But Charles’ struggles weren’t confined only to name-calling. For instance, practically every school day between one-thirty and two-thirty, he wished he was dead. This was because he sat right behind Suzanne Pomeroy in seventh-period English. She was hugely popular, a cheerleader, and of course, really cute.
Suzanne had sixth-period gym and always arrived at English out of breath at the last minute before the bell rang. As she naturally flounced into the room, her breasts invariably jiggled over the tops of the several books and binders she cradled close against her stomach. By the time she got to her desk, Charlie’s dick would already be halfway hard.
But the worst part for Charles was how she would stretch back in her seat before settling down. Wiggling in a half-dozen places all at the same time, she would reach her hands up to her head. As she casually, carelessly, fluffed her just cleaned and blown dry Swedish-blonde hair, her strawberry-scented shampoo would grab his nose. His throat would get tight while his jeans got even tighter.
Charlie was sure that Suzanne Pomeroy didn’t know she was torturing him. She was one of the few students who wasn’t outright mean to him. She’d smile at him, and even speak first sometimes, if they met in the halls. Not that that meant anything could ever happen with her for him.
Suzanne, or Suzie as she was known to all her friends, was also eighteen and almost exactly six months younger than Charlie. But though she was a Senior, she was re-taking Junior English because had she flunked it. All her Junior-year grades were generally poor and, in order for her to continue being a cheerleader, she also had had to specially petition the School District. That had gone well for her because, luckily, her father had saved the Superintendent five thousand dollars by extracting his wife’s diamond ring undamaged from their home disposal unit. The State’s academic requirements for a diploma, however, remained sacrosanct.
Thus, five days a week Charlie sat behind Suzie with his legs crossed while he wished his boner would miraculously shrink. He also worried that her boyfriend, Butch Carlson, who sat in the desk right beside him, would notice the growth in his lap and pound the shit out of him. Certainly the teacher, Old Lady Krautheimer, who was going to retire at the end of the year, would be unable to stop such an assault. There was no way that she’d risk her pension or health tangling with a three-letter jock who had led the Rough Riders to five State Championships in football, basketball and baseball over the last two years.
On Friday, May eleventh, Charlie was in his typical fix when the bell rang to dismiss seventh period. As the rest of the class piled out of the door like a fire alarm was going off, he sat afraid to move while he mentally tried to relax his petrified prick into flaccidity. Having suffered fifty minutes of agonizing pressure, his balls hurt, his stomach churned and his neck was hot. Suddenly Mrs. Krautheimer was standing immediately beside him, jostling his shoulder and asking, “Did I just catch you napping in my class, Charles Womack?”
Without waiting for an answer, the teacher hypothesized, “Maybe you were you merely lost in thought about what to get your mother for Mothers’ Day on Sunday. If you need help, I can tell you that I used to love See’s Candies. My children are long gone and I’m lucky to get a card from them now, but I do like to treat myself to California Brittle or a Scotch Mallow every now and then.” She shook her head, came out of her fog and concluded, “Get to your next class, now. I’ll see you Monday.”
Charlie flushed as he slid from his desk and hid his recovering crotch with his notebook while he replied, “Thanks, Mrs. Krautheimer. That’s a great tip.” He was angry with himself for noticing the short plump teacher’s nipples poking out fat and sassy against her cotton print dress. He was even more angry that the sight stirred his joint again, just when it had begun to soften to a manageable size. Stumbling past the sixty-four-year-old widow, he hustled out the door.
Charles’s eighth-period was a scheduled Study Hall in the library. Since Mr. Abernathy, the gay librarian, never took attendance, and didn’t actually care if the students skipped out, tardiness didn’t much matter. Charlie looked at his bulging Wranglers’ fly and ducked into the boys’ lavatory to adjust himself. When he came out, he felt a lot better, but decided it was too late to go to the library.
Looking carefully around for patrolling hall monitors, Charlie walked quickly down a side corridor and exited the building early. As he crossed the playing fields to the avenue behind the school, Clara Krautheimer turned to her sophomores and asked them to pass their homework essays forward for her to collect. At the same time, at the door to her eighth-period Social Studies class, Butch Carlson pinned Suzie Pomeroy against the wall lockers, gave her a quick kiss and reminded her, “I’ve got to get to ball practice. Pick you up at eight…” She nodded her agreement with hidden reluctance, then slid under his outstretched arm into the schoolroom.
While Charles Womack drove his twenty-year-old Mazda Protégé to the Quadrangle Mall to goof around, Suzanne Pomeroy sat angrily doodling in her notebook. “Who do you think you are, Butch Carlson!” She railed in her mind. “More to the point, what do you think I am? Your toy?” She liked kissing as much as any girl, but not in the school corridor and not against her will. They had only been dating for the month since Spring Break and the Junior-Senior Prom, but he had been acting increasingly possessive in the last couple of weeks.
What was both worse and more telling, was that Butch was putting more pressure on Suzie for more physical stuff on every date. It was becoming obvious to her that while he was chronologically eighteen, he was emotionally thirteen and interested in only one thing. She was glad that at least she had never let him get to second base, let alone go all the way. Gritting her teeth, she silently raged at him, “You may be a rich lawyer’s kid while I’m just a poor plumber’s daughter, but I deserve respect!”
Suddenly her pencil-point snapped and Suzanne looked up guiltily to see if anyone had noticed what seemed to her to be a very loud noise. Fortunately, the whole class, except for her, was paying attention to the substitute teacher who was droning on about Potsdam and Harry Truman. Returning to her inner soliloquy, she concluded, “You’re just a bully in a letterman’s sweater, Butch Carlson! I’ve had enough of your Corvette and your clumsy passes. Show up at my house at eight if you want to, but you won’t find me home!”