Punk Like Me

by JD Glass

  “Kerry,” I said. I wasn’t too sure about this, I wasn’t feeling any overwhelming need to try that.

  “Shh, baby, it’s okay,” she whispered and tenderly kissed my cheek. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

  She stroked me, she kissed me, and I lost myself in our movement, my hips starting to move, when suddenly I could feel her, feel Kerry start to slide inside me. I gasped with a little more than just the shock.

  Don’t let anybody fool you. You know how they say jock girls break their own cherries all the time? Not true. The week before I’d been doing racing sprints in school because it was raining, and going up the steps two, then three, then four, Þ nally, Þ ve at a time. At the top of the stretch, I received a sharp pain in my “genital area” that I’d never felt before, and when I went to the bathroom, there was approximately a two-inch diameter bloodstain in my underwear, and it wasn’t my

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  period, because that had been over the week before. Besides, this blood was different—bright red, a little jellylike, actually, and it was, well, the color of a maraschino cherry.

  “Oh,” I thought, “that’s why they call it that,” and Þ guring I’d done the jock girl thing, I shrugged it off.

  Because of that, I was surprised that this hurt, and I placed my hand over Kerry’s to stop her. “Please don’t,” I asked her. “That actually hurts.”

  “Baby, it won’t hurt for long. It’ll feel so good you won’t even remember your name,” she whispered. “I promise.” She gave a small wiggle, and I jumped. Nope, that certainly did not feel any better.

  I laughed quietly, a little nervously. “I’m sure you’re right, but not…just not now, okay?”

  “Okay, for now,” she agreed and kissed me, and I felt her Þ nger move away. I was tremendously relieved, but I couldn’t have told you why—then, anyway.

  We kissed more, and we continued the way it had been—Kerry focused on my clit and me on her clit and inside of her.

  “Baby,” Kerry asked between kisses, “you can use another if you want,” and I brought another Þ ngertip by her opening.

  “I don’t want to hurt you.”

  “You won’t baby, you won’t,” she assured me, and after a few seconds of gently teasing, I slid in. Her body was tight and pulled me within. Kerry groaned into my mouth, and I groaned with her. It felt amazing.

  “Nina, you feel so good inside of me.”

  “It feels good to be inside you.”

  Kissing deeply, tongues reaching, we groaned into each other’s lips, our rhythm picking up speed and intensity.

  “Nina, baby,” Kerry breathed into my ear, “I want you deep inside of me,” her breath hitched, “when you come.”

  “’Kay.”

  We were building to a crescendo—ß ying, pushing, pulling, straining against each other. I could feel her pussy tighten and her clit throb; I could feel the pulse of my clit under her thumb. Arms, legs, lips entwined, breast against breast and heart to heart, sliding and pushing deep within each other, holding each other closely, we came together in a gorgeous, furious rush, and we held each other tightly as the aftershocks became little tremors and then eased to a steady pulsing.

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  JD GLASS

  Softly kissing, we snuggled and I held Kerry on my shoulder as we Þ nally fell asleep, for real this time.

  And that’s where I was, not here on this cold, gray November street, talking to one of the swim team captains, but I wasn’t about to tell Kitt that; and in that second, Kitt noticed I was missing a bag.

  “Shit, Razor, you forgot your stuff?” Razor was one of my nicknames on the team and the one Kitt and the principal preferred (unless I was being called to the carpet; then I was just “Boyd,” in the absolutely most chilling tones. Hey, now you know my last name! Took long enough, right?).

  “Hey, Razor, Kitt! Wait up!” came calling out behind us.

  I was saved from having to think of an answer right then by the appearance of a small girl, about four foot Þ ve, with Þ ery red hair pulled into a thick braid.

  “Hey, Betta.” I turned and greeted her with a smile. Laura was a freshman and, as such, a new member of the swim team and one of the smallest. She was a nice kid, and I’d worked with her in the weight room and on her stroke in the pool after practice. She had a nice form, and after a few of our sessions, she was deÞ nitely a stronger swimmer; she’d already been a Þ erce one, hence her nickname, “Betta.” You know, after the Siamese Þ ghting Þ sh, Bettas, which are small, brightly colorful—and ferocious.

  “You ready for the meet tonight? Gonna anchor the relay?” she asked me excitedly.

  “It depends on Coach Robbins,” I answered, “and at this rate, if I can get my stuff in time.”

  Kitt interrupted and explained for me. “Razor,” and she paused to give me an arch look, “left her things at home. C’mon, let’s walk to school, see if we can Þ gure something out,” and leading the way, Kitt started down the block, and we came after her.

  “You know, I’m only about ten minutes away from your house, Nina,” Kitt mused as we walked along, kicking at the fallen leaves. “I get out one period early today. I could rush home, get my car, and…” Hroonkk! Hroonkk! a car screamed by.

  “Nina, babe!” called out into the air.

  A black ’74 Nova, shiny like oil with even brighter chrome that scared away the gray November light, pulled up in front of us, half on and half off the sidewalk. The license plate said “Blade.” The driver’s

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  side door opened, and the sound of the Doors’ “Break on Through” poured into the chilly wind. A Þ gure with a black coat whipping out and tangling around her black-denimed legs, and long dark hair spilling around her shoulders, stepped out. In that moment, I could swear I smelled the ocean.

  You met her before—Samantha Cray. Co-captain of the swim team, also a senior, and the coolest, toughest girl in school, and for the Þ rst time, I could actually see it, see her, like it seemed everyone else did. I don’t know how I could have missed it. Maybe I’d ignored it. Or maybe more than just parts of my body were retarded.

  When we had initially met on detention I was a freshman and she was a sophomore. We had to polish the trophy case together, sweep rugs, shine banisters, and occasionally diagram sentences or do complex math equations. Afterward, we’d grab a cigarette together on the way out of school. Samantha had convinced me to try out for the swim team in the Þ rst place. She was my friend, my teammate, and my swim buddy since we swam the same events and, more often than not, my detention partner.

  While everyone really admired Kitt (and I wasn’t completely immune to her either), they sort of hero-worshipped Samantha. I guess I’d just ignored it, because when we hung out and we were on our own, we were just, you know, us, and when we were with the team, well, Samantha was also known as “Sammy Blade” or simply “Blade,” just like the one she always wore, since the past summer, hanging from her throat. Sammy cut through the water like a hot knife through butter, like a sword. She made mincemeat of our opponents, and when Samantha and I competed in the same events (we usually ended up in the same race or “heat”), it was called a “Slice and Dice,” because we both did our best to win and usually did, getting points for the team.

  Samantha didn’t act like she cared too much about it one way or another, though. She always shrugged off all the congratulations with an “I was just fuckin’ swimming, not curing cancer,” unless, of course, it was a teacher or a parent, in which case it was “Just swimming.” But modesty aside, she was focused and determined, a force to be reckoned with in the water, and everyone knew it.

  Oh, and before you get the wrong idea, Samantha, like me, wasn’t a rich kid like so many of the girls in school. The car she drove had been a gift from her Þ reÞ ghter dad, two years before, and it had been

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  JD GLASS

  car
-primer gray, dented, wheel-less and up on blocks.

  He’d told her it was for graduation and was Þ xing it up for that day, until he’d gotten killed last year in the line of duty. I spent most of my free time last spring with Samantha, at the wakes and funeral, just being there if she needed someone, ya know? When school ended, Samantha immersed herself in Þ xing that car (except for that one time I convinced her to come out and play) until it was perfect, until it was the thing of beauty and babe magnet it was. It was the only thing Samantha showed pride over.

  “Come on, get in,” Samantha said, then noticed my companions.

  “Hi, Betta,” she greeted the freshman. “Kitt.” She nodded coolly.

  “Hi, Blade!” greeted Betta breathlessly, staring at the car with big eyes.

  “Blade.” Kitt nodded just as coolly, and a silence stretched on as the two of them watched each other guardedly.

  Samantha nodded her head once and jerked her head in the direction of the car. “Pile in,” she invited everyone with a jerk of her thumb, and slid back into the driver’s seat.

  Kitt opened the door and sat in the back behind Samantha, and Betta scrambled in from the other side; and putting my books on the seat, I climbed into the front passenger side, tumbling my bag beside me in the seat. I fumbled around with my seat belt, and I wondered when in the hell I’d noticed that car was so fucking cool.

  “All in?” Samantha asked, checking the rearview. “Okay, then.” She turned to me for a second and patted my leg. I jumped at that, but Samantha didn’t notice. She just grinned. “Hang on,” she told me in an undertone, and turning her attention back to the road, she slammed on the gas.

  Betta shrieked as we tore off the sidewalk with a roar, and I’m sure we must have laid a half-inch-thick stripe of black rubber on the asphalt.

  Half a block down, Samantha looked at her through the rearview.

  “You okay back there?” she asked with a smile.

  “Yeah, Þ ne,” Kitt answered shortly.

  “You’ve got a great car!” Betta yelled over the music.

  “What was that?” Samantha asked with a grin.

  “You’ve got a great—car,” she Þ nished as Samantha turned the music down.

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  “Thanks, kiddo. That ain’t nothin’,” Samantha answered with a satisÞ ed grin. “Everybody ready for tonight?” Kitt stirred in the back. “Blade, we have a problem. Seems Razor left her stuff at home today…” I could feel her eyes staring at the back of my head, so I twisted in my seat to face her, “and since we have to be in Brooklyn by Þ ve, I’m thinking I get out early, I’ll grab my car, pick her up here, run by her house, and then zoom into Brooklyn. Could you tell Coach Robbins? We’ll probably be a little late for roll.” She meant roll call—when the coach went through the heads to see if we were all there, to sort and slot us for events if we didn’t already know our roles, or if there were new ones due to people shortage.

  “Hey, Razor, you were out yesterday, right? I thought I saw your name on the attendance sheet. You must have thought it was Monday,” Betta chirped.

  “Uh, sort of,” I answered weakly. That sounded good enough.

  By this time, we were pulling in around the school and about to enter the grounds.

  “No,” Samantha answered Kitt Þ nally, as we entered the drive.

  “I’ve already got my car. I’ll do it.”

  “Look, I don’t mind, just tell Coach,” Kitt responded, her voice slightly irritated. We pulled into the parking lot.

  “How come you’re parking your car on campus?” Betta leaned forward to ask.

  All three of us turned to her in unison and answered, “Senior privilege.”

  “Oh…” she said quietly, and sat back shyly, as if suddenly aware that she was a freshman in the presence of the vaunted upperclassmen.

  Poor kid. It had to suck to feel like that. Oh well, I was sure by the time she got to homeroom, she’d be happy enough to have gotten a ride with both co-captains, and that by the time Þ rst period started, there’d be a ton of freshmen who decided they wanted to see Kitt and Blade in action later that evening.

  Samantha looked over at me and gave me a quick once-over. “You okay to race? You’re anchoring with me today,” she said and narrowed her gaze.

  Her eyes were a steely blue as she searched my face, and I tried not to squirm, but I dived into one of my books for something, anything, to

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  break the gaze. I felt more than a little uncomfortable.

  “Yeah, I’m Þ ne,” I answered shortly, and found a book that looked like it might be important enough to ß ip through.

  Samantha parked the car and cut the engine, then twisted in her seat to look into the backseat. “Kitt, I’ve got my car—and I drive faster than you. You go home and,” Samantha’s mouth quirked slightly, “get ready for the race. We need to win.”

  Kitt considered for a moment, then nodded. “All right, Þ ne.

  But be careful, Blade. We don’t want to lose both anchors or our top freestylers.” She grabbed her book and gym bags off the ß oor. “Cool, we’re set, then. C’mon,” and she opened the door to step out, and Betta, silent this whole time, did the same.

  Samantha put a hand on my arm to restrain me when I went for the door handle. “Wait,” she said quietly. I dropped the handle and simply stared at the hand on my sleeved arm.

  Both rear doors slammed shut, and Kitt walked around to my side of the car. Betta had already started running toward the school building, calling out “see you in the water” behind her. I watched her catch up with a knot of freshmen that had just climbed off the bus and come in the gates, talking and waving her hands in the midst of the group as they walked on.

  “You guys coming or what?” Kitt asked by my window.

  “In a minute,” Samantha answered. “Just got some strategy to discuss, you know, for the hundred.” She was referring to a speciÞ c race event, which was the baby endurance swim, of one hundred yards or meters or whatever it was the pool was measured in. All I know was that it was four long, very long laps.

  “Cool. Later, then. See you in the water.” Kitt started off, then stopped and turned. “Oh, Blade? Thanks,” and she walked away.

  Alone in Samantha’s car, we sat in silence. As I Þ ddled with the strap of my book bag, I heard her scramble around in a pocket and pull something out. “Here,” a red cigarette box landed on my bag, “have one,” she invited as she took a pull on her own freshly lit one.

  “Thanks.” Samantha and I smoked the same brand—well, I did mention we were on detention together, a lot.

  I pulled one out, then reached over to the dashboard to use the car lighter, focusing on the red glow before me, and when the cigarette Þ nally lit, I took a grateful drag. I shifted and twisted to face Samantha.

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  A few books slid halfway out of my bag onto the seat between us.

  “So,” I exhaled, “what’s up?” I suppose, no, I know, I was a little leery, wary even, in my approach. It was like I had this new sense, this new awareness, of myself, of my body, of Samantha’s proximity, and I didn’t know what to do with it, like I was a blind person given sight for the Þ rst time and trying to make sense of the shapes. No, actually it was more like always knowing what the shapes meant, but only now being able to see their true colors.

  Samantha shifted to look at me and leaned an arm across her door.

  “You sure you’re up for racing today? You look a little pale.” She took a drag and blew it back out toward the windshield.

  “Nah, I’m Þ ne, Blade, just Þ ne,” I drawled out casually, and I stared out the front windshield. “I’ll be okay to race. And thanks, for the ride, I mean.” I continued to stare out the window. I couldn’t, just couldn’t, look at her, my pal and partner in crime against stupidity, as we referred to the student handbook. Out of the corner of my e
ye, I saw her raise her eyebrows when I called her “Blade,” which was something I really never did outside of practice or meets. I guess I Þ gured it would be better for both of us, it wouldn’t hurt so much later, if and when she found out, about me, I mean. I was reaching for safe distance.

  “Okay, just checking,” Samantha said in a tone that told me she didn’t quite believe me. She pursed her lips in thought and looked down at my books. “Oh, and no problem about the ride. We’re buds, teammates, right?” She grinned at me. Unconsciously she reached for the charm hanging from her neck.

  I met her eyes with a smile that quickly died and watched her Þ ngers play with the miniature blade that was her namesake between her Þ ngers, glad she hadn’t reached out to touch my shoulder or play with my hair, because I felt just so damned raw, so fucking naked. I was afraid that if she did, touch me at all that is, that it would hurt, that I would explode from some unknowable depth of pain.

  “Yeah, we are,” I Þ nally answered in a soft voice, my mind full of a tangle of images from the beach this past summer, when I had thought Samantha and I were going to kiss or something, and the way Kerry’s eyes appeared before she and I did for the Þ rst time.

  Damn, though. Who knew how long the friendship Samantha and I had would last once she knew. Did she know what I’d thought then?

  Or would she be relieved that it had been someone else? I seriously doubted she had felt the same way. Why would she? Why should she?

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  JD GLASS

  I looked out the windshield again.

  Boy, that was an interesting tree there, outside the window. Gray, lifeless, waiting for spring. Those branches reached up for the sky, though, and never stopped. Just held still and held on, knowing spring had to show up sooner or later. But in November, it was deÞ nitely later.