#Atta Boy
5 girls huddle in the corner of the school yard: a five pointed star becomes a circle, leaning in, warm breath mingling with a high note of sweet, pubescent sweat. Limb tingle; no boys; don’t get caught; let me see. Neckline stretch, shoulder strap drop; vest tops roll up fumble to reveal a puff of nipple, the swell and stretch of new formed breasts, pink scarred criss cross skin rising like the green burial mounds on the the way to Egerdon Hill. Steals my breath, how different they are. Like our hand prints in nursery: every shade of pink and red and brown, strange pimples and dimples and flesh feel look and size. Drop our tops and bend with laughter; flick our hair and lick our lips like the girls on TV, stick out our chests and catwalk to the centre of the playground, drunk. On what? – on something – we don’t know yet but it’s coming –
#lisadavies#bryonysmith#GuðjónsdóttirHafdís#IngaHelgudóttir#sarahscott#lucyanderson#angelinafowler#GuðrúnHelga#Sigurðardóttir#GuðrúnLínberg#sarahbrant#niralpanjali#charleneyi#alyssamilano#reesewitherspoon#americaferrara#mollyringwald#jenniferlawrence#gwynethpaltrow#mirasevino#heathergraham#ashleyjudd#tanushreedutta#Edda Ýr Garðarsdóttir
8 of you, crammed into the PE shed with the blue plastic throwing hoops, balls and sacks and goals. 5 girls, 3 boys. Look, don’t look, yuk and yes and no way, hot blood to your face, rising like panic when the shed door closes behind you. Musty, earthy mushroom shed smells and a whiff of acid yellow piss. The taste of metal in my mouth. The raw red ooze of Scott’s eczema, asthma wheezing, like air from a tyre, as he unzips his pants. Half soft, half hard, it emerges amongst sparse hairs. He spreads and bends his legs and thrusts it around, yeahhhh. The girls squeal and jump back: don’t get tagged. I stumble and hit my head on a shelf, still rubbing the sore spot when the bell goes. Stumble fall from the shed; scatter like roaches, all running in different directions for the same classroom.
In 2017, #metoo began spreading virally as a hashtag movement when the American actress Alyssa Milano posted on Twitter, “If all the women who have been sexually harassed or assaulted wrote ‘Me too.’ as a status, we might give people a sense of the magnitude of the problem.”
If you want to smoke weed you have to buy weed. You are 17 and you were brought up as a fundamental Christian. You left home 4 weeks ago with 3 bin bags and the devil in your back pocket. You have lived 7 lifetimes since then, one for each head of the beast in Revelations. You had your first snog 24 hours in and lost your virginity the next day. You became a hardened smoker on day 5; tried your first joint on the same day, and rolled for your first, loose, sleeping bag joint later the same night. Your dropped acid in week 2 and snorted coke with a rolled up bank note on a Sunday morning in week three.You spent a decade passing as a Christian and you left home because you knew you weren’t really a Christian. Now you are passing as something else: something more fun, something harder and wilder and sexier and dangerous.
Milano’s #metoo post had been used more than 200,000 times by the end of its first day online and tweeted more than 500,000 times by the end of the following day. On Facebook, the hashtag was used by more than 4.7 million people in 12 million posts during the first 24 hours.
The preacher says your body belongs to God.
There are three men in the lounge, in varying states of disintegration, surrounded by foil packets and Rizla papers. The air is tobacco smog. No one here has ever been to church. You are sure, at least, of that. What are you supposed to do here? You, who was brought up wearing Laura Ashley and Lily of the Valley. Is it rude to just ask for a sixteenth of blow, or should you sit down and talk first? Simon, the dealer, gestures at an empty chair; a benevolent king. You fall into the chair and watch him make a joint. He does not make eye contact with you. The four men laugh at nothing. There is music coming from a corner. There are 3 empty cigarette packets on the floor.
By December of 2019, #metoo had been used more than 19 million times on Twitter alone: that’s a little over 55,000 uses of the hashtag per day. #metoo began to be described as “an international movement for justice for marginalised people in marginalised communities.”
When the dog comes in you are relieved. He comes straight to you, his tail wagging. You share some of the joint, careful not to take too many, or too few, tokes. The dog puts his head on your knee and looks up at you with kind, brown eyes. It is comforting. You look back at him, right into his eyes, as you stroke his head and ears. He is silky. It feels nice, comforting. The dog loves you. You love the dog. Your breathing slows and you think that maybe everything is going to be ok. Not just this, like, everything. Maybe ten minutes pass like this. You pluck up the courage to ask for a teenth. Simon goes to get his weigh scales as you search your pockets for the money, still stroking the dogs ears with your free hand.
Simon passes you your cling film wrapped teenth and you pass him seven pounds. His eyes travel down your legs and then his mouth opens and he begins to laugh. The 3 men in the room follow his eyes and they start to laugh too. The dog chooses this moment to mount your lap. You push him back down but he is strong. He licks your face and a blob of his saliva feels wet on your top lip. You look down too and see the dog’s cock, hard and pink, leaving a trail of slime on your ripped tights. You stand up and the dog jumps up too, rubbing his dick on your leg. The four men are still laughing and laughing, their mouths gape. You mutter ‘thanks, for the teenth,’ as you pull your leg away. The dog follows you out into the hall. Simon’s voice, still laughing, behind you, says, ‘Atta boy.’
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He creeps into your room at night, tells you you are pretty and you like that, kind smiles, special girl, waiting in the blanket dark for him to come and stroke the hair back from your face, gentle, little peck kisses on your mouth, feathers, secret, first love, you will marry him one day.
The sick strange of it now though – you don’t want to touch it but he puts the lotion, squirt, into the palm of your hand and curls your hand around it with his own. Up and down, your hand, his hand. Panting, it curves, too big for your small hands. Feel the middle of you fly up, and out of the top of your head, to a place else. Maybe the wardrobe where you sat once to wait for your brother to come in so you could ambush him, when the world wasn’t this upside down place. Your belly hurts, you try to stay out of it, what is happening here, you don’t know what it is, but you don’t want it. Your mouth stays shut tight.
#lisadavies#bryonysmith#GuðjónsdóttirHafdís#IngaHelgudóttir#sarahscott#lucyanderson#angelinafowler#GuðrúnHelga#Sigurðardóttir#GuðrúnLínberg#sarahbrant#niralpanjali#charleneyi#alyssamilano#reesewitherspoon#americaferrara#mollyringwald#jenniferlawrence#gwynethpaltrow#mirasevino#heathergraham#ashleyjudd#tanushreedutta#Edda Ýr Garðarsdóttir