Son, Apply Yourself

My name is Greg, and I grew up in a small town in Minnesota. My dad was an alcoholic housepainter, my mom did only what she had to, when the soaps weren’t on, and chain smoked. My grades were my responsibility, I’d be punished for failing, but getting a C was acceptable.

When I was a thirteen-year-old I was a very introverted little boy that had discovered that petting the little man felt very good. I kept it under control as best I could.

Coach G: he had one of those unpronounceable names that was a mile long, was aware of my home life because of numerous absences and the fact that everyone in town knew my father, one way or another. He was always trying to encourage me in sports and academics, but I excelled at absolutely nothing and could have cared less. One day, almost at the end of the school year, he kept me after gym class and made me sit in his office. He had a heart-to-heart talk with me while going over my report card. “The bottom-line son, is that if you don’t apply yourself, you are going to end up just like your father. I take it that is not what you want to do. I suspect that you know the work, but just don’t give a shit, young man.” He emphasized this point by slamming his fist onto the top of his desk. “Now since we don’t have summer school in this district, and I can’t make you study this summer, I am going to offer for you to come over to my house, during July and August to be tutored by my daughter Peggy.” Coach G was shouting and glaring at me. I was about to cry; I knew I was red. “Of course, I must clear it with your parents but decide NOW. Yes or no Greg”.  Another fist slam and a picture fell toward me. I grabbed it and held the picture of an angel. Looking at the picture I stuttered a weak, “Yes Coach.” He reached for the picture and snatched it out of my hands. “Thanks”, he said “Great reaction time.”

She is the first girl I have said more than “Hello” to. Sometimes Angels wear tube tops and shorts. Sometimes Angels wear frilly dresses. Sometimes Angels wear painted on jeans, cowboy boots and transparent blouses. Sometimes an Angel invites me to swim in her pool. She is wearing a lemon yellow one piece. Her dark tan is like an ad for “Coppertone” she is perfect. She bumps into me a few times in the pool. I am petrified of Coach G or Mrs. G spotting my member sticking out like a baseball bat. Oh my God it touched her thigh as she swam by. She knew it too, as she came up smiling. Coach said everyone out of the pool, time to eat. I made it out of the pool and into the changing room without detection. Fifteen years old and…and…and it happened. Petting the little man got to feeling better and better, and better. I did not stop and had what I now know was an orgasm with Peggy just a few feet away in the other room getting naked. Can’t concentrate at supper, super hard nipples sticking through her blouse.

I applied myself with the help of Coach G. I rode home that night so high I don’t think the bike tires ever touched the asphalt. I applied myself to my school studies as well as drinking in the sexual essence of an angel named Peggy.

Labor Day, A party at coach G’s, deep depression and foreboding. My Peggy was not there. Already at the university. My Peggy was not mine any longer. In someone else’s arms I am sure of it. Cold, cruel north wind sucks the joy from my heart. I thank Mrs. G, and coach profusely. A glimmer of hope. Peggy will be home for Christmas break. Mrs. G tells me to make her proud and gives me a small, framed picture like the one that fell into my hands that day. I see her every night. I sleep with her pressed to my heart, Dream Weaver, make me a dream. Fantasy Island yes boss. A hundred orgasms to date.  

New school year, new problems. New English teacher, Miss. Victoria, A literal walking, talking Barbie doll. The thin white sweater clings to every perfectly placed ample curve. British accent and loves short plaid skirts. Spank the monkey! Daily at least once, sometimes twice. She is 23 Happy Birthday. I hang on to her every word and watch every move, every leg cross, every jiggle of her foot under the desk. Hope for a leg shot or panty peek. But I am denied. I dream that I am her pet as I excel in English and all other grades are trending upwards.

Surprise. Coach has given me a job after school. Janitor three hours a day making some real money. $1.85 an hour.

So after school I am sweeping, mopping halls, cleaning boys and girl’s rooms, teachers’ lounges and offices, emptying trashcans. I am entrusted with keys to many rooms and the tampon machines, which I must fill, and collect the money from, on Fridays.

Friday the Thirteenth, my lucky day. Location: ladies’ room in the teachers’ lounge. A two-commode affair. Mop bucket holding door open as required by the senior janitor when in girl spaces. Almost done, napkin box emptied, wax paper bag changed, nothing too gross this time. Toilet tissues are ok, as are the stock of paper towels. The sink and commodes have been sanitized. Tampon machine restocked and all the dimes retrieved. I am on my way out to get the mop. “Greg, get out of the way NOW.” A desperate sounding plea from Miss Victoria. She is digging franticly in her purse for something. I moved the mop bucket just in time. She trails her heavenly scent, passing inches from me. As the door slowly closes, I hear the unmistakable sound of the Tampax vending machine being actuated. It is loud. The dime hitting the empty container. The stall door, slamming shut. “Fuck me.” Then the sound of a massive girl pee, a pause, then the lid of the napkin box closing. Toilet flush and hand wash.

I was waiting just outside the door. Victoria apologized for interrupting me and smiled as she passed. My heart was racing, my cock was about to explode all by itself. I knew what I had to do.

I failed to put the mop bucket in the door, I opened the coin container of the tampon machine. 

There was her dime. I put it in my shirt pocket. It was her dime; it was mine now. I removed the waxed bag from the napkin container. With my foot insuring that the outer door was not going to open, I looked into the bag I was holding… I looked, I saw. The outer tube, read Tampax over and over. There was the wrapper. The insertion tube even had a few streaks of blood from her vagina. They were sitting on top of a pair of white satin panties with a deep red stain. I did what I had to do.

I applied myself all over that women’s room. Thank you, Coach.