Pro Boner

High-school students can get up to all sorts of mischief hanging around after school waiting for their lifts to arrive. The lift-kids form a special social group of their own. I’ve noticed that kids usually have pretty much horizontal social groups, hanging around mainly with kids around their own age. The lift-kids are a vertical social group—all ages are brought together through communal hanging around the main gate every afternoon and coming up with ideas for relieving the boredom. Studying in the library is an option, of course, but scarcely a popular one.

The day this all started, I arrived pretty late. Basketball practice had run late and I’d dallied in the shower afterwards, daydreaming. The coach had chewed me out about it; he wanted to lock up and go home, like everyone else—“Marco, I dread to think what’s keeping you in there. Get your butt in gear.”

The school was almost deserted by the time I joined the hard core of lift-kids at the gate.

“What’s going on?” I asked Felicity. She’s a pretty little kid, a ninth-grader, I think, with imagination and a quirky sense of humour. She has straight fair hair that hangs down to the small of her back. I mention this because one of the activities she got us into one day was playing “Catch”. We’d more or less given up that sort of thing around the time we reached the heady maturity of around grade five. Reviving it, as Felicity did, for a bunch of eighth- to twelfth-graders added a whole new dimension. It became more of a contact sport with players of the opposite sex strangely interested in catching the player who was “it” of the moment. And long, fair hair, I have to tell you, is very useful for grabbing a scampering, giggling “it” who is trying to cheat by running into the sacrosanct girls’ toilets.

I carried her captive back to the playground. She was going, “Ow, Marco, you bastard, you hurt me” and giggling and wriggling. I was enjoying myself enormously. “The penalty for cheating is a kiss,” I said, revelling at the surging, swelling feeling in my crotch. She flickered a glance up at me. For a brief, wild moment, I thought she was going to do it and then another kid appeared from somewhere and called out, “Oh, she’s here. Marco got her.”

Immediately Felicity twisted out of my grasp and turned to face me from the safe distance of a few paces. She had instantly become spitting angry.

“Go away! Leave me alone! ” she shouted, red-faced. “I’m not playing any more.” She made as if to slap me.

“Marco is ‘it’,” called another kid, “Catch him!”

A calculating look flashed into her eyes and she lunged for me, nails out. I skipped aside and ran off, with the other kids after me. She and I gave each other a cautious wide berth for a few days after that, after which she started getting friendly again.

“What’s going on?” I asked her, the day this all started.

“I’ve invented a new game,” she said, “It’s called ‘Hide and Go Seek’.” It’s played in Miss Dixon’s classroom. Count to a hundred and then come looking for me.”

She darted away before I had a chance to climb on my twelfth-grade dignity.

“Count slowly,” she called back over her shoulder.

The classrooms are out-of-bounds after school. If Mimi, my step-mother, had turned up to give me a lift home, I would simply have left Felicity hiding and teased her about it the next day but Mimi didn’t arrive. When I guesstimated the right time had passed, I walked casually to Miss Dixon’s classroom, wondering what Felicity had up her sleeve this time.

I pushed open the door cautiously and peeked in. Felicity was kind of wild and booby-traps, shied blackboard dusters—or blackboard compasses, even—were quite possible. I couldn’t see her anywhere, and classrooms are not good places to hide. Wondering whether I’d been had, I moved a few cautious steps into the classroom. That was when I noticed the blackboard. Last time I’d seen it, earlier that morning, there had been diagrams from Miss Dixon’s Cartesian geometry lesson. Since then there’d obviously been a biology lesson. One of the boards had now had an enormous cross-section diagram of a human eye on it—“vitreous humour”, “cornea”, “sclerotic envelope“ and so forth. Yuck.

But whatever had been on the other blackboard had been scrubbed off and replaced by an enormous heart. Not an “auricle”, “ventricle”, “aorta” sort of heart, a Valentine’s Day heart, complete with Cupid’s arrow. Captioned, in huge letters, Marco is Love . What the…?

The door creaked behind me and swung closed and there was Felicity. She had been hiding in the corner behind the open door—about the only hiding place in the room, come to think of it. Her clothes, I noticed, were on one of the desks. Which is to say that Felicity had nothing up her sleeve—she was naked. Unless you count the small, white ankle-socks that, for some reason, she still wore. Maybe I had arrived too soon.

I looked from her to the board and back again, feeling an enormous blush spreading across my face and chest. Felicity blushed too and looked briefly as if her nerve was failing but then her little chin tilted up and she struck a defiant pose, hands on little-girl-turning-woman hips, showing off her little, half-formed apple breasts, her flat little belly, her little blonde bush.

“A genuine blonde, as you see” she said formally and then spoiled the effect by giggling at her own daring.

“Do you like my board-work, Marco?” she asked, and started walking towards me, sliding her socked feet in a fake, hands-on-hips, model-on-a-runway, showing-off walk.

“Um, yes, it’s… um… very nice,” I said, wondering what to do. Truth to tell, I was nervous. I didn’t know what to do and, clearly, Felicity had some pretty clear ideas. Twelfth-graders aren’t accustomed to being controlled by ninth-graders, especially naked ones. While I wondered what to do, I stepped back, trying to keep a distance between us. This worked great until the back of my thighs hit up against Miss Dixon’s desk. Felicity caught up to me and stood a little too close and eyed me out, head on one side, with mischief gleaming in her eyes.

I didn’t know what to do with my hands. I found I had crossed my arms across my chest, which felt stupid, so I put my palms on the desk by my thighs.

Hands still on hips, Felicity swayed back, like a limbo dancer, and sank to her knees, placing one each side of my bare feet. Had she been rehearsing? I wondered crazily. Her hands left her hips and snaked round behind me. She hugged me round the thighs, with the side of her face pressed against my crotch, where there was an immediate reaction. Part of me, at least, wasn’t wondering what to do. Felicity’s head did not move as her hands moved to my buttocks, rubbing and squeezing gently. She slid her hands down the outside of my shorts, and then back up the inside, against the skin, and again rubbed my buttocks through the fabric of my underpants.

She swayed back and looked up at me, expressionless, as her fingertips felt their way under the underpants and back up against my skin. Her wrists dragged at the cloth as her circling thumbs felt their way from my buttocks to my hips and across my lower belly, towards each other. She stopped when she hit hair and cocked an eyebrow at me. I discovered that I was gripping the edge of the desk very hard. I tried to smile, the cool twelfth-grader, as best I could.

Felicity slid her thumbs slowly down, under my balls, and pressed gently upwards.

“I can’t see what I’m doing,” she complained and drew her hands out. She pulled at the hem of my shorts and drew them slowly and firmly down to my ankles, giving me time to object if I wanted. I didn’t want to. As I stepped out of them, I looked down at the swollen, stretched fabric of my underpants. My half-swollen cock was held, pointed down, by the friction and elasticity of the cloth. Felicity tossed my freed shorts away over her shoulder and sighed, “Dammit, I still can’t see what I’m doing.”

She looked up at me while ran her fingernails up my calves, behind my knees, up my thighs, until they hooked in to waistband of my underpants. I still didn’t object as, looking unblinkingly into my eyes, she firmly pulled downwards, very slowly and deliberately. As the base of my cock became revealed, she broke our gaze and leaned forward into my crotch. Her little, pink tongue came out and burrowed and darted around in the hair at the base of my cock, which responded immediately and, when the underpants were finally drawn down far enough, it sprang free and whacked her under the chin.

The controlling woman was instantly replaced by the child as she laughed delightedly and pulled my underpants down to my ankles and tugged impatiently, willing me to step out of them. When I did, she threw them away and turned back to my swollen, stretching, bobbing, eager cock. She blew on it, shooting mischievous glances up at me under her eyelashes. It bobbed obediently and she giggled again. Cupping balls in one hand and taking shaft in the other, she sucked my cock into her mouth like a lollipop, in one long, slow, suck until she couldn’t get any more in. Then, getting to her feet and bending over as she did it, she slowly pulled back, sucking hard and working away with her tongue as she did, straightening up as she went.

When my eager cock was finally free, she carried on standing up and lifted the hem of my T-shirt up my torso until we were standing chest-to-chest with the fabric bunched between us. She kept lifting and I obediently raised my arms above my shoulders and let her pull it off and throw it away.

She hugged me hard, and I felt her hard little breasts pushing into my upper belly. I hugged her back and, when she lifted her face, we kissed. Her little tongue darted out and fought its way into my mouth, wriggling around in an exploratory fashion.

She broke the kiss by sinking again to her knees, her hug sliding down my ribs, past my hips, to my thighs and, again, I felt her warm little mouth sucking my engorged cock into its warm, welcoming depths. My hand were resting lightly on her shoulders. I closed my eyes to focus on the sensations of the sucking, the little tongue darting about. I felt my head go back and my mouth opened in sympathy with hers.

“Just what the hell is going on here?”

I snapped back to reality as Felicity swung round guiltily, leaving my frantic, frustrated boner waving in the air. Miss Dixon was standing in the doorway, arms akimbo, looking at it. We hadn’t even heard the door open.

“Here’s the thing,” Mimi said to my father at Family Conference that evening, “Marco is seventeen. The girl is fourteen. According to the headmaster, that makes it statutory rape. The girl gets two weeks’ suspension, suspended so as not to jeopardise her social standing with her classmates. And Marco gets expelled.”

That was the bottom line of the hastily-convened meeting in the headmaster’s office involving him, Felicity, me, the peripatetic Miss Dixon and the belated Mimi, who, it appeared, was never going to be late picking me up ever again. It was a weird meeting. I never did find my underpants. They were next seen atop the flagpole at recess the next day, I was told, but I wasn’t there to see it, thank God. I was at home on suspension pending expulsion.

My father was still trying to take it all in. Mimi said, “I’m going to call Evelyn.” Her friend Evelyn is a lawyer—a very zesty woman who knows how to fill out a power suit. When she visited Mimi she would tease me about, “My, you’re all grown up, Marco. Filling out splendidly.” Looking me up and down the while. And sending me on little errands, to get her juice and what all.

“Love to see that kid bending down,” I once overheard her say to Mimi.

“Hush, Evelyn. Stop it, now,” said Mimi.

There was no kidding around when she came over this time, though.

“Okay, let’s see if this headmaster of yours has feet of clay or real balls ,” she said. “Mimi, set up a meeting with him. Don’t tell him that Marco and I are coming. Marco, be properly washed and shaved and looking sharp in a jacket and tie, okay?”

“Yes, Evelyn.”

“And wear trousers. Throughout”

“Yes, Evelyn.”

The headmaster’s secretary showed us in to his office next morning. She flicked me an interested look as I edged past her through the door. Word had got around, no error.

“Hi, Larry, remember me?” said Evelyn, “We were classmates here together back in 19-nevermind.”

“Uh, yes, um, it’s Evelyn, right?” And, remarkably, he blushed.

“That’s right. Now, let’s deal with the common cause first,” said Evelyn, taking control while he was still trying to get over whatever-it-was and offer tea-or-coffee, “Marco got caught with his pants down, no doubt about it. He’s seventeen, she’s fourteen, statutory rape, no argument. If it should come to that.”

“It has come to that,” said the headmaster, trying to volley, “Teenage sexual promiscuity is a cancer in our schools and I am charged, and determined, to stamp it out.”

“Give me a break,” said Evelyn. “Maybe the Education Department has you say that but you’ve been in the business, and the human race, long enough to know that no-one, but no-one, is going to stop teenagers screwing around if they’ve decided that’s what they’re going to do. Am I right?”

He shot me a look. I was still trying to pretend I wasn’t there. He raised his palms to Evelyn and shrugged ever so slightly. Evelyn forged on.

“Here’s the thing,” she said, “on the one hand, the girl gets not even a slap on the wrist. You suspended her suspension, whatever that means, for God’s sake, to spare her the social embarrassment of people enquiring into why she was suspended. On the other hand, you’re proposing to expel a twelfth-grader who’s in sight of graduating. He’s a good kid, Eagle Scout, an athlete, on the basketball team, does his homework, doesn’t cause trouble, has a promising future at college and beyond. And you’re going to expel him?”

“Yes,” said the headmaster. “I am required to.”

“Larry, Larry, Larry,” said Evelyn, “You can’t expel him for something you know nothing about. Now hear this: if Marco gets expelled, the whole city is going to hear about this. I have journalist friends who would plaster this Felicity girl all over page three and be trusted to keep mum about their sources. They’ll get the whole story about how this teen Salomé seduced this poor innocent boy,”—and she waved a hand at me as I prayed for the ground to open up and swallow me rather than be reported in the papers as an innocent seventeen-year-old boy seduced by a knowing fourteen-year-old girl.

“And, Larry,” said Evelyn, leaning forward and changing her brisk tone for a lower, menacing one, “don’t think I can’t dig up dirt on how you behaved when we were pupils here together.”

It was someone else’s turn to blush, thank God. He shot another look at me. I sat there trying to look as if I hadn’t heard while, inside, I was thinking, Oh-ho? Really?

“Larry,” said Evelyn remorselessly, “do we have a deal? Either everyone’s clean or everyone’s in shit, up to the eyebrows.”

Long silence.

“Answer me, Larry.”

He sighed. “Okay, Evelyn, we have a deal. Everyone knows already, so two weeks suspension for both of them. But you, young man,” he said menacingly to me—and I started nodding compliantly right there—“are on the thinnest of thin ice. If there’s a next time, I don’t care if it’s the day before graduation, you’re out. Okay?”

“Deal,” said Evelyn, quickly, taking it on herself to speak for me. “I will look into this young man’s case myself and see what a little mentoring can do. Okay, team, we’re done.”

And out the door we went, with me still thinking, “Eagle Scout? But I was never in the scouts at all.” But I knew better than to open my mouth about anything.

“Okay, Mimi,” said Evelyn in the car park, “You heard. Marco and I have some talking to do so why don’t you take yourself off to a movie or something, and Marco and I will go back to your place and have a little talk.”

“Now, Evelyn…” started Mimi, concerned.

“Now, Mimi,” interrupted Evelyn, “Do you want me to explain explicitly to you what ‘pro boner’ means?”

Mimi tried to fight it but Evelyn looked at her meaningfully until she gave it up.

“Okay,” she said, “it’s the movies for me.”

”Attagirl. And then maybe a little lunch?“ said Evelyn, pressing the advantage.

“And then maybe a little lunch,” said Mimi, surrendering completely.

“Off you go then,” said Evelyn briskly. And off we all went.

Back home, Evelyn, my mentor, pulled off my tie and dropped it into my dad’s waste-paper basket.

“Lawyers are often called in to solve problems,” my mentor Evelyn told me, unbuttoning my shirt as I stood with my back to the desk in my father’s study as I had earlier stood with my back to Miss Dixon’s, “but I often feel that our time would be better spent in avoiding the problems in the first place.”

Evelyn, my mentor, eased my shirt over my shoulders and down my arms. The cuffs were still buttoned and the bunched cloth made a sort of handcuffs, binding my hands behind my back.

“There seems to be something in here trying to get out,” my mentor, Evelyn, said, eyeing my crotch, “As a lawyer, I think my time would be well-spent dealing with it now before it becomes a problem. What do you think?”

I nodded. It was all I could trust myself to do. My mentor unzipped me, undid my waistband and drew trousers and underpants down to my ankles, hobbling me.

“Now then…” said my mentor, speculatively.

My period of suspension looked like being an instructive two weeks’ mentoring. At least, I knew, I would never again have to mess with jail-bait on school premises which was, after all, the object of the exercise.

And, when I went back to school, Miss Dixon took me aside.

“I want to apologise to you, Marco,” she said, “for my hastiness the other day. After a talk with the headmaster, and thinking it over for myself, I believe I made an error of judgment in intruding on your privacy. I would like to make it up to you in some way. You’ve fallen ’way behind in Cartesian geometry this last two weeks. Would you like to come to my apartment after school so I can give you some catch-up coaching?”

“Yes, please, Miss Dixon,” I said, “I’d like that very much.”

• I would be pleased to hear from you, at FatherIgnatius@hotmail.com , about whether or not you liked this story, and why.
• Thank you for reading me.