Third period. Gym class. It was as close to heaven as I was going to get. I was five foot four inches and weighing in at 165 pounds. Physical activity wasn’t exactly something I was crazy about. In any case, I thought walking to and from school and having  to avoid Rudy throughout the rest of the school day was exercise enough. Strenuous even. I played hide and seek at least nine hours a day, five days out of the week. Even so, gym class became my resolve for survival.

Miss Spittel welcomed me to class a week after school had begun. Being beaten up on my first day had bought me a week off. She had wavy red shoulder length hair, dark sunglasses, and tight shorts. The tiniest I’d ever seen. It was her uniform. She was in her mid-twenties and had been a professional volleyball player. Miss Spittel ran nine miles a day on the track before school started. She was in very good shape. During class, she always had a clipboard wedged in her left arm and in the hand of that arm, a water bottle. She took care of her body, stayed hydrated, and spoke with a soft croaky voice that’s best described as no-time-for-foreplay-so-turn-around-because-I’m-going-to-fuck-you-in-the ass-and-cum-inside.‘ (I had started getting into the porn videos above my parent’s closet.)

The sunglasses never left her face, even during school assemblies that took place in the auditorium. Assemblies were always lit dimly so we could watch whatever came out of the projector. Miss Spittel was a spicy sexbomb and she knew it. During the beginning of class warm-ups before we continued whatever sport we were learning that month, she would take attendance while she stretched with us. The tiniest shorts she had on. My favorite was when she’d sit facing us, legs stretched to wide open to either side. She usually got to my name on the roll sheet by then. In those naughty shorts. Blue, green, red, pink, yellow, white: a different color for every day of the week.

All the boys learned to tuck their cocks between their legs under their briefs by the second day. It was the Jumping Jacks too. Those who wore boxers learned not to. I figured out why when I pitched a tent in my gym shorts. I’d overheard one of the others mention Miss Spittel did not wear sports bras. She did when I went to class, but switched off now and then. I thought those things still looked good to me, whether she did or not. With Miss Spittel’s body, they were the only real pair of boobs in the 7th grade.

In the locker room, I’d discovered I had a smaller penis than the other guys. Except one other guy. His was like a nub. I started changing in the bathroom stalls which and has always smelled like shit. They had a locks that could never do their jobs. I stomached it anyway. The kind of damage a group of junior high school boys can do helped me stomach it. Especially from the sight of my cock. I saw what they did to Nubs. Nubs (as he’d been dubbed) acted like it didn’t bother him. I wished I had his courage. As it goes, he would become an internet millionaire, several years later.

No one ever spoke to me during gym class, nor did they in the locker room. I’d already gotten a reputation as a tough guy from being beaten up on my first day. Word had been passed around, that Rudy had gotten suspended for beating up some psycho kid that kept laughing as his face bled. I don’t remember laughing. I had no idea how they came up with that, but rumors in junior high tended to be spread like that.  That wasn’t so bad because everyone would choose to avoid me over teasing me. I was glad no one had remembered my roller-blades or my armor. I would have been picked on and teased as a nerd or a dork on a daily basis, I realized. But being known as a psycho, not a single person would harass me. My blood-caked face that day had made me into legend, and I didn’t even landed a punch. I didn’t win either. As long as I didn’t have to speak, my legend would continue to grow. So it goes.

Baseball was the first sport we learned to play. Most of the guys in class had been on the same T-Ball team when they were younger, and so, had already been friends. I didn’t know anyone because I was new in town. I’d never seen a baseball game either. But I had seen a few baseball cards. So I had an idea of what baseball was, and I thought that was good enough. That’s why they were teaching us, I thought.

I was a terrible catcher. The ball would fly in my direction in left field (I was always put in left field) a majority of the time, and I could never catch it. I was left handed but the school couldn’t afford to have any left-handed gloves. Some of the other left-handed boys brought their own. The teams I was on always lost because of me. My inability to grasp the ball with my right hand got everyone mad. I thought I was fucking up like they always said too. I didn’t want to ask my mother for money for a glove, so I just continued to suck. She would’ve told me to learn how to catch with my right anyway. Watching the ball fly towards me scared me. It made me flinch, duck, and sometimes run a few steps away, raising my knee as a shield when the ball thudded into the grass. It always bounced past me. I was much better at dodging the ball, but that was considered a problem. I thought I would have been great at dodge-ball. The cross-country team, even, because I ran from my problems so well.

My lack of ball-handling skills allowed me more time with Miss Spittel. It was an unforeseen perk. She’d pull me to the side while the others played to coach me on my technique. I never remembered what she said because I didn’t pay any attention. I couldn’t pay any attention. She leaned in real close, tilted her head, and spoke in that pornographic voice. Then she’d give me physical examples which always led to some kind of quick movement. I’d stare at her tits from the corner of my eyes, waiting for the jiggles. Her tits were so big the wonder bra couldn’t contain it’s wonder. Or was it a sports bra? It was wondrous, anyhow. While she was turned away, I’d stare at her ass. It was sculpted and tight, like a statue. It was like I had no say at all, like it was a law for me to ogle Miss Spittel’s cash and prizes. Then she’d finish up and return real close to speak again in which I’d usually nod my head. Then she’d touch my cheek saying, “you’ll get it, don’t worry,” and push me back into the field with a smack on my ass. I didn’t know why she did that only to me, but I wanted to return the smack. I’d still get the game wrong. Even so, she never once stopped pulling me to the side for the burlesque coaching, and I never once caught the ball. She was a great teacher, I thought.

Batting was a different story altogether. Swinging the bat felt good. All the frustration and anger I had pent up transpired into the swing of my bat. Then released as I smacked a swift Armageddon into that ball. I galloped through the bases (to second, at the very least) while random hoots came from Miss Spittel and some of the boys on my team. Applause. A brief touch of acceptance, a glimpse of glory. A feeling I seldom experienced. I thought, all I needed to do was annihilate a ball as hard as Rudy did my hopes and dreams of a new life. Obliterate something innocent and I would be rewarded. Some of the guys even patted me on the back in the locker room on the days I played offense. They referred me by my last name, and said they had no idea I was a switch-hitter. I didn’t know what that was, but it led to one of the boys with his own left-handed glove to share a wrinkled porno magazine he had with me. My first sight of a pussy. Well, one I didn’t have to look at by myself when no one was home. They looked strange, bland, almost boring, but I wanted one. From the porn I’d seen and the pictures in that magazine, I just wanted one savagely for reasons I couldn’t explain. I was curious as to why I couldn’t explain. It was like those movies that came on in black and white, the detectives needed to crack the case, find the truth, why it happened instead of just who. I may have learned very little about baseball, but it did teach me aggression had gotten me closer to winning the fight and discovering the truth to the mystery. The pussy was just another case.


About Daniel C.A.S.

Why is it that the clerk at the convenience store makes me feel inadequate? View all posts by Daniel C.A.S.

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