I wonder if there are others like me who prefer stories about real girls and young women, the kind men might have known in school or at work, dated, kissed, made love to, desired from afar, but always, either openly or secretly, were driven mainly by their own consuming sadistic yearning, their feeling that men were created, above all, to entertain us by bashing each other’s hairy selves into bloody pulps. Think of the cutest cheerleader at ringside for a bloody boxing match, her rapid breathing making her marvelous bosom heave up and down as she’s more and more turned on with every well-connected blow, possibly so far as hoping to get spattered with blood from the fighters. To me, they are the essence of girlhood.
Hi there, my name is Rita Goleta. You might remember me from a previous story. My preoccupation with the dark arts in sex struck me all of a sudden way back at age, oh, nine or ten. I remember one late afternoon lying on my bed reading about the Old West, how Indian warriors turned captives over to the women – the women! – whose job it was to torture the prisoners in the most inventive and horrible ways imaginable. I gasped at the way the women knew how to slice and peel the entire skin from live human beings, keeping them alive practically to the end of their operation. Before I knew it, I was humping the bed, at the same time wondering, is something wrong with me, am I screwed up in the head?
About the same time, I became a bad girl…bad, but not sorry, no way. I had nothing against the boys in my school, purely unapologetic enjoyment at making them suffer. One victim of mine stands out in memory. Clarence was the smartest kid in the whole school, and he knew it. He had curly hair and big round eyes and, I noticed, pencil-like arms and legs. One day the teacher in sixth grade asked a question and called on a kid named Bob. Bob answered nervously: “The Pythagorean theorem says the hippopotam-, uh, the hypotherma-, uh, I mean, uh, the hypotenuse…”
He almost had it, but Clarence bellowed out in his high-pitched nerdy voice with a smug, widespread grin on his face, “The Pythagorean theorem states that the square of the hypotenuse of a right triangle is the sum of the squares of the other two sides.”
By now, Clarence’s high-pitched voice was clanging like an old-time streetcar. “For example, if the lengths of the two sides at a right angle are 3 feet and 4 feet, the sum of their squares is 9 plus 16 equals 25, and the square root of 25 is 5, so the hypotenuse is 5 feet in length.”
Bob looked like he’d been run over, but Clarence no sooner finished with an even bigger grin of self-satisfaction on his face when Spud, the school’s renowned leader of a group of preteen troublemakers, an 11-year-old in leather who already looked like the Fonz on steroids, called across the room, “Hey, fruitboob, keep your fat mouth shut and let the other guy talk! We don’t like interrupters, and we’re gonna teach you some manners."
Bob looked confused, Clarence’s grin drooped into a gape, but he shook his curly hair as if to say, you can’t touch me because I’m better than you. Our wimpy teacher just said, “Now, now, boys.”
As for me, something came to life in my little virgin vagina. I caught Spud after class and said I could help, and here’s what we came up with. At that young age we didn’t date or go out or anything like that, but way at the back of the schoolyard there was a garden area for us to learn about growing carrots and boring stuff like that. In the corner was a toolshed, never locked, where sometimes a boy and a girl would sneak in and fool around, mostly petting and kissing.
A couple of days after the “hypotenuse” incident I grabbed Clarence by the arm and said, “You are so smart, I really admire a smart guy like you. Gee whiz, Clarence, how do you know all this stuff?”
Nerdy boy suddenly looked shy and, at the same time, all aglow at attention from a pretty girl, which I admit, I was. He half-looked my way like he was trying to think of something to say.
I continued, “Listen, Clarence, don’t you let those tough kids get to you, they’re not as tough as they think they are and they’re certainly nowhere smart as you.”
He shrugged and said, “Well, thanks, um, would you like to go to the rec room and play backgammon with me?”
“Oh, Clarence,” I said, "That’s too complicated for dopey little me.” I lowered my eyes and looked as bashful as I could. “Actually, I was wondering if you’d like to go over to the garden and look at the big cabbage plants or, you know, see what kind of tools are in the shed.”
Clarence knew exactly what I meant. He didn’t normally have a lisp or anything like that, but at this moment he was so overcome with eager anxiety, he said, “Yeth, yeth!”
He nearly fell over his own pencil legs as he traipsed after me. Remember, your Rita was only in sixth grade. I tried to walk with a little wriggle like I saw my mom do. What Clarence didn’t know, Spud and his buddies were waiting inside. As soon as we entered the shed, Spud’s dodo pals grabbed Clarence and dragged him inside. At the same time, Spud planted a slobbery kiss almost on my mouth, kind of disgusting but I cuddled up to him and smiled sweetly at Clarence and said, “Oh, Clarence, do tell us again, the piss-pith-something theorem."
Of course, he was in shock and said nothing. So Spud slipped around me and punched him in the stomach. “Come on, fruitboob, we wanna hear the theer-um.”
Oh wow, I was really in tee-hee mode! Clarence was now scared out of his wits, and tried to say the theorem thing. “The, the, the Pythagorean…” but he was holding his stomach and couldn’t continue.
“Tell you what,” Spud said, “we’re gonna slap your face until you say it, and when you do, we’re just gonna keep slapping, but maybe not as hard.” I thought someone had put a miniature taser between my legs.
Sure enough, Clarence began crying and spitting out what he’d said in class, and on every other word Spud and his right-hand chum, Fat Jess, took turns laying a slap on the class genius’s face. That was maybe my first of many experiences to come, and I was in little-girl seventh heaven!