Juvenile Delinquent
Copyright© 2020 by Buffalo Bangkok
Chapter 14
As I mentioned, I’d switched schools. I went to a private school, a small school, further away from my neighborhood, because my friend Adam, was there and wanted me to join him.
(Being in the program for fuckups wasn’t too pleasant either; I was fortunate to leave such a toxic environment.)
The new school wasn’t toxic, was far more laidback. And it was small, really small. Only fifty or so students. It was a Quaker school, but didn’t force its beliefs on us. The only Quaker thing we were made to do was attend morning “meetings,” school gatherings, where we’d sit in a circle, in silence for fifteen minutes.
One might imagine this would be difficult for teens, but I never recall an incident of anyone speaking up or causing mischief. It really would be completely, like totally, could-hear-a-pin-drop silent…
The school had a vast array of students. Nerds, outcasts, jocks, cool kids, misfits, fuckups, everything. But opposed to public school, with its cliques, there weren’t cliques at the school. It was too small for that.
Everyone knew everyone. Everyone hung out, pretty much, with everyone. There was little to no bullying. I think that was the point of the school. It was a refuge from the public-school system.
There were a couple kids there who indeed couldn’t function in public schools, and I can only imagine the torment they’d suffer if they did attend a place like my middle school. The Quaker school was like a sanctuary for such kids…
One such kid was an adopted girl from Thailand who’d been abused, locked in a room, in total isolation, for the first ten years of her life. As you can imagine, she had trouble functioning in social situations, was tragically awkward, and would randomly scream things at people, in Thai or English. She’d occasionally masturbate in class and have to be removed, taken to the office, and would sometimes disappear, run away for hours, sometimes days, but would always return.
Another kid was a former linebacker, who kept getting in trouble for pissing and shitting in public places. He’d drop his pants and shit anywhere. As he’d shit, he’d stare and laugh at people’s reactions. He’d shit in the shower, too, and had shit in front of his teammates, several times, once on the practice field. He’d shit on the bathroom floor a few times, in our school’s bathroom, which, for him, I guess was an improvement. I’m not sure if he was mental or if it was his sense of humor, his shitting. I’m guessing it was some of both.
(Another classmate I had there was Big Jim, a skinhead, but I’m not sure if he was a racist skinhead or just liked the look. He’d been dating a girl my friend also liked, and the two of them beefed over her, when my friend and her fucked while high at a party... Big Jim and my friend nearly came to blows, but settled it, with no fists being thrown, and we three ditched 5th period to smoke weed together in Big Jim’s old bucket of a car.)
((I had thought it was all good. But later, my friend and his older cousin, a somewhat scary Cuban gangster type, had been talking about various insidious ways to kill the “puto” and were fucking livid about the whole situation. My friend’s cousin was into Santeria, too, and said he’d thrown a curse on the skinhead.))
(((I’m not sure if it was the curse, or Big Jim’s youth, stupidity, but whatever it was, Big Jim was tripping on acid with his skinhead friends and was out “train-surfing,” jumping from bridges down onto the top of trains, riding the trains to wherever. But when Big Jim leapt from the bridge, he fell in between the train carriages and one of his legs was ripped off by the machinery.)))
((((Amazingly, he survived, but lost his leg, and a couple girls from the school visited him in the hospital, brought him coloring books and juice boxes. He came back to our school once, only to visit, but then went elsewhere, to another school, designed for those with disabilities. My friend and I never spoke of what happened to Big Jim, and I never heard his cousin mention it.))))
There was another girl at the Quaker school, a girl, who like me, was the child of psychiatrists, and her dad a very famous psychiatrist. She was very sexually free and like anytime I saw her, she was openly discussing sex. She had big tits but a flat ass and super skinny body. I suspect her tits were fake.
She slept with nearly every boy at the school, but drew the line at threesomes, and when Adam and me had her over to his house, we tried to double team her, but she’d only fuck us one at a time, saying how the “last time I had a threesome, my boyfriend, Tom, got so fucking pissed,” so she fucked us one at a time, which I guess her boyfriend was cooler with.
There was another girl with big tits, Jessica, who’d been attacked by a boy at her previous high school.
The boy would always comment on her large breasts, and the comments went from verbal harassment, to him forcibly touching her, and one day him trying to tear off her shirt in the hallway, after school.
She was so traumatized that, for a while, she dropped out. She’d taken to binge-eating to dull her psychic pain and had gained around thirty pounds.
Though she was chubby, she was still pretty, had a gorgeous face, a face that was practically perfect, with these high cheekbones, their symmetry complemented by her bright blue eyes and rosy cheeks. Di Vinci, I bet, would have painted her portrait. Her facial structure was that flawless…
Jessica and I became an item after I’d stopped seeing a girl who lived down the street.
That one was a heartache, far worse than the quiet girl in fifth grade…
The girl down the street, Jan, was smoking hot. She’d been the first girl I’d really been in love with, or at least what I thought was love.
She was part Egyptian, part Colombian and 100% hot. An olive-skinned exotic looking beauty with a crown of wavy long blood red dyed hair, she’d constantly be clad in sexy clothes, like hot pants and fishnet stockings.
She’d paint on tons of makeup, too, eye liner, eye shadow, and her puffy and pouty lips were usually coated fire red... And it was as if every time I saw her, she’d be smiling, sporting these sly, crooked smiles that were mesmerizing.
I’d probably be smiling too, if I was a girl that hot. If I had a face and a body like that. Her body was incredible, practically flawless. With her taut tummy, juicy thighs, callipygian curves, and perky, upturned C-cup tits. Her cleavage always compressed in tight tank tops, tits scrunched up and forming deep valleys that’d be overflowing, protruding and testing fabrics’ limits.
She was a knockout. A dime. She was the first girl my age I can remember who dressed as provocatively as the ladies I’d seen in music videos.
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