by Cole Parker
Circumstances 2
I got off the bus with my books held in front of my pants, accompanied by the jeers, laughter and jokes from the kids who’d been with me and witnessed what I’d done. I ignored them and walked off as quickly as possible, trying to blend into the mass of kids arriving at school. It was hard to act normal, but I tried. I figured what I’d done would be all over the school by lunchtime, and the more I acted like nothing had happened, the more likely it was that anyone hearing about it might think it was being exaggerated or even made up.
I had Mrs. Bowerman for first period Math. It was trigonometry, and I enjoyed the class, but not Mrs. Bowerman. She was old and nasty. None of us liked her.
My pants had dried by then, but the stain, especially at the edges, was pretty easy to see. I kept a three-ring binder in my lap so it wouldn’t be noticeable. Then what I was dreading happened.
“Keith, come up here and show us homework problem 6 on the board.” Mrs. Bowerman’s eyes were boring into mine.
Oh God! I could go up and work the problem, but walking back, I’d be in perfect view of everyone sitting at their desks, and I was sure a lot of them had already heard the rumors and would be staring at my crotch.
Mrs. Bowerman was holding a piece of chalk out for me, looking at me, and I didn’t know what to do! I just couldn’t go up there. No way, no how.
“Mrs. Bowerman, I don’t feel good. I need to go to the restroom.”
“Yeah, to pump out another one,” I heard someone whisper to someone else behind me. And a couple of snickers.
Mrs. Bowerman was never easy, and she wasn’t this time either. “You can go after doing the problem on the board. Right now, Keith.”
So, I fled. I grabbed my books, still holding the binder in front of me, jumped up and ran from the room. Mrs. Bowerman said something in her raspy voice, but I didn’t even hear what it was.
I thought of leaving school, but I was a long way from home and my mom would kill me if the school told her I’d cut. I took my second option and went to the boys’ room. I thought maybe I could somehow get the stain cleaned off.
I pushed into the empty bathroom and dropped my books on the edge of one of the sinks. There were never any paper towels because the kids would use them to stuff up the toilets. So I got several of the small individual pieces of toilet paper, dampened them in a sink, and wiped at the stain.
And wiped and wiped. It didn’t seem to be doing any good. It did seem to be leaving little white specks of shredded paper all over my crotch as the toilet paper disintegrated. I tried using warm water and wiping harder. That had an effect, but it was on me, because of what was underneath where I was rapidly wiping with warm water.
When I couldn’t see the stain any longer, mostly because of how wet my pants had become, I thought I’d better dry off. We had those hot-air drying machines. I pointed the nozzle down and pressed the button and hot air came out, but the machine was too high up on the wall to do much for my pants. By the time the air reached my crotch, it wasn’t hot anymore and was more of a weak breeze than a useful storm.
So I stood up on the sink, then turned on the machine and leaned against it so my crotch was right up against the nozzle. This time I got a lot of hot air, right on the wet place.
And that heat, combined with all the wiping I’d been doing, really did a number on me. I had no intention of getting hard, but I did. Big time hard. And it felt so good, all that wet warmth, I simply couldn’t help but begin to move my hips just a little. In and out, toward and away from the machine. It was an unconscious sort of thing, brought about by my circumstances.
Unconscious, instinctive, whatever it was, it was what I was doing when the vice-principal walked in.