Our heads list to the right. It curves like a torqued pink banana. We think he’s deformed; he says he beats his meat too much. How much is too much? We wonder. It’s sixth-period gym. Coach makes us shower. We’re bussed in from all over.
Conan’s sister’s two years older. In high school. We hear from the older sister of a friend that Conan’s sister’s into us. We’re a superfox: it’s the 80s. That’s how we find out Conan lives three streets away in a gray brick house with four Greek columns all peeling paint like they just got back from Florida. And that’s how we wind up in Conan’s backyard, back scraping the trunk of a hackberry tree, Conan’s sister scratching her name down our thigh—J E N N I F E R—with dirty pink nails.
Andy’s sister had a stroke when she was 14. Freaky, right? She’d probably have been Homecoming queen material or at least in the court, but now she limps a little, has a mullet. Her left arm dangles; her speech slurs like she’s drunk. Andy plays baseball and has muscles we all want. Andy smells like mildewed towels, has straight born-again teeth, smiles like he can save us.
We take Andy’s sister to the movies. Something PG. We spill our Coke in our lap, which should be embarrassing but doesn’t faze Andy’s sister. “All we gotta do is move. You’ll dry,” she slurs. “Sometimes life dumps a Coke in your lap.” She laughs, smiles with her brother’s teeth, and we almost see the light.
Ty has his dick out on the soccer field. Again. “If you had that monster in your pocket, you’d be pulling it out every chance you got too,” we joke, but we’re jealous. Flaccid and floppy from 200 yards away, it’s a righteous part of nature. Ty will be a porn star; we all know that. But then he might become a lawyer, or both. A porn star lawyer. Why not? With that monster, we agree, he can have anything he wants.
Ty’s sister is his twin. We call her Tyra, but her name is Sharon. She’s on the basketball team and helps numbnuts like us with their algebra homework. To be honest, we’ve never dated Tyra. We pretend we don’t know X from Y, but all we want is to smell Ty’s room.
Christopher Allen is the author of Conversations with S. Teri O’Type (a Satire). His work appears in Indiana Review, Night Train, SmokeLong Quarterly: the Best of the First Ten Years anthology and lots of other fine places. He lives somewhere in Europe and blogs at http://www.imustbeoff.com.