Went down the block to get a Patra Burger. The Echo Park Christmas parade was going on. Teen cheerleaders shimmying down Sunset. Mexican Christmas carols play out of Mustangs. Short skirts. Yoga pants. Fifteen years old, tops. Like all straight men, I am powerfully sexually attracted to underage girls. Far more than to women of legal age. If you aren’t, say so in the comments. I’ll know everything else you say is also a lie.
It’s natural, but I feel like a miscreant. Three blocks to Patra Burger. Looking, trying not to look like I’m looking. Young girls shaking their asses in tiny skirts and little black underwear. Lifting one another up to give us all a panty shot. I strain to get an image I can remember. High school freshman’s sweaty taint up in the air with another girl’s hot palm jammed in it. Heaven. Clear skin, long shiny hair. Little budding tits. Firm little apple asses. The nineteen year olds taking veiny cock in porn look like crones in comparison. Any woman of legal age is already past her peak.
This is why I can’t be a teacher. This, and I hate young people and have no urge to help society. But mostly because I’d fuck my students. How could you not. Maybe you’d hold back for a year, two, ten. But one day one of them comes on to you. Every cell in your body was crafted over millions of years for the sole purpose of ejaculating inside ovulating young teens. The smell of her armpits after field hockey practice makes you a beast. You’d crack. Then live in terror. She’s gonna talk. She’s gonna write about her crush in her Lisa Frank diary that her parents dig up. She’s gonna tell a friend who tells her therapist who tells the cops. Suddenly you’re in the chester tank. Sex offender for life. A child rapist. Never work again, live in real danger of being flayed alive by medieval peasant mobs. Neighborhood brutes beat you with tire irons. What if it was my daughter, they say, but really– they’re jealous. You took that sweet pussy they can never have.
One of my art teachers tried to fuck me when I was fifteen. A woman. Not bad looking for forty. But I’m almost forty now, I still can’t fuck forty year olds. It was a boarding school. She had an apartment on campus. Her kids went there too and I knew them. I had a cold. She came up to me at night, in a room under the auditorium where they stored theatre props.
You feeling OK, she asked. Under the weather, I told her. Well, she said, if you want to feel better: come to my place and see me. I think you know what I mean. And she gave me the fuck me eyes.
I think you know what I mean. At first I didn’t. She was first person to ever express sexual interest in me. I was an unfuckable dork and thought I would be for life. What did she mean? Seemed to be something forbidden. Smoking pot maybe? I don’t want to smoke pot with a teach– OHHH.
Oh. I am a person that someone wants to fuck. For the first time ever. Holy shit. She is my art teacher. What do I say, I don’t– OK, yeah, I understand, I said. OK. Maybe some time. She turned around. Walked away. Swayed her ass.
Why’d she want to fuck me, I thought. I ‘m ugly. White. Flabby. I have a cold, my nose is all red…. well, now I get it. Work out all you want and get a nice haircut but you’re never going to be as good to fuck as you were at fifteen. Smooth skin, a little downy hair, a dick that gets hard fast and gets hard again and again. Pert little balls, not the H.P. Lovecraft flesh sac hanging off my battered and impotent member now. She wanted to taste my sweet smelling young dick. She wanted my copious sperm load un-mutated by decades of liquor and cigarettes. In adolescence we are made perfect. From there we slowly rot and decline.
There were handsomer boys. But she took a shot at me because I was lonely. Smart. If I hadn’t been such a cringing virginal pussy I’d have gone for it. If I’d been the way I am now. Do it for the story. For the infamy. Did you hear, Delicious Tacos fucked the art teacher. Rumors spread. Murmurs stirring something dark and unholy in the schoolgirls’ loins. Women only know to fuck men who fuck other women. I’d have been a legend.
If I’d been the way I am now. But no. My career as Brolita began and ended in ten seconds. Good. It would have been weird. Scary. I’d be hiring aging hookers now. Telling them to act like an art teacher. Some parts of sex you’re born with. Other parts are clay; they get misshapen when you get molested.
I remember that moment every time I think about underage girls. So: at least ten times per day. I’m glad it happened. If it hadn’t I might have gone for it when I had a shot. Might not have known I could fuck people up. But now I hang back. Look and look away. Head home, jerk the meatpipe. Thoughts of half-hairless Mexican baton girl snatch urge forth a furious load. Haven’t blown one like that since I was her age.
My thanks to the Neighborhood Council.