by Jamie Knight
“Yes, and I’m the mature one.”
Her eyes flashed mischievously. She was still only fifteen, but my baby sister could already keep up with me in a bullshitting contest. Then again, she had lots of practice and a pretty good mentor in my brother who was two years younger than me as opposed to five.
It would be fair to say that Amelia had been a bit of a ‘surprise,’ although our parents didn’t love her any less and they never outright admitted that. Even though I’m pretty sure my dad got a vasectomy after her birth.
A young, pretty blond, Amelia dressed in the family fashion, which could best be described as ‘Discount Addams Family Chic.’ Black slacks and vests with dress shirts for the guys and long dark dresses for the girls, all of us in army surplus boots. All of it was bought dirt cheap at thrift stores and estate sales.
“Hold the other side, please,” I said, unfurling a poster to put on the wall.
When the decorations had been hung, Amelia helped me out further, by shelving my books in alphabetical order in the IKEA-style unit affixed to the freshly painted wall. While she did that, I set up my portable record player on the night table, sliding the vinyls in the space under it.
Dad always only used LPs. In addition to being born in the late-1960s when they were all that was available, he also joked that the back masking came across a lot clearer on vinyl.
“Thanks, want me to walk you back to the van?”
“No thanks, I think I’ll be okay.”
“Don’t do anything I wouldn't do,” I said, crouching slightly to give her a quick hug.
“I won’t.”
I could tell that she was sadder than she was letting on, but I didn’t want to push it. Even though we both had realized this day was coming for quite some time now. Though, to be fair, she never really knew our older siblings. Both of them had grown and gone before she was in elementary school, but I had always been there and suddenly, I wouldn’t be anymore.
“I’ll be home in a few months for Thanksgiving,” I said, brushing a strand of hair out of her face.
She nodded glumly, like I’d said a couple of years instead of a couple of months. I suddenly had a much better idea how it must have felt when my brother and sister left. My brother had joined the Army and my sister had gotten married.
Momentarily alone in the cluster dorm, I tried to console myself with music, the food of the soul. Though this notion proved to be easier said than done.
In trying to give myself the choice to make things easier, I’d inadvertently made them harder. Finally resorting to the eeny-meeny-miney-moe method, I was able to choose a record. Sliding the shining disc from its protective sleeve, I placed it on the turntable as though it were a holy relic.
I was so lost in the experience as the record spun that I didn’t hear my roommates arrive. That was something of a feat, considering that there were seven of them. Yet, each passed by without notice as I basked in the sounds being played.
Once I finally realized they were there, I jumped up, anxious for new company. I wanted to put my best foot forward at this school and here was my chance.
Chapter Three - Rachel
Summer had a smell, sweet and light on the gentle breeze. Everything was so still I could hear the buzz of the passing bees, which seemed to be more plentiful this year than others. I wasn’t allergic, and they didn’t tend to go after me, so I didn’t mind.
I’d wanted to sleep in. It was Saturday, after all. It might not have been an actual law that I was supposed to get Saturdays off, but I believed with every cell of my being that there should be.
The knocks were light. Just enough to wake me. The last one came at the same time he opened the door.
Dad’s knocks were more of a warning shot than a request for permission. He never asked permission for anything, being firmly of the belief that it was not only easier but better to beg forgiveness than ask permission.
But that was my dad for you – the type that didn’t expect anyone to have any boundaries, and who would stomp those boundaries if they tried to set them. But that was more of the kind of thing I didn’t like to think about, so I shut the thoughts out of my mind.
“Dad?”
“Morning, kitten.”
“What time is it?” I asked.
“Time to get up.”
Having already learned not to argue, I got up and started to get dressed after he left the room. Had he told me where we were going, I probably would have made different decisions. As it was, I dressed for the weather.
“Where are we going?” I asked, belted into the back seat, my tummy full of warm oatmeal.
“A family outing,” Dad said brightly.
Mom shook her head but didn’t say anything. I was too young to take that as a red flag. Not that I could have done much any way.
There were already lots of people there when we pulled over to the curb. I recognized the building and knew it was bad, but I wasn’t sure why. Serious looking people in long white coats went into the building as we got out of the car.
I would find out later that the building was a research laboratory. ‘Playing in God’s sandbox,’ my dad liked to say.
I could hear the vans before I saw them. The engines sounded more like bulldozers. Waves of strange-looking people were getting out and meeting outside the lab. They were dressed like priests and nuns.
The leader, at least I thought he was, started saying something about life and creation. I didn’t understand it all, but he seemed to be saying that life was preserved through science and that to oppose science would lead to death and destruction. He didn’t get to finish. My parents and their friends started throwing fake blood and rotten tomatoes before he got the chance.
I sat bolt upright in bed. The dream was still stark in my mind, except that it hadn’t been a dream. Not exactly. Some details were different, but what happened in the dream had actually occurred on my 12th birthday.
My dad thought it would be great fun to take me to a protest. I don’t know if he knew the counter-protesters would be there, but he sure was ready for them if he didn’t.
He was always doing stuff like that. He didn’t really believe in selfishness, even on occasions when it was seen acceptable. Especially when it was deemed as acceptable. The only things he did like that were giving out UNICEF pennies on Halloween and turning birthdays, including his own, and Christmas, into opportunities for protest and charity, respectively.
I still had clear memories of deciding which charity we wanted to support every Christmas and going down to volunteer at the soup kitchen rather than having a big meal ourselves. Dad might have been devout in his beliefs, sometimes to the point of retrograde, but at least he wasn’t a hypocrite.
Well, not on that issue, anyway.
I counted my beads as I did every morning. It was a ritual as vital to starting the day for me as coffee was for others. I didn’t kneel anymore and figured the Lord really wouldn’t care if I was still in my night dress when my appeals and petitions were made.
Once my daily correspondence with the divine had ended, I headed to the bedroom, taking off my nightdress like a sweater as I went, leaving me quite naked for the last few steps from the living room into the privacy of the bathroom. I had neglected to close the blinds, and anyone could have potentially seen in as they strolled past.
The warmth rose inside me once again, turning me light pink from my cheeks all the way down to my chest. Though the idea embarrassed me, it also thrilled me a little. That anyone would be interested in gazing on my unclothed form.
I didn’t look bad, I didn’t think. A bit on the soft side with a few extra pounds here and there. Though this only made my breasts bigger.
I looked at myself in the full-length mirror in the bathroom, the ghost of a smile haunting my lips. I was in pretty fine form and also young. Only eighteen, and a virgin to boot. Surely there was some nice guy out there who would want to take me for a wife.
I knew I was too young to be thinking ab
out such things, but it really was what I wanted. Not least because I felt I should preserve my purity for my husband, as difficult as that task had been since puberty.
I was honestly shocked at my libido. Of course, I did my best to be lady-like, but that didn’t stop the inferno inside me from burning.
The situation was getting desperate. As soon as I was in the shower, my hand was down between my thighs. I knew it was supposed to be wrong, but I didn’t see how.
It felt good, yes, but that wasn’t really the point. My primary motive for touching myself was to try and put out the fire, so to speak. How could it be a bad thing to do if it prevented me from doing other bad things, like going to find some guy to have sex with in real life, instead of only thinking about it while I was alone?
I stroked my hand gently over my aching pussy, or ‘peach’ as I often thought of it as. I really was a kid in a lot of ways. Not least in terms of pubic hair, never really growing that much of it. I was a bit concerned, but the doctor told me it could happen, my ‘peach’ being really more of a nectarine.
The feeling of stress started to turn into one of pleasure and I leaned against the tile wall for support. My mind was more or less blank, not really thinking about anything but the sweet relief building up.
I thought about a handsome man reaching down and touching me instead, and I realized I was dripping wet. My pussy wanted to be played with, touched, kissed, fucked, by another human being. I wanted a man with a big cock who knew how to use it, who would fill me up and take me for my very first time.
My orgasm was a slow build, gaining inch by inch. Each passing second felt a little better, like a fuse. Then there was an explosion. Bright, rocketing bursts, exploding like Roman candles in my head, actually making me moan with pleasure and release.
Regaining my senses, I washed off again before redoing my hair, which had become newly sweaty with the exertion. After turning off the water and patting myself dry with one of the towels provided by the housing office, I got into my robe and put in a good hard prayer, just to be safe.
I usually tried to dress modestly but that September still felt like the dead of summer. I could have worn long-sleeves and a shin-length skirt, as was my custom, but likely would have roasted to death.
Finding the shortest, breeziest skirt I owned, I shortened it even further by tucking up the waist, the hem ending up a good two inches above my knees. Pairing this with a tank top I’d gotten at camp one year and an old pair of Chuck Taylors, I assessed the results in the full-length mirror. I felt practically naked but had to admit I was a lot more comfortable and looked pretty good as well.
At one point, I would have felt ashamed for desiring male attention, but I was never going to find a fiancé if I didn’t start looking. I was still pretty naïve due to my sheltered upbringing, but even I didn’t think the perfect guy would fall into my lap if I just prayed hard enough.
Despite the helpful signs littered around campus, I still had trouble finding the building for my first class. Partly because it was on the other side of campus. Dad didn’t actually know that I’d enrolled in an Experimental Film course. I’d added it as my sixth class after he had already approved the other ones I’d signed up for.
There was really no way of explaining why I wanted to take the course. Something about the idea of experimental film just really appealed to me.
It likely had something to do with the fact that I wasn’t allowed to watch any movies outside of the Family Channel and PureFlix. My dad was generally of the opinion that even Disney should have devil horns as a logo instead of mouse ears.
I was tempted to ask if he believed in the Illuminati, too, but, like Hamlet, held my tongue. (Plays were still okay, as long as they were written before 1900.)
Class had already started when I arrived, so I did my best to slip into the back and be inconspicuous. There was only one seat left over by the door and I was happy to take it, my ass touching plastic just as the instructor hit play on the first film of the class.
Something people don’t really seem to get about the Bible was that it held horrors almost too terrible for the mind to comprehend. Particularly at the beginning and the end. H.P. Lovecraft had nothing on Revelations.
Still, I wasn’t quite ready for what I saw on the pull-down screen that warm, summer morning. It wasn’t terrible or really scary per se, but it was still beyond anything I had yet imagined. The film was Kenneth Anger’s Scorpio Rising.
Even before I really understood the gay or Luciferian subtext Anger had sprinkled throughout it, it still grabbed hold of my mind and molded it like clay, through the sheer force of the filmmaking alone, leaving me changed.
The rest of the class was something of a blur. A mass of swirling words and terms, most of which my addled brain couldn’t comprehend. I did my best to try and keep up, but there was still only so much that I could do.
“You okay?”
I broke out of my trance, my heart literally skipping a beat. He had appeared, seemingly out of nowhere. All genuine concern and dashing charm. He was so handsome, it was a second or two before I could speak.
“Yes, I just - wow!”
“Never seen a film before?” he teased.
“Not like that, no.”
“Fair enough,” he conceded.
“Is this your major?” I asked, since he seemed to feel quite at home in this setting.
“Yeah, Film Studies is, I mean. This class is a requirement. I’m honestly most interested in the French New Wave, but that’s not available until the second year.”
“You look older,” I blurted, then quickly followed up with, “sorry.”
“It’s okay, as well as true. It took a while before I really knew what I wanted to do, so I applied as a slightly more mature student than some freshmen here are. I’m twenty-one, before you have to ask.”
“I’m Rachel,” I said, managing to remember my name.
“Augustus,” he replied, taking my hand.
“Like the emperor?”
“Something like that.”
He looked at me for a moment, as though trying to see into my soul. Despite a lifetime of warnings from both my parents and hearing their words swirling around in my head, I let him, just hoping he would like what he saw.
“You seemed a bit overwhelmed,” he said.
“I was,” I admitted.
“Can give you my notes if you-”
“Yes, please!” I enthused, way too quickly.
I had enjoyed the film on an emotional level but had no idea what I would say about it from an academic perspective. So, I greatly appreciated his offer.
Without a word, he got out a little hardcover notepad and a gel pen from the pocket of his dress shirt. With swift, smooth movements, he wrote out his contact information before pulling the page and giving it to me, making the whole thing look like a magic trick.
“Call me,” he said, “and I’ll be happy to teach you everything I know.”
Everything you know, huh? I thought.
I definitely liked the sound of that.
Chapter Four - Augustus
The keyboard rattled like a machine gun, words flying across the white screen. I was never really taught how to type. It was just one of those things that I picked up. I had a ‘knack’ for it, as my other brother Mick liked to call it.
Apparently, the knack was strong with me, because there were times when my mom would ask if I was actually writing anything or just typing gobbledigook to make it sound like I was working.
Making matters weirder, I also had the ability to seemingly do two things at once, talents which made film studies a natural fit for my skillset. Such as trying out my thoughts and notes on a film while I was watching it. Homework generally lasted roughly the same duration of a given film’s runtime.
I was tempted to play some music in the background, particularly for the silent movies, but resisted the urge. The music selection was a major factor in a film’s construction, particularly in ter
ms of the New York School, where Anger and Richard Kern counted it near the top of considerations. It was impossible for me to pick between the two.
I loved both of them for very different reasons. If one were to put a gun to my head, I’d have to go with Anger for his superior cinematography and decades of pissing off the masses. He was breaking taboos and thumbing his nose at ‘authority’ at a time when he could still go to jail for it.
The knock was so light I was scarcely sure I’d heard it. I figured it was some visitor.
“Who’s there?” I called, pausing the video.
“It’s Keira.”
Of course it was. Keira was the only one in the cluster of my housemates brave enough to talk to me, much to the chagrin of everyone else, not least of which was her boyfriend, Matt. He was an absolute gym rat here on a football scholarship. Things could have been even more tense but fortunately that had been nipped in the bud.
It all came to a head a few weeks ago. I could actually feel the music through the wall. My headphones only made so much difference. Matt had bought subwoofers at least partly to vex me. Or at least so I was convinced.
It was the third party that week, and I was beginning to wonder how much longer it would be before someone went to the hospital with alcohol poisoning. Not that I was about to say anything. I’d made that mistake back in high school and had gotten doused in German import beer for my trouble. This time, I decided that since I couldn’t beat them, I’d join them, and at least participate in the party that was making it impossible for me to study.
“Hey.”
I’d turned in the direction of the salutation and found Keira to be standing quite close to me.
“Guten tag,” I said, no idea why.
Making matters worse, I’d thrown up a Devil horns sign.
I hated that I could be so socially awkward sometimes.
“Haven’t seen you at a party before.”
“Haven’t been to one either,” I teased.
“What changed your mind?”
“I got hungry.”