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From: Incest Man <incestman@graffiti.net>
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Subject: "Veronica" CHAPTER 11
Date: Thu, 04 Jan 2007 23:34:54 -0800
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http://www.incesttabooo.com/mar111.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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