resentment. The only
extracurriculars -- official extracurriculars, that is -- I wanted
anything to do with were gymnastics (which wouldn't have me because my
figure was too pronounced for exhibition in a leotard) and the school
paper.
The school paper was a joke. We couldn't print anything the school
didn't like or anything unpleasant. It was more of a pep sheet than
anything else. We did personality profiles on the administration's
favorites, the good examples -- never on the interesting students or
activities. Still, it was fun to have official permission to go up to
strangers and ask nosy questions.
I wasn't seeing George anymore, of course, as he'd told me about
meeting his distant cousin, and they were mad for each other, and that
was that. We remained friends. But I didn't have a steady and
satisfying boyfriend, not like George, and I was still trying to work
the summer's non-events with Dan out of my head. So I was trolling.
The problem was that in such a strictly supervised environment, I had
to be very careful with my schoolmates. Since the town was already
starting to split over the Vietnam War protests, the cops were
enforcing the old curfew laws on kids under 16, so I couldn't just go
and hang out much, either.
Then the campaigns started for class presidents. I did a couple of
interviews and heard the usual crap from all the candidates. Even the
one who was being drafted. He didn't really want the job or the
nonsense that went with it, but time and again he'd been the one to
come up with innovative ideas for persistent problems, and twice he'd
successfully mediated disputes -- once, over an antiwar protest and
once over race.
But after the interview was over, he said something that really got my
interest.
"One thing I'd suggest would be giving class credit for volunteer
work."
I took out my notebook, but he stopped me. His name was Tyrell
Hamilton, he was six feet tall and handsome and well-spoken and about
the shade of Mom's coffee after she added a tablespoon of milk.
"Don't bother," he said. "They'll never let you print it. And they'll
never go along with it when I suggest it."
I kept the notebook out. I was taking Gregg Shorthand and doing real
well with it.
[Yes. And I brought it. See? And these are verbatim notes.]
"Why do you think it's important?"
He laughed softly. "Because -- Look around you. Eight hundred
students. About three dozen aren't white. Maybe a hundred don't come
from middle- or upper-class homes. All Catholic. We are so much alike
here that we have no idea how the rest of Toledo lives."
"You think we need more integration, is that it?" I was a little
suspicious.
"Not racial integration," he said. "Social integration. The only
reason there aren't more Afro-Americans here is there aren't more
Afro-Americans who have the money and the academic qualifications. The
nuns and the other students here generally don't give a damn about
that."
"There're exceptions."
"There're always exceptions." We were walking slowly down the first
floor corridor toward the parking lot. The place was almost empty.
>From far, far away I could hear the echoes of cheerleading practice,
and someone was dribbling a basketball. "But even there, we're too
much alike. The real world has poor people and rich people. It has
Protestants and Jews and atheists. It has Birchers and antiwar
activists. It has bigots. It has thieves and muggers and bums and
saints."
"We'll meet them soon enough."
He held the door for me. "That's my point. We get out of school here,
and about half go to college, and some go into the Army, and some move
away, but we all meet the real world -- and we don't have the faintest
idea how to deal with it. We meet people who are fundamentally
different and it scares us and we get uptight and we don't react well.
And they don't react well to us."
"So it feeds on itself."
We were in the middle of the nearly empty parking lot. He spun, his
eyes bright and his face animated. "Yes! And the hatred and suspicion
and fear takes charge -- and all because we're inexperienced: We have
no education in people!"
"And you think encouraging supervised volunteer work would help us get
some experience with different people in different situations."
"Within the context of a goal-oriented guidance system and with the
benefit -- "
" -- of more experienced leaders who can teach us how to evaluate and
respond -- "
" -- to unfamiliar and sometimes frightening circumstances! Yes!"
"And then, when we go into the real world, we understand a little
more, because we've already tested ourselves in strange waters -- "
" -- and found that we can swim, because we learned to do it -- "
" -- in a school?"
I groaned at the pun.
"Sounds fishy?" he asked innocently.
"Holy mackerel."
"No, it's 'Holy mackerel dere, Kingfish.'"
"I guess I just don't have any soul."
"But you're still one smart filly."
I frowned.
"Filly of soul?" he suggested.
I groaned again.
We both started laughing. Tyrell offered to drive me home. I didn't
think twice. We talked more on the way. We really hit it off, instant
chemistry, and it had started from the neck up, for a change.
He let me out in front of my house, and I waved good-bye. Inside,
Jeanne was home, and Mom. Jeanne immediately pulled me into our room.
"Marie, did you -- you know?"
I stared at her. "What?"
"Who was that?"
I told her, and she said, "Well, does he really have a big one? They
say all of them have huge -- " The look on my face stunned her.
"Jeanne, I interviewed him for the paper and he gave me a ride home."
"You didn't do it with him?"
"No -- though now that you mention it, it's not such a bad idea, I
mean, he is awful good-looking and..."
"Marie! He's a nigger!"
I was the one who was stunned this time. How had we grown up together
and been so close -- so very close -- without me knowing this about
her?
Because we never encountered anyone who was really different.
"Jeanne, he's a man who's a little darker than me. A smart, polite,
good-looking man. I think he and I might get to be friends. And don't
you ever use that word in front of me again."
She seemed a little shocked by that, and I suppose I was, too.
Socially conscious Marie -- as of about 40 minutes before. But it was
true. Something had happened to me during the time after the interview
with Tyrell Hamilton. Something burned inside him, and the flames had
caught me, too. My main concerns had been getting laid, passing my
class, getting laid, wondering when they were going to have a sale at
Penney's, getting laid and getting even with Dana and Irene. Suddenly,
I was thinking about things that were in the far distant future,
beyond the great dividing line of Graduation, beyond 1971, which was a
date lost in tomorrow. Suddenly, I was thinking about things like
responsibility and understanding and harmony.
And I was spending a lot of time thinking about Tyrell. Well, was it
true what they say?
[Yes, I saw "Blazing Saddles"; Okay?]
I started spending more and more time with the juniors and seniors
than I already was -- which was a lot, since I found most of the kids
who were my age were kind of backward. I started hanging out with the
crowd Tyrell spent time with. And pretty soon, I was fairly regularly
sitting next to him at our basketball games -- and thus having him
drive me home.
After the fifth game -- against Penta; we lost -- I got impatient.
"Ty, aren't you ever going to ask me out?"
We were at a grade-crossing, waiting for an endless freight to pass,
down by East Broadway. He waiting about a three-count and turned his
face toward me. "You have to be kidding."
"Why?"
"You're white, and I'm not, and you're not even 13 yet!"
"So?"
"Are you nuts? I'm almost 18!"
"So? I want you, Ty."
"So? That's statutory rape and considering that I'm not white, the
police will probably fire five or six warning shots -- into the back
of my little burr head!"
"Ty! You know me! We're friends, for crying out loud."
"And that's fine -- but that's it, girl." He watched me. "What the
hell are you doing?"
What I was doing, for the benefit of those who weren't there, was
pulling my sweater off and unbuttoning my blouse.
"Guess."
"Marie!"
The blouse was off, and I was reaching back and under for the hooks on
my ill-fitting bra. A moment later and it was gone, too, and not only
did it feel good to have the constriction off my tits, it made me feel
somehow wild and free to be sitting there with my boobs bare in his
car so anyone could look in -- even in the dark -- and see me.
"Tyrell Leroy Hamilton, you will not be my first, and you probably
won't be my last, and if you don't promise to make love with me
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