Deep Heat
by Adam Maxwell
Most days pass slowly. I sit and daydream them by, watching them float like a turd downstream. College doesn’t get much more exciting than that. If I can get away with it I leave my Ipod on, low volume just trundling along in the background, giving the day a soundtrack, a context. For most of September and October I watched her from the back
of the classroom.
I wanted her then, sat behind her just to inhale her perfume, her smell.
November the second it changed. I stayed at the back of the class but at the other side, the opposite corner. I asked her out. Her response was simple and to the point.
“Fuck’s sake.”
I could still hear her and her friend, talking like I wasn’t there. Not even pretending, just erased me from their life and talking, brains disengaged, lungs pushing air over vocal chords, tongues blowing in the wind.
“Smell my belt,” she said, her friend ducking and inhaling for the tiniest sliver of a second then…
“Eew, what’s that?” and they are back to their barrage of words.
“Cum.”
“No.”
“Yeah.”
“Eeew. Fucking eew.”
“Yeah.”
“No. Yours or his?”
A playful push then, “His – you daft cow!”
“Which one?”
“Hah! I don’t know.”
I turned up the Ipod. It stopped for a while. Until I was caught out, lecturer shouts, Ipod down, back to staring out the window. Back to the inanophone.
Finding out too much, how she just gets too fucking horny, how she just can’t get through a day without getting off, how she carries a vibrator in her bag. Of course it was too much of an opportunity to miss.
First period (no pun intended), my gloved hand swipes it. A quick visit to the men’s changing rooms and I find what I’m looking for. Deep Heat muscle rub.
Applied liberally with cotton buds and returned in time for dinner. I’m so excited I can’t even eat my sandwiches.
When the screaming starts you can hear it from the refectory.