|
Pete And My Peter By Nathan Graziano ____________________
Drain-O didn’t have any hair of his own;
he shaved it right down to the skin. Nevertheless, I allowed him to cut
mine. He shaved the sides and the back of my head with clippers,
leaving a bowl of hair on the top that hung down over the shaved portions
like a spider plant. I looked like the inverse of a balding man
painfully trying to maintain a ponytail. "Looks cool," Drain-O said, standing in
front of me and checking to be sure it was even. He had tattoos of flames
on both forearms and a spike impaled through his bottom lip. It was
impossible to determine his age. I estimated it to be somewhere between
20 and 65. I stood up and walked to the mirror on his
closet door. When I saw myself I bit down on my bottom lip to keep
from crying. It looked as if the top of my head had vomited. I
was half-tempted to ask Drain-O to just shave the rest of it. But I couldn’t. I
didn’t want to insult his work and have him pummel me into a thin pulp.
I wiped my eyes and turned around. "Looks,
um, great. Thanks, Drain-O," I said. "Not a problem. My pleasure,"
he
said. "Spread the word, anyone who wants a haircut can get in touch
with me. "I’ll do it for a bowl pack." "Thanks again," I said. "I think
my buddy Pete is coming up later." I left the room, leaving a bud on his desk
for payment. I didn’t bother to warn Pete. I didn’t want to suffer
alone.
After the haircut, I began a regimen of strict
masturbation. In order to make the act more realistic, I started
picking out imaginary girlfriends and would try to remain faithful to them. This
involved thinking exclusively about one girl while flogging the dolphin. Sometimes
when the thought of another woman would slip into my mind during one of my
self-sessions, a sense of guilt, dishonor and melancholy would follow my
climax. Again, I’d start to weep. I wept
often during this period of my life. I didn’t want to become the type of
man with a terrible haircut who cheated on his imaginary girlfriends. The
thought sickened me.
The one class that Pete did attend was a
biology lab, which we were both enrolled in. It wasn’t Pete’s genuine
desire to be around beakers and microscopes, glass slides and protective goggles
that motivated him to attend. Rather, it was my imaginary girlfriend.
Seeing I had never spoken a word to her and nothing short of the spider plant
catching fire on a Bunsen burner would’ve caught her attention, I never
learned her real name. But I called her Bella, after one of my favorite
porn stars. She was a small, slim girl with straight black hair, a
bronzed complexion and a tight, round ass. Her nose bore a tiny bump
along the bridge, a slight imperfection, which was juxtaposed with a luscious
set of natural DD breasts. They were completely disproportionate with her
tiny frame and looked like a burden to carry. But thankfully, for my
sake, she endured. Every Thursday morning Bella would proudly
display her delicious jugs in an array of tight tops and blouses. I
confided in Pete, who was equally enamored by Bella, that she had become my
imaginary girlfriend. And each Thursday morning after class and before
I went to lunch, I would run back to my dorm room and pleasure myself
thinking about her. My roommate had a class at that time, so he was
never there, and Bella and I were free to make torrid, sweaty love in the privacy
of my own mind. Afterwards, I would walk with Pete to the dining hall. It was a warm autumn morning when Bella’s red
tank top erected my first classroom hard-on since my sophomore year in high
school. Pete skipped class that day, and while I was supposed to be
examining at a cell that I scraped from the inside of my cheek, I kept
casting furtive glances at Bella’s breasts. For the next 80 minutes, I
tried to occupy my mind with thoughts about geriatric lovemaking to keep my
hard-on at bay. Once class ended, I sprinted back to my dorm
room. I had my pants around my knees and was in
mid-stroke by the time I hit the bed. I pictured Bella straddling
my hips, wearing a short black skirt, without panties. She slipped my cock
inside her soaked pussy, her thighs tensing as she pulled the red tank top
over her head and buried my face in her massive cleavage. I took a breast
in each hand and massaged her nipples between my thumbs and index fingers,
nibbling on them like a gerbil. She moaned sweetly as my cock pulsed inside
of her. “Yes, yes, yes, Ham. Suck on my
giant tits, tiger,” Bella whispered as her pace quickened and she worked towards
the type of life-altering orgasm that only I could give her. “I’m going
to come.” She arched her back and started rubbing her clit in
small quick circles. “Yes, yes. Right there. I’m going to…” "Lunch. Do you want to come?” The door
swung open. I had forgotten to lock it. Pete stood in the
doorway, his mouth open. My entire body convulsed. It was one of those
slow-motion moments where the mind tries to conceptualize the tragedy at
hand. I yelped and quickly tried to pull up my
pants. “OH MY GOD! I’M BEATING OFF!” I screamed. For
some reason, I felt the need to state the obvious. Pete chuckled and closed the door. I lay
on my back, covering my eyes with my arm. At this point, I realized it
would be nearly impossible to finish. I ended up giving myself a case
of blue balls. There I was a 19-year old with a bad haircut, no sex
life, an imaginary girlfriend and a case of self-inflicted blue balls. On
top of that, I’d have to find Pete and face the impending humiliation. It
seemed like a reasonable time to kill myself. But I didn’t. Instead, I zipped up
my pants, grabbed my hat and walked down the hallway to Pete’s room. I
knocked on the door. “Come in,” Pete said. He was lying
on his bed, thumbing through a magazine. I walked in with my head down. “It was
Bella,” I said. “She wore a red tank top. I forgot to lock
the door.” Pete laughed. “Don’t sweat it,
Ham. These things happen. My mother caught me whacking my Willy
once.” “Really? What happened?” “It was a Saturday morning and I thought
everyone was asleep. I thought it was safe.” “That’s horrible, Pete.” “Yeah, I had thrown off the covers and
everything. I was butt naked on my bed, beating it like a redheaded
stepchild when my mother walked in my room to get my laundry. I was
just about to shoot. Man, it was a bad scene.” “Did you blow your wad?” For some reason, I
needed to know. Pete slowly shook his head. “Not really. A
little dribbled out. But most of it stayed bottled up,” he said. “I
heard somewhere that you can get prostrate cancer that way.” “Yeah. You really should get in the
habit of finishing once you start,” I said. “Want to go get some food? It’s
the baked macaroni and cheese today,” Pete said, grabbing his coat off
the back of his desk chair. “Sounds good.” That day we saw Bella at the dining hall, and
Pete was able to witness the red tank top for himself. After lunch
I went back to my room and locked the door. I didn’t want to get
prostrate cancer. ____________________ Nathan Graziano is married, but currently dating the Bush twins. Jenna likes
to call him her little "snuggle bear." His first book of short
fiction Frostbite was published in 2002 by Green Bean Press. Being
a man of sound ethics, he continually attempted to move the book in Barnes and
Noble from the fiction shelf onto the Oprah's Book Club shelf when nobody was
looking. Whether that helped sales or not is still undetermined. He's
the author of Not So Profound, a collection of new and selected
poems, and five chapbooks. His latest offering is a collaborative chapbook
of short fiction with his friend Daniel Crocker called Chickenshits. Nude
photos of the author in compromising positions as well as more information about him
and his books can be found on his website |
(c) Defenestration Magazine, 2004