Chewing gum vigorously, Freda waved a nail file through the air, and swallowed hard. "Goddamn, after getting that sort of five-way screwing, it's a wonder you ever had good sense anymore."
Tuesday smiled. "Oh well, it wasn't so bad… After all, it gives a girl a kind of offbeat sense of distinction to have taken on a whole bunch of 'em at once."
"Yeah," Freda said, resuming her manicure. "I've been in on a few gang-bangs myself, but I only took 'em on one at a time."
"Afterward, I was sick as hell. They really didn't hurt me… not physically. But, shit, my conscience was killing me. You know, up until then, I had let that old lezzie gnaw on me, and I gave old Bobo pussy because I thought we were in love. But deep down inside of me, I still felt like fucking was wrong."
"You must have tried to kill yourself… jump in a lake or something."
"Naw, I didn't jump in a lake," Tuesday said. "After that, I was a long time feeling right. But
everything I tried fucked up."
"Like what?"
"Well, I went to see the principal of our school.
You know the glasses-on-the-nose type of asshole?
I thought he was the kind of man who would help a girl in trouble."
Phineas Whitley was an educator, and if you happened to be assigned to his school.
Whitley was a curiously unattractive man from a physical standpoint. He was skinny and stooped and balding. He wore pince nez glasses perched on his too prominent nose, and his long, angular arms hung out of his too short sleeves. His trousers were never pressed, and there was clear evidence of his breakfast, or perhaps yesterday's lunch always present on his shirt front. He was particularly distinguished by his exceedingly long and dirty fingernails.
Mr. Whitley's detractors said he was a dirty, sodden incompetent son of a bitch who wasn't fit to shovel shit out of a pigpen with a decent pig watching. His defenders, anxious to let their own college degrees shine, said the man was traveling an esthetic plane far removed from the understanding of mere taxpayer.
Girls held him in awe because of his tender reading of such poetic giants as Robert Service. The guys said he was as queer as a three-dollar bill, and
nobody in his right mind would take a piss with old Phineas in the head. He would peer over those gooney glasses and try to steal a peek at any prick he could find dangling over a urinal. He was not known to have lapped up on any specific dick, but the graffiti in the washrooms proclaimed without reservation or apology that "Whitley sucks!"
Tuesday's mother, however, was above such knowledge. Sucking, to her, was something a babe might do at its mother's breast. She had never considered the possibility of taking a rigid cock down her own throat.
"Listen, Tuesday," she always said. "Mr. Whitley is a gentleman… gentle but strong… a man of God. Thanks be to God that he is there leading you. I know he isn't much to look at, but he is a man of great heart."
As the days lengthened into weeks after her encounter with Howard and his gang, gradually Tuesday came to consider the possibility that she might discuss her problem with Mr. Whitley.
But how to confess? Family, friends, and the pastor of her church were eliminated. None of them could understand. They would, she knew, judge rather than guide and direct.
Finally, after many sleepless nights while she battled with an almost overpowering desire to stroke the fuzzy surface of her cunt to arouse once again that precious feeling, she decided that she would take up her problem with Mr. Whitley. Gentle soul, patron of poets, lover, artists, psychologist, leader of people.
Seeing Mr. Whitley was no trouble. His office
door was, he said, always open to any troubled student.
"Ah, yes, Tuesday," Mr. Whitley said, picking his nose delicately with his little finger, and then carefully examining the product of his effort before flicking it accurately into the wastebasket "What can I do to help you?" He coughed a glop of mucus from his sinus and spit loudly into a piece of paper which he balled up and tossed, again with surprising accuracy, into the trash can.
"Mr. Whitley, you're gonna think I'm awful," she began…"
"Tut, tut!" he said, his myopic eyes wandering up her bare thighs and stealing a covert glance at the brief expanse of panties which he glimpsed as she crossed her legs. "I'm sure you have done nothing of any serious nature."
"But I have," she said, "and I'm just sick over it. I can't even sleep at night!"
He coughed and spat again into a piece of paper. Whatever he had managed to hawk up that time was of considerable interest as he held it sideways to get a better light on it, and thereby exposed it to Tuesday. She averted her eyes and felt a tightening in her throat. God, she prayed, don't let me be sick!
"Well, why don't you tell me about it?" he asked, after he had again hit the waste basket.
"I've done the very worst thing you can think of," she said, "…and, a… well, I did it with a guy!"
"Yes sir. You know I uh.. well I let some
guys… uh… well you know!"
He was seized by such a violent fit of coughing that his glasses fell off his nose, and when he finally brought up the offending matter, he rose from his seat and spat loudly and directly into the trash. "No," she asked, "I'm not certain I do know. Tell me more."
"We got naked," she said boldly, "and they did it to me."