Part 1: Monday - Howl

Jake

I can't believe it. I just cannot fucking believe it.

First thing Monday morning, I was called from my homeroom to the school's office. Smug, smarmy Mr. Handley, the school's principal, stood in front of us; seven students and me. He was about to issue a proclamation. Every time he starts to lay down the law he's got this same stupid ritual. He runs his hand over what little hair he's managed to comb over his bald spot, straightens his tie and puts his hands on his hips. Oh yes, very alpha male, in a middle-aged, polyester sort of way.

It's obvious why we're all here: The Program. We all know all about it. We all know all the rules. Of course, he's still going to tell us about it anyway.

"I suppose you've already guessed that you're in The Program this week." After a pause, Mr. Handley continued, "Just to be clear about this, we're going to go over the rules, and your extra responsibilities this week."

No one looked surprised. The youngest kids, freshmen and sophomores I suppose, looked scared. I recognized the juniors: Tina Johnson and Tom Something (couldn't remember his last name). Tom is a short, thin guy who's on the school newspaper. He just had a blank look on his face. Tina looked grim, but determined. The other senior was Linda Benton. I didn't know her very well. She was in a couple of my classes, but she was a cheerleader. Linda just looked calm and serene.

Me? I was pissed. Rip-roaring pissed.

"Okay, the obvious stuff," Mr. Handley continued. "For the rest of the week, you'll be naked during school hours and any school activities. That includes any activities over the weekend."

"Uh... Mr. Handley?" I interrupted.

"Each morning, when you arrive at school, you will place all your clothing except shoes and socks in the labeled lockers by the entrance. Each locker will have your name on it this week, so there will be no confusion," Mr. Handley continued, while sending a slight frown in my direction.

"Mr. Handley?" I repeated.

"All right, what is it, Mr. Bergman?" Mr. Handley said with an exasperated sigh.

"I've already done my week on The Program," I said.

"No, Jake, you haven't," he replied.

"Yeah, I have. I did it when I was a sophomore at my old school in Amherst."

"You didn't do it here at South Hastings High. It's a graduation requirement here so you've got to complete it here."

"Algebra is a graduation requirement, also. I got credit for taking that at my old high school. Why not this?" The pleading note in my voice annoyed even me.

"You also demonstrated proficiency in Algebra in your other math classes. If you hadn't we'd have made you take that over, too. The Program fosters social interaction and sexual awareness and openness. You certainly haven't demonstrated proficiency in social interaction here at South Hastings High." There was a smug tone in Mr. Handley's voice. "Now, if you'll allow me to continue?"

I had known that reasoning with him wouldn't do me any good. I'd also known that I would have kicked myself later if I didn't at least try to talk some sense into him. Okay, so I'd tried.

"As I was saying... since the goal of this exercise is to foster social and sexual awareness, you will be exposed to the opposite sex as much as possible this week. At gym you will use the showers of the opposite sex and you will use the rest rooms of the opposite sex. The Program rules, as specified in your pamphlets, limit you to at most three trips to the bathroom per day. While we don't strictly enforce minor rules like that, if we find you hiding from other students we will take corrective measures.

"You are required to comply with students' Reasonable Requests. There have been occasions where Reasonable Requests have crossed over the line of what is acceptable. There will be no intercourse in the hallways. And we will not tolerate other students demeaning the students in The Program. But you may not prevent yourself from being exposed or even respectfully touched by other students.

"During the first five minutes of each class, and only during that time, you may elect to have 'relief' from the natural sexual tension that you will be feeling. Please do not be embarrassed. It is natural, and, in fact, enlightening for you and the other students."

Mr. Handley droned on through his recitation of the rest of the rules. I didn't really listen to most of it.

"Now, I'm sure that you've noticed that you have a partner of the opposite sex in your grade. It's likely that each of you will have moments this week that you find upsetting. Talk to your partners and help each other through these times. You all have at least two classes, and have the same lunch period with your partner. Please be sure to sit at the same lunch table with your partners.

"It's time for you to undress. Put your clothes in the labeled bins and someone will put them into your lockers. Spend the time until the bell rings familiarizing yourselves with your partners. Be sure to exchange phone numbers and email addresses."

I have to admit that I was a bit of a pig. I couldn't resist covertly checking out the girls as they undressed. Hey, I was a seventeen-year-old guy. What do you expect?

The sophomore girl (who's name I still didn't know) was pretty cute. Very petite, pert breasts and thin wisps of brown pubic hair. The junior girl, Tina, was a little overweight, but still nice looking. Her breasts were large with really big nipples. I didn't want to appear to stare at the freshman girl at all. She looked like she was on the verge of crying.

I had to stop peeking at the girls as Linda walked over to me and started to undress. My partner Linda was a complete babe -- just what you'd expect in a cheerleader. She was a bit shorter than me; I'm 5' 10", so I guess she was about 5' 6'. Some of her shoulder-length light brown hair was pulled up by static cling as she pulled her sweater over her head. It took me quite a bit longer than usual to undo my buttons when Linda opened the clasps on her bra and dropped it into the bin. Her nipples were just a couple of feet away pointing straight at me.

"Very nice," I said quietly.

She gave me a small smile and continued taking off her pants.

I know that I've paraded naked in front of everyone at my old school, but that was a couple of years ago. I couldn't help feeling self-conscious. Linda, standing next to me, looked great, while I was just a pretty average-looking guy. I had thick, kind of frizzy, brown hair and I was fairly scrawny. I had some muscles in my shoulders from years of swimming (I decided not to join the swim team when we moved to Kansas) but I never looked like an especially athletic guy. I was definitely no match for the fine girl next to me.

I said hello to Linda, and exchanged phone numbers, email and IM contacts with her. While I can't say I was a fan of The Program, one thing I learned was how to talk to a naked girl without speaking into her tits. I still felt uneasy sporting a huge boner in front of a room of people I hardly knew, but I could function. That poor freshman guy was stuttering and staring straight at his partner's pussy.

The bell rang and I put Linda's info into my backpack. I told Linda I'd see her later in English.

They'd been running The Program at South Hastings High for about five years, so everyone was used to seeing a few nude kids roaming the halls. You'd think Hastings, Kansas would be the last place in the world to adopt The Program. Never heard of Hastings, Kansas? I can't blame you. Neither had I until I was exiled there the year before. Hastings was a medium-sized town on the western edge of Kansas. The only thing resembling civilization is a small University of Kansas satellite campus. That's what forced me there; my mother accepted a position as provost of the UK-Hastings campus.

Anyway, walking to my first naked class was relatively uneventful. A small group of freshman girls stopped to inspect my dick. A drop of precum oozed out when one of the girls grabbed it. I didn't have much time left before my French class, so I said to her "Now look what you've done. You made him cry." She blushed; the rest of the girls giggled as they all walked off.

French class was pretty routine -- well, as routine as you can get conjugating future imperfect verbs in the nude. Madam Sanders did ask me if I wanted relief ("Vous avez besoin de soulagement?") which I refused ("Aucun merci"). Being in The Program in the middle of the year wasn't really all that bad. Madam Sanders had already labeled the body parts of earlier participants. Last month, to Paul Naismith's and Becky Ermine's horror, they were brought to the head of the class to discuss "en Francais" an exhaustive list of sexual acts, several of which I'd never heard of. Useful knowledge, I suppose, if I ever need to negotiate with a whore in Marseilles.

So maybe my week in the program would be easy and uneventful. I did have to go to the front of the class for a review of the names of all the male naughty bits in French. I was a good sport and soon sported le boner and discussed the ways I could use it to conjugate a few irregular verbs.

This was minor league embarrassment. English class was where it began to get strange. But then, I suppose I brought it on myself. I'd spent my entire time at Hastings High sitting quietly in class, only participating when I was called upon. I'd already decided I couldn't take it any more.

We were in the middle of our poetry assignment. Each student picked a poem and read it to the class. Most of the poems so far had been terrible pieces of fluff. Hallmark card quality. One student even tried to use the lyrics of a popular song. I couldn't stand it any more. I felt like I was surrounded by placid sheep. I'd already decided that when it was my turn I'd see if I could shake things up a bit. Well, it was my turn now.

After some routine class announcements and asking for relief (Linda, who is also in my English class, and I both refused) Mr. Larsen, my English teacher, said it was time to continue our poetry recital and called me to the head of the class.

I hauled my naked butt up front holding a few sheets of paper.

"I didn't know I'd be on The Program when I picked this poem, but I think that maybe it's even better reading this nude. The poem is kind of long, so I'm reading just part one. My poem is Howl, by Allen Ginsberg."

Most of the class was still sitting there with the same blank stare they used as they tried to endure all the other painful recitations. When I said "Howl, by Allen Ginsberg," Mr. Larsen's head jerked up with his eyes open wide in surprise. A girl in the front, Amy Nyland, whispered, "Oh my!" just loud enough for me to hear. Interesting. While Howl is pretty notorious, I didn't expect any of the kids in the class to recognize it. Literate and cute as hell, too; it was a crying shame Amy had a boyfriend. Oh well.

Seeing that Mr. Larsen knew the poem, I immediately started before he decided to stop me.

I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by madness, starving hysterical naked, dragging themselves through the negro streets at dawn looking for an angry fix, angelheaded hipsters burning for the ancient heavenly connection to the starry dynamo in the machinery of night,

who poverty and tatters and hollow-eyed and high sat up smoking in the supernatural darkness of cold-water flats floating across the tops of cities contemplating jazz,

who bared their brains to Heaven under the El and saw Mohammedan angels staggering on tenement roofs illuminated,

who passed through universities with radiant cool eyes hallucinating Arkansas and Blake-
light tragedy among the scholars of war,

who were expelled from the academies for crazy & publishing obscene odes on the windows of the skull,

who cowered in unshaven rooms in underwear, burning their money in wastebaskets and listening to the Terror through the wall,

who got busted in their pubic beards returning through Laredo with a belt of marijuana for New York,

who ate fire in paint hotels or drank turpentine in Paradise Alley, death, or purgatoried their torsos night after night,

with dreams, and drugs, with waking nightmares, alcohol and cock and endless balls...

Well that woke them up. During every other poem the class was full of kids doodling and staring at the walls while the unfortunate one forced to recite droned on monotonously about trees or flowers or some other crap. Apparently "alcohol and cock and endless balls" is a real attention-getter.

... who chained themselves to subways for the endless ride from Battery to holy Bronx on benzedrine until the noise of wheels and children brought them down shuddering mouth-wracked and battered bleak of brain all drained of brilliance in the drear light of Zoo,

who sank all night in submarine light of Bickford's floated out and sat through the stale beer afternooon in desolate Fugazzi's, listening to the crack of doom on the hydrogen jukebox...

They didn't have Bickford's here in Kansas, and I had no idea what Fugazzi's is, but I think the idea comes across.

... who broke down crying in white gymnasiums naked and trembling before the machinery of other skeletons,

who bit detectives in the neck and shrieked with delight in policecars for committing no crime but their own wild cooking pederasty and intoxication,

who howled on their knees in the subway and were dragged off the roof waving genitals and manuscripts,

who let themselves be fucked in the ass by saintly motorcyclists, and screamed with joy...

I actually heard some gasps when I got to the "fucked in the ass by saintly motorcyclists" part. There were some nervous titters and I heard Amy in the front row giggle. Mr. Larsen had an odd expression. Amused? Pissed off? I continued.

... who hiccupped endlessly trying to giggle but wound up with a sob behind a partition in a Turkish bath when the blonde & naked angel came to pierce them with a sword,

who lost their loveboys to the three old shrews of fate the one eyed shrew of the heterosexual dollar the one eyed shrew that winks out of the womb and the one eyed shrew that does nothing but sit on her ass and snip the intellectual golden threads of the craftsman's loom,

who copulated ecstatic and insatiate with a bottle of beer a sweetheart a package of cigarettes a candle and fell off the bed, and continued along the floor and down the hall and ended fainting on the wall with a vision of ultimate cunt and come eluding the last gyzym of consciousness,

who sweetened the snatches of a million girls trembling in the sunset, and were red eyed in the morning but were prepared to sweeten the snatch of the sunrise, flashing buttocks under barns and naked in the lake...

I think the class was split at this point. Half of the kids were shocked at the language -- not that they didn't use those words, but they didn't expect them in class, and certainly not in a poem -- and the other half were amused that I thought I could get away with saying things like "ultimate cunt" in class.

... who journeyed to Denver, who died in Denver, who came back to Denver & waited in vain, who watched over Denver & brooded & loned in Denver and finally went away to find out the Time, & now Denver is lonesome for her heroes,

who fell on their knees in hopeless cathedrals praying for each other's salvation and light and breasts, until the soul illuminated its hair for a second...

After this, Amy's expression changed from amusement to something else. She still had a grin, but she looked more thoughtful, or pensive... or something.

... the madman bum and angel beat in Time, unknown, yet putting down here what might be left to say in time come after death,

and rose reincarnate in the ghostly clothes of jazz in the goldhorn shadow of the band and blew the suffering of America's naked mind for love into an eli eli lamma lamma sabacthani saxophone cry that shivered the cities down to the last radio,

with the absolute heart of the poem of life butchered out of their own bodies good to eat a thousand years.

I stopped and everyone just stared at me. I'd been very quiet in all of my classes since moving to Hastings. None of the other kids really knew anything about me -- I tried to make some friends but was always rebuffed as that geeky new kid. After shouting obscenities at them for the past ten minutes, they obviously thought that shy geek had gone insane. They didn't know me at all. Okay, maybe I was a geek, but I certainly wasn't shy.

Mr. Larsen walked to the front of the class. "Well that was certainly a different sort of poem," he said. "Any reactions?"

The silence was deafening.

"So Jake, what do you think Ginsberg was thinking when he wrote Howl?" asked Mr Larsen.

"He was frustrated and angry," I said.

"Why?"

"He saw so many of his friends and other people of his generation being hurt or killed by their rebellion. He believed in their rebellion, which added to his frustration."

Mr. Larsen gave me an appraising stare. "What do you think this says about your generation? Are you likely to be hurt by rebellion?"

I gave a snort. "Rebelling? Our generation? You've got to be kidding. We are exactly the opposite of his generation. We are complete conformists. You can shove any ludicrous idea at us and we follow it blindly. We listen to prepackaged music because MTV and our radio stations tell us we like it. We're stripped naked and told to march to the front of the class to jerk off; and we go up and do it calmly and without passion, like ewes being serviced by their ram. We are sheep."

"Were you trying to get suspended for reading an obscene poem so you'd get out of The Program? That won't work, you know. You'd just have to repeat it later," said Mr. Larsen flatly.

"You can't suspend, or even punish, me for reading it. It isn't obscene" I said. I was beginning to be a little worried, but I didn't think I let it show. I didn't think it could come to anything, but I didn't want to go through the hassle, and I certainly didn't want yet another week of The Program.

"How so?" he asked.

"When the poem came out, the government said it was obscene, but there was a trial and the courts declared that it wasn't obscene. It was a real big deal in the '60s," I said.

"1957, actually," he said. "A bit before the '60s." So crafty Mr. Larsen was playing me after all. "Nice to know you did your homework on this one.

"I could still call your parents. How do you think they'd react to your reading a poem like that?" he asked.

I actually laughed. "Are you kidding? Both of my parents are academics. My mother was an English Lit. professor. I'd never hear the end of it. For the rest of my life at every family gathering, I'd hear the story of how cute little Jakey read Howl in school. She'd be insufferable."

"Okay," he said. "So I won't punish you. I'll reward you. For the rest of the week, at the beginning of each class you will read a new poem. A different poem each time, Mr. Bergman."

Then Mr. Larsen took my copy of the poem and read some of the lines and we spent about half of the class discussing Howl. It was just surreal listening to Mr. Larsen talk about a "vision of ultimate cunt." We had the longest discussion about what "the last gyzym of consciousness" means.

Amy

English class was certainly better than it's been for a while. That Jake guy had been in most of my classes since spring semester last year, but he'd hardly said a word. I knew he must be pretty smart since we're in all the AP classes that Hastings offers, but I pegged him as being terminally shy. Then he got up and read Howl in the nude. He really got into it, too. He talked a lot during the discussion of the poem, also.

In my experience, guys would say anything until they're naked; when they're naked that was when they stop talking to you. Apparently it worked the other way 'round with Jake.

I was surprised that Mr. Larsen let the language slide. He put Greg Trumbull in detention for a week for calling someone a motherfucker. Then he spent half the class talking about cunts, balls, and getting fucked in the ass. Not what I expected.

Then we went back to recitals of lame poems about trees and true love. After three or four of these Greg Trumbull got up for his poem. I don't know whether football attracts assholes or if football turns guys into assholes -- my boyfriend John being the obvious exception that proved the rule. Greg must have figured at this point he could say anything, so he stood in front of the class and started to go into that old limerick "There once was a man from Nantucket/Whose dick was so long he could suck it." Mr. Larsen had him out of the classroom and on the way to the school office before he got out another line.

After class I walked with John and some of his friends to Civics class as usual. Linda Benton passed us. Guys followed her like she was leading a parade. I suppose a cheerleader on The Program was an event. They weren't just following her, either. Hands stroked across her breasts and ass as she went. Her nipples were all crinkled up and her face was flushed. Oh yeah, she was turned on. When she passed us John said "Looking good, Linda." She winked at him, the tart! And then John said "Okay, Reasonable Request time."

He reached out with both hands and lightly tweaked her nipples. She exhaled in surprise and he ran his hands down her torso until he reached her thighs. Then he slowly ran one finger from between her legs up her pussy and lightly over her clit.

I was just standing there watching my boyfriend finger this girl. At first I was so surprised I didn't know what to think. Okay, so it was The Program and this was the sort of thing that's supposed to happen. But he was my boyfriend. Then I noticed that I wasn't actually feeling jealous or mad; what I felt was turned on. I actually got wet. And John was really turned on. I hadn't seen him that hot in months.

Sex with John had always been good (not that I've had sex with anyone else), but I think we were mostly going through the motions for a while. Neither one of us had been horny and excited like that lately. Hmmmm... so John liked public sex - and apparently I did, too! That gave me a wicked idea. Maybe I could spice things up a bit. If only I had the guts to do it.

John's finger circled the edge of her labia and dipped in. It weaved in, out, then up at the top of her pussy and circled her clit. Linda put her hands on John's shoulders and whispered "Right there: faster, faster."

John obeyed and Linda closed her eyes. In a few moments her mouth opened in a silent "Oh" but instead of saying anything she shuddered and exhaled slowly. She opened her eyes and says "Thanks. You trained him well, Amy."

We hurried to get to our classes before the bell rang.

Jake

I'd been on The Program when I was a sophomore, so parading around naked wouldn't be too hard, right? There was, however, one thing that I wasn't prepared for. I was walking to Civics class when I walked through the intersections of A and B hallways. Turning the corner was my little sister Shelly and two of her friends. Shelly is two years younger than me so she was in middle school when I was in The Program the first time. Now, she was a sophomore. This, I wasn't prepared for.

But if I wasn't prepared to walk up to my little sister while buck naked and sporting an iron-hard woody, it was nothing compared to her reaction. She stopped dead in the middle of the hallway with a classic jaw-dropping look of astonishment.

"Hey, Shelly," I said with one-hundred-percent fake nonchalance.

"Jake?"

"Having a nice day, Shell?" I asked.

"Oh my god! Shelly," her friend Trish blurted, "is that your brother? He must be on The Program!"

Shelly and I simultaneously rolled our eyes at her amazing deduction.

"But you've already been in The Program!" Shelly said.

"Yep. Doesn't count," I replied.

"That's so completely unfair!" Shelly said. "Let's tell Mom. She'll rip that moron Handley a new asshole."

"No, Shell, let's just let this one go. I've done The Program before, it's not such a big deal."

"Well, I still think it sucks," Shelly said.

There was a pause. I didn't really feel like chatting with Shelly until I had clothes on and apparently she didn't either. So I walked on toward class. Shelly and her friends continued on behind me.

"Shelly," Trish whispered, not quite quietly enough to prevent me from hearing, "your brother is cute!"

"You've got to be kidding me. He's just my dorky older brother," Shelly said. "That's just repulsive."

"No, really," said her other friend, Joan.

"You know," Trish continued, "according to the rules of The Program, he has to do what we say. I wanna touch it."

"Eeewww!" was Shelly's reply.

I turned around. "You know, girls," I said, "when I took off my clothes this morning, it made me naked. It didn't make me deaf."

They gave an embarrassed giggle.

"I told you he was my geeky big brother." Shelly repeated.

"Stand still, Jake," Trish spoke up. "I want to touch it."

"Yeah," Joan chimed in. "Me too."

"Oh gross!" Shelly said.

I sighed. Joan and Trish walked up to me. Trish reached out and gingerly grabbed my dick.

"Come on!" Shelly insisted. "All right, he is an okay guy, but really, you just can't do this. He's my brother."

"Well, he's not our brother," Joan said.

Joan watched intently as Trish held my dick firmly. Shelly looked away.

"It's really warm," Trish commented.

"Let me see," said Joan. Trish let go and Joan took her place. Joan started stroking it up and down.

"How's this?" Joan asked.

"Well, it does feel nice," I said, "but it's going to take years of therapy for Shelly and me to get over this."

Joan giggled. "Well, she can just look away if it bothers her." She started pumping a little faster.

"You're going to make it squirt, you know," Trish said.

"I'm amazed you figured that out, Trish," Joan replied. Trish gave Joan a dark look and leaned forward to watch closer.

"Trish..." Joan warned.

"I've never seen this," Trish interrupted, "I want a good look."

"You're going to get more than just a good look," Joan said. The little minx jerked me even faster. "Don't tell me I didn't warn you."

That was all it took. I shot my load all over Trish; some went in her hair, some on her cheek, and quite a lot on her blouse.

I was gasping for breath after my orgasm while Joan and Shelly were rolling on the floor laughing.

"We better clean up," I told Trish. "There's a bathroom over there." Due to another stupid rule of The Program, participants had to use the bathrooms of the opposite sex. I took Trish's hand and walked her over to the bathroom.

Just before we got to the door, Trish looked at me and winked. Then she stuck her tongue out and licked a drop of my sperm off of her upper lip and gave me a sly smile.

I was floored. She'd taken me in completely!

The moment we were inside the bathroom, Trish wrapped her arms around me and gave me a deep, heated kiss with plenty of tongue. Then she grabbed some paper towels and quickly wiped me off. Then she started wiping herself.

"You should head off to class," Trish said, "At least one of us should be on time."

"Uh, okay," I said. "That was great. You fooled me completely. Thanks."

"Maybe you can return the favor sometime, Jake," she said coyly.

"I'd love to," I said. Then I walked off to Civics class shaking my head in wonder.

Mr. Conway, my Civics teacher, was a champion of The Program and, for that matter, all things politically correct. He didn't really teach. What he did was preach. When you combined his shallow mind, his desire to enforce conformity, and the general fluff of the Civics material in general, his class was a real ordeal. It wasn't hard to keep on his good side, though. All you had to do was repeat back whatever he said and never let on that you could think for yourself.

"Would you like some relief, Jake?" he asked.

"No thanks" I replied.

"Have you asked for relief yet today?"

"Not yet."

"Well, you should," he said. "That's the whole point of the program, you know: to explore your sexuality, learn to be comfortable with yourself, and open yourself to new experiences."

Oh no, he was on a roll now. Every time someone in The Program was in his class, Mr. Conway felt obligated to practically read The Program pamphlet to us. He had this whole shpiel. I must have heard it five times already that year. It started with him telling us how lucky we were.

"You know, you kids are really lucky that our society has opened itself up," he said with the same predictability as the sun rising in the east. "That wasn't always the case. A decade ago, we were quite repressed. There were strong political movements trying to force the schools to compel students to pray, forbidding birth control or any knowledge of sexuality, and even banning teaching scientific theories that conflict with their religion. Those religious zealots were using public schools as a tool to convert kids to their religion and repressed view of sexuality."