Revoltingly Young

by Payne, C. D.

  She took another swig. “I don’t know, Noel. Something weird’s going on.”

  “Brother Tyler,” I said, “are you willing to help brother Stoney?”

  “Sure, I guess so. What can I do?”

  I thought it over. “Tyler, I think you should and Stoney should, uh, make out.”

  He glanced at her doubtfully, but in a spirit of gang cooperation grunted a polite, “OK.”

  “Well, don’t look so enthusiastic,” she said.

  “OK, I’m calling a five-minute time out,” I announced. “You guys go to the back of the bus and swap spit. But watch out for snakes and scorpions.”

  Stoney and Tyler left the circle of light for the dusty blackness of the rear of the bus. I hadn’t kissed a girl in years, but I don’t think I envied my cousin. Carlyle downed another swig and toyed with his knife.

  “It’s up in Bluebird Canyon, Noel.”

  “What is?”

  “The goddam body.”

  “Don’t tell me, Carlyle! Don’t say another word! Jesus!”

  “Sorry, Noel. You want we should make out too?”

  “Don’t be silly, Carlyle.”

  “Just checking. I never made out with anyone, Noel. Girls avoid me like the plague.”

  “Well, you have to use a little finesse with chicks, Carlyle. You’re a bit too direct. I know girls like Uma get uncomfortable when you stare at their tits.”

  “I thought that’s what they were for.”

  “Well, they are. But you have to be subtle about it.”

  Pretty quiet in the back. No moaning or springs squeaking. But I knew that somewhere close by inflamed lips were meeting in experimental passion. Possibly even feels were being copped. The last thing I expected to have at a gang initiation was a vicarious erection. I adjusted my pants and took another swallow of vodka. Thank God I was beginning to feel a little tipsy. How tragic it would be to discover one was immune to the effects of alcohol.

  “You think maybe Stoney will do me next?” whispered Carlyle.

  “I wouldn’t get your hopes up. Girls generally like only one guy at a time. It’s genetic, so the tribal unit will know who the father of the baby is.”

  “You mean they’re screwing back there?”

  “No, Carlyle. Just relax. Have some more vodka.”

  “Don’t mind if I do.”

  Eventually, things started moving back there, and the two lovers returned to their seats by the candle.

  “How was it?” leered Carlyle.

  “Better than kissing you, that’s for sure,” replied Stoney. “OK, now it’s Noel’s turn. Spill your secret, dude.”

  I was hoping for a fuller report, but figured I’d hear Tyler’s side later. I probed my soul for dark secrets.

  “OK, here goes, guys. I think I’m in love with Uma Spurletti.”

  “Some secret!” sneered Stoney. “That’s about as big a secret as the fact that that stuck-up chick wouldn’t give you the sweat off her expensive nose job.”

  “Uma has not had a nose job,” I retorted. “Her nose is naturally perfect.”

  “She’s a rich bitch, Noel,” continued Stoney. “She’s so stuck up she wouldn’t notice you if your dick blew out of your pants like a rocket and you dropped dead at her feet.”

  Another of Stoney’s gross exaggerations; I do not believe I am quite that invisible.

  “Uma’s just reserved,” I replied. “It’s hard being the new girl in town.”

  “I hear she’s not so reserved around Scott Chandler,” added Carlyle.

  “That’s a lie,” I said. “Anyway, Scott’s away all summer at sailing camp.”

  Better Scott should be away all summer in war-torn Iraq, but sailing camp would have to do. Ever since he started showing interest in Uma last semester, I’ve been praying his wealthy doctor father brings home some infectious microbe from the hospital. No fatal contagion so far, but I’m flexible. A tragic drowning would work just as well.

  “Scott Chandler could give any lesbian second thoughts,” commented Stoney. “OK, Noel, we all know you have the hots for Uma. So out with a better secret.”

  “Honest, guys. That’s all I can think of.”

  “Did you ever see your mom naked?” asked Carlyle.

  “Hardly. I only saw my real mother twice. That was fully clothed and in a courtroom.”

  “When you beat your meat, do you ever fantasize about guys?” demanded Stoney.

  “Well, when I was little, I used to feel guilty when I played with myself while watching Mr. Rogers.”

  “That is totally sick,” she declared. “But it won’t make it as your secret.”

  “Do you ever wet the bed?” asked Tyler, who knew perfectly well the answer to that presumptuous question.

  I scowled at the traitor. “Uh, well, I used to. When I was a kid.”

  “How long has it been since you last wet the bed?” demanded Stoney. “And don’t lie!”

  Another intrusively personal question.

  “Uh, well, let’s see, it’s been, uh . . . several months at least.”

  “Gross!” exclaimed Stoney. “I’d hate to see your mattress up close. Yuck!”

  “It’s not so bad,” commented Tyler. “Mrs. Wescott keeps a plastic sheet over it.”

  “Tie your dick in a knot,” suggested Carlyle. “That works for me.”

  “You can’t tie your dick in a knot,” exclaimed Tyler. “No one can.”

  “Wanta bet?” replied Carlyle. “How much you want to bet, smart guy?”

  “I’ll bet you five dollars,” he replied.

  Carlyle stood up, tugged down his shorts, pulled down some extremely grungy undershorts, and–much to his fellow gang members’ astonishment–looped his very long and skinny dick into a neat knot.

  “Jesus H. Christ,” said Tyler.

  “I’d say you just made a fast five dollars,” commented Stoney.

  Tyler extracted his thin teen wallet and handed over the cash.

  “Want to touch it, Stoney?” leered Carlyle.

  “Yuck, now I know I’m a dyke. Put that repulsive thing away and let’s hear Tyler’s big secret.”

  Carlyle untied himself, zipped up, and we turned expectantly toward Tyler.

  “Well, my deepest secret concerns someone else here. I’m not sure I should spill it.”

  “Why not?” demanded Stoney.

  “Well, if my mom finds out, she’ll kill me.”

  “The secret must concern me,” I said. “OK, Tyler, you have my permission. Let’s hear it.”

  “You sure, Noel?”

  “Spill, brother!”

  “OK, Noel. Here goes. Your father isn’t Lance Wescott. It’s my grandfather, George Twisp. You and my mother are brother and sister.”

  A cataclysmic revelation I wasn’t at all prepared to believe. Not for one second.

  “I don’t think so,” I said. “They were long divorced when my mother had me. She was married to Lance Wescott.”

  “True, Noel. But she and her first husband got together one last time and she accidentally got pregnant with you.”

  My vodka-befuddled mind was reeling. It’s not nice to hear you were unwanted and unplanned, though that news, at least, didn’t surprise me. “How do you know all this, Tyler?”

  “I was awake one night. I overheard my mother discussing it with my stepdad. It’s true, Noel. You’re a Twisp, not a Wescott.”

  “Jesus, then I really could be your uncle.”

  “Hell, I knew something was up,” said Stoney. “You don’t look like any Wescott I’ve ever seen. For one thing, you’re not fat.”

  It was true. At family gatherings I was the one Wescott who didn’t make the floorboards creak.

  THURSDAY, June 23 – My first full day as a gang member and possible Twisp. All in all not very conducive to the placidity of one’s mind. It might have been better had we just sliced each other up in that bus last night. And if I am indeed a Twisp, why have I been living for the past 15-1/2 years with G
randma Wescott? Have I no blood links at all to the Wescott family? If so, what is their interest in this errant Twisp offspring?

  At least now I have a clue why my “dad” is so distant. I may not be related to the creep! Perhaps my voice reminds him more of George Twisp’s than of Nick’s. And who exactly is this George F. Twisp whose carelessness is alleged to have hurled me into this world? Tyler wasn’t much help. He’s only met his grandfather a few times and remembers him as a grouchy old guy who smelled bad. Even worse, he’s nearly bald! Now I have yet another thing to worry about.

  Speaking of male hormone matters, Tyler has given up trying to tie his dick in a knot. He has the required length and competitive spirit, but is much too thick (I should have his problems). I told him if he wanted a pencil dick, he should have eaten more lead paint chips when he was a kid. As I recall, that was a favorite snack of Carlyle’s as a preschooler.

  I’m at liberty to update my blog because my nephew has gone to the swim center with Stone Holt.. This is unprecedented in two ways. First, it is Stoney’s first known date with a guy (or anyone for that matter). And second, it will mark her first public appearance in a swimsuit since she acquired her dynamic curves. By the way, Tyler reports she is quite a sexy kisser. He says we may have to resume our beat-off contest if he is to resist her spectacular charms. Damn, I wish I had some of that guy’s babe magnetism. Even wannabe lesbians find him irresistible.

  3:47 p.m. I just saw Uma Spurletti! She has acquired a most becoming summer glow (those Italians really know how to tan). She must not have seen me, as she crossed the street before our paths could meet. I hope my dressing entirely in brown does not cause me to blend in excessively with the desert landscape. I intended to call out a friendly greeting, but chickened out at the last moment. Although she was dressed entirely in blue, I felt no impulse to assault her (except, I fear, sexually). How odd that the mere sight of another human can be so stimulating to the nervous system.

  I noticed that someone has been spray-painting “UPT” all over town. The shaky handwriting leads me to believe that it is the work of Carlyle. I suppose one should be pleased by the sudden profusion of one’s cherished gang symbols, but I’ve always found graffiti to be rather unsettling. To me it smacks of lowlifes and lawlessness. I need to remind myself that I have joined an urban street gang, not the Cub Scouts.

  There’s no avoiding it: I have to get a summer job. I can’t keep sponging off Grandma–especially now that we may not even be related. But what can I do that pays well and is not entirely withering to the soul? Even the halfway decent jobs like coffee jerking at Starbucks require you to be 16.

  6:12 p.m. Tyler is back from his hot date. He said Stoney created quite a stir when she emerged from the bathhouse in a fluorescent orange bikini. What little it left to the imagination all the boys by the pool clearly were willing to fill in. Jaws really dropped when she spread her towel beside Tyler’s and let him lovingly oil her up. He reports they had a “great time,” though he did have to menace a couple of local cretins for bigoted remarks. They are to meet again tonight in the bus for more lip wrestling. If I had any balls, I’d call up Uma and invite her over to make it a foursome. Alas, in that respect I do take after my erstwhile father.

  FRIDAY, June 24 – I am seething with envy and jealousy. Hanging around my handsome, virile nephew does that to a guy. He nearly went all the way last night. Stoney was more than willing–she had even brought along her own condoms. But Tyler had to decline due to that dumb promise extracted by his busybody mother. So they just made do with some extremely intimate fondling. At least you can’t get a horrible disease or nine months in the maternity ward from finger fucking. But personally, I’ve yet to experience an orgasm in my finger. Still, I’m willing to start there and work my way down to the real thing. Tyler reports there’s quite a lot of territory to explore up there, especially if you have a long finger (he does). You have to locate this bumpy zone called the G-spot. That really drives them wild. I find it improbable that I ever will be faced with such a mission, but it’s good to know your targets ahead of time. Such awareness I’m sure Uma would find reassuring as she parts her shapely thighs at my approach. As if!

  SATURDAY, June 25 – Stoney and I walked Tyler to the bus station for his 8:30 a.m. departure for L.A. Even at that ungodly hour, Stoney had somehow gotten it together to apply a bit of pink gloss to her smoldering lips. Not to mention what looked to my unpracticed eyes like eye mascara. No dress, of course, but she’d ditched the boots and brutally studded Harley belt. What a shame their budding relationship had to terminate so abruptly, but they’ve promised to stay in touch by e-mail. They had an impassioned clutch, then Tyler shook my hand and jumped on the bus for the long ride back to glamorous L.A. How I wish I were going with him!

  After the sad departure, Stoney and I stopped by Herschon’s bakery. Over iced coffee and consoling cinnamon rolls I got the full scoop.

  “So, Stoney, it looks to me like you really like my nephew.”

  “Yeah. Tyler’s OK.”

  “Oh? Just OK? I thought you liked him–you know, as a guy.”

  “I do like him, Noel. But I’m not sure how.”

  “I’m not following you here, Stoney.”

  “It’s like this. I’m not sure if I like Tyler. Or if I just want to be like Tyler.”

  “Oh.” I was still confused.

  “I mean, do I want to sleep with the guy? Do I want him as a boyfriend? Or do I want to be a muscular jock with a big dick?”

  “Oh, right. I can see how you might be confused on that point.”

  “I wanted to try him on for size, but he was too chicken. I thought you guys were always ready to get laid when you got the chance.”

  “Well, I am, Stoney. Anytime you say.”

  “Now you’re starting to sound like Carlyle, Noel. Don’t be such a pig.”

  Is it me or are girls always broadcasting mixed signals?

  “Sorry, Stoney. I just thought if you slept with a guy, you might have a better idea if you’re really a lesbian.”

  “Not necessarily, Noel. Lots of dykes have slept with guys. It’s a very butch thing to do–like riding motorcycles and brawling in bars.”

  “Oh, I see.”

  Being a lesbian sounds even more challenging than being an impoverished and horny teenaged youth.

  SUNDAY, June 26 – Today marks five weeks since I had to change my sheets in the middle of night. A new record for me. I hope this means I’ve finally turned that skanky corner. What an impediment to a satisfying love life that would be (assuming I had one). The bad news is that lately I keep waking up with my thumb in my mouth. I pray this doesn’t mean I have a deep-seated need to suck stuff (like, say, cocks, for example). All these infantile traits lingering so long has me a bit concerned. I think what I really need is a therapeutic week in bed with Uma.

  That is even more remote of a fantasy now. I just received word from my blog hoster that I’m being ejected because of “obscene content.” I don’t see how Real Life Honestly Described can be deemed “obscene,” but there you have it. And there goes my dream that while Googling her name, Uma would discover my blog and realize that she and I had a Date with Destiny. Oh well, I may not be cut out for the blogging scene anyway. The only comments I was drawing sounded like they were from middle-aged perverts masquerading as ditsy 12-year-old girls.

  My bankroll is down to 19 cents. Time to watch some semi-lucrative TV with Grandma.

  MONDAY, June 27 – A noisy thunderstorm in the dead of night. At that first nerve-pummeling boom I nearly bit off my thumb. I may have to buy some handcuffs on Ebay and shackle myself to the bedpost at night. Be a shame if I perished in a conflagration because I couldn’t get to the key in time. I’m told these trailers can go up like aluminum-clad napalm bombs. I’ve turned a nasty corner here. My thumb is now even more chafed than my much-abused privates.

  3:12 p.m. I may have a line on a job. I ran into Rot Dugan at the hardware store, where I was buyin
g the cheapest garden gloves they carry. Rot’s real name is Jasper, for which crime he expects his parents to burn in hell for all eternity. Long ago his bright orange hair earned him the nickname Carrot, which over time got condensed to Rot. He himself is a bit condensed, being the shortest guy in our class at a non-towering 4'6" and 81 pounds. Anyway, Rot reports his dad is looking for a “house darky” for his wedding chapel hospitality staff. The Dugans reside in an imposing plantation-style mansion that used to be a funeral home until Mr. Dugan developed a life-threatening allergy to embalming fluids. So Rot’s dad cleared out the caskets and stiff clientele, and sent away for a mail-order minister’s license. Now his Dixie Belle Wedding Chapel marries people in a genteel manner recalling the days of the Old South.

  “Wouldn’t I have to be, um, black for this position?” I inquired.

  “Naw, you just have to smear on brown greasepaint and wear a kinky wig,” Rot replied. “Dad says real black people would make his customers nervous.”

  Sounds like blatant discrimination to me, but I doubt if many blacks in town would be lining up for a job that lets them relive their oppressed ancestors’ pre-Civil War slavery days. Alas, financial desperation prevents me from taking a strong ethical stand against such overt racism. I said I would be over after supper tonight with my résumé (such as it is) in hand.

  “Any why, Rot, don’t you do this job?” I inquired.

  “Well I used to, Noel. But I got fired.”

  “You were fired by your own father?”

  “Yeah. Too many customers were commenting that the house darky looked just like him.”

  TUESDAY, June 28 – I woke up at 1:08 a.m. last night. That’s when the fuzzy cotton thumb of my garden glove first entered my mouth. I also woke up at 2:28, 4:51, 6:17, and 8:49. The last occasion was when Grandma tugged on my toe to tell me I had a call. It was Mr. Dugan phoning to say I was hired. I thanked him and pretended to sound pleased and enthusiastic. I suspect I mostly sounded tired, groggy, and parched. Thick cotton can really soak up the moisture from a guy’s mouth.