Wednesday
01Feb2006
Community Cunt
Feb 1, 2006
She was the first girl I knew who used a sponge to apply foundation.
“What’s that you’re doing?”
“It’s a make-up sponge.”
“Like, to clean make-up off your face?”
“No, it helps smooth on foundation evenly.”
“Oh.”
She was the girl who taught me what ‘fingering’ means.
“He fingered you?”
“Yes! Can you believe it?”
“Like, he gave you the bird? Flipped you off?”
“No, he stuck is finger up my pussy.”
“Oh!” I flinched as the word pussy slid off her tongue as if slathered in the baby oil she was rubbing liberally on her bronzed legs.
She was the first girl I knew who took a razor to her bikini area.
“Look how smooth it is.” She said while thrusting her pelvis into my face.
“Um.. what exactly am I looking at here?”
“My bikini line! No razor burn, see!”
“You shave there? Why? I only shave to my knees.”
“Boys don’t like a hairy beaver.”
“Oh.” Beaver?
Hers were the first naked boobs I saw once we all began to develop tiny little mounds on our previously flat chests. Her tits frightened me with their ice cream cone shape and thick, pepperoni nipples. Triangles, I thought. Like upside down pyramids. Is that what boobs are supposed to look like, I wondered, attentively scrutinizing my own rapidly developing rack.
She was the kind of girl who whipped off her clothes without fear, changing in front of anyone who happened to be hanging out in her room. Me, other friends, her mother, even her little brother. It was kind of creepy. But I kept going to her house because exciting things always seemed to happen there.
Like me, she was a product of a broken home. Cracked. Right down the middle. Her parents had divorced long before I met her in the fifth grade. She lived with her mother and little brother in a modest home a few blocks away from my house. Her mom seemed to live at work, some sort of frozen foods company, so Jesse’s house was excellent for hanging out without parental interruption.
My house was mostly unsupervised as well. By adults, that is. My older brother Brandon ran his personalized version of the Third Reich, so it was hardly the ideal place to gather should one want to discuss the finer points of fingering or shaving beaverish bikini areas.
The ruler of Jesse’s house was a small poodle named Rusty. This mangy little critter with crusty eyes and epileptic fits was an old lady dog. The kind of rat dog that barks itself into apoplexy whenever the doorbell rings, has never socialized with other animals and has the run of the roost. I would routinely step in Rusty’s shit whenever visiting Jesse’s house.
“Jesse, Rusty made a mess here on the stairs.”
“Oh, just leave it.”
“Well, I kind stepped in it.”
“Just scrape it off. Come here, I want to show you this thing called a depilatory.”
Jesse’s mom Reba was a haggard, single mother that smoked incessantly. The spewings of her dirty habit coated the furniture, curtains and walls in a fine silt of solidified cigarette smoke. Reba spent most of her evenings haunting Salt Lake City bars, occasionally dragging home some mustachioed, old guy sporting cowboy boots and a bolero tie.
Reba’s sporadic appearances at home infused the air with tension thicker than the rotten skim milk in their refrigerator. Reba wasn’t mean, just harsh. Her liberal sprinkling of curse words into nearly every sentence frightened me. The bloody underpants she left soaking in a basin of cold water in the bathroom confused me. The spiral of smoke continuously swirling into the air around her head choked me. But she loved her children and that, coupled with a generous does of laziness, afforded them the opportunity to get away with more than any child has a right to.
Often I could hear Reba creaking around upstairs doing whatever it was she did up there in her dark, smokey bedroom in which a waterbed was the dominating feature.
“Jesse!” She’d screech down the stairs in a nasal and sandpaper voice similar to my favorite sitcom mom Roseanne. “Where are my curlers?”
“Under your sink!” Jesse would shout back.
Thirty minutes and a few cupboard bangs later we’d hear, “I’m leaving!” And that was the extent of my relationship with Reba.
Jesse was known for her shapely calves. They were freakishly big for such a small girl. Her muscles would swallow seductively with each step she took. The talkative calves drove the boys wild. So much so that Jesse was the first girl I knew to go all the way. All the time.
Jesse's storied sexuality traveled the halls of Orem Junior High faster than the geeks to computer class. One day a friend of mine asked me why I hung around with “C.C.”
“Who’s Cece?” I asked, confused.
Tammy lowered her voice to a stage whisper and hissed dramatically “Not Cece....C.C! It stands for Community Cunt!”
“That’s awful!” It was the first time I’d heard THE WORD and even though I didn’t know what it meant, it’s guttural sound assaulted my ears like an emphysemic, old man clearing his throat.
I nodded dramatically, as Tammy’s revelation seemed to warrant, pretending to know exactly what this cunt was that she was talking about.
After school I went directly home and interrogated the only person I was sure would know the definition of any and all derogatory words.
“Brandon, what’s a cunt?” My older brother nearly sprayed his Cap’n Crunch across the room.
“Why do you ask?” he snickered after swallowing.
“Because Jesse’s nickname at school is Community Cunt.” This time he snorted milk up the wrong pipe.
“Who calls her that?”
“Tammy said everybody. So what does it mean?”
“Cunt is another word for your unit. In fact," he added thoughfully, "it has a lot of the same letters”
“What unit?”
“He stared at me meaningfully, eyebrows raised.
“Oh. That.”
“So they’re saying Jesse gets around huh?”
“I guess so.”
“Does she?”
“I guess so. She talks about boys fingering her all the time. I know what fingering means though.” I leave him to finish his after school bowl of cereal in shocked crunching.
As we moved upward through the ranks of Junior High I quickly learned that although C.C. was a harsh nickname, Jesse certainly earned her community wide status. But it never bothered me. I’d sit on her waterbed and watch raptly as she curled her bleached hair, applied her foundation with a sponge and plucked stray hairs from her freshly shaved "beaver".
We never talked about her legendary status unless she was regaling me with tidbits from her latest sexual escapade. She always shared the stories as if they were as meaningless as sitting through a math class or watching a boring movie.
“So he pulled it out and it was crooked.”
“Crooked? What do you mean?”
“It curved.”
“Curved or bent?” My innocent mind required clarification for mental imagery purposes.
“Curved.” She paused thoughtfully then added “like a banana.”
“Have you ever seen a bent one?” I asked in awed tones.
Jesse gave it serious thought, unwound a straw colored lock of hair from the curling iron before answering.
“No. They’ve all been straight or curved. No bent ones. That would be weird, like it was broken or something.” She used a pointy comb to rat her bangs into a fine mist of hair, than sprayed the whole affair with a turquoise can of Aqua Net for a good thirty seconds.
“If it’s crooked does it hurt when it’s inside?” I asked after my coughing subsided. Jesse fanned the toxic fumes away from her face.
“Not really. It was kind of tricky getting it in at first, but it just took a little maneuvering.” She embellished the word 'maneuvering' with an odd little flourish of her hips. I was speechless as I considered the kind of pelvic work required to get a banana inside my vagina.
I was never sure if I believed Jesse's tales of promiscuity. They were certainly entertaining stories to hear about boys I knew, but often it almost seemed like she was making up most of what she claimed went on.
Then one day I caught her in action. In my basement. The downstairs of our home was finished; carpet, sheetrock, paint - but because my brothers all had rooms located in that region, the walls tended to resemble swiss cheese.
Gaping holes remained in sheet rock where angry punches had been thrown or Nintendo paddles had been launched after a particularly bad round of Super Mario Bros. I had bore witness to a few unlucky heads pushed through the crumbling wall as well.
Jesse and I were watching Cindy Lauper’s video for Girls Just Wanna Have Fun on M-TV while we waited for Days of Our Lives to start when Brandon and two friends clattered noisily in the front door. They'd just completed their usual afternoon of skateboarding on each and every sidewalk considered off limits to young hooligans like themselves and were in search of sustenance. Namely, cereal, that after school snack of champions.
A few minutes later the phone rang.
“Monica! It’s for you!” Brandon shouted from upstairs. I left Jesse watching Days of our Lives to take the call.
Brandon was, of course, eating cereal and chewing as loudly as possible in an effort to make my top secret conversation as miserable as humanly possible.
Once I hung up with my friend Lisa, who wanted to tell me that our friend Andy told her he like-liked me, I went back downstairs to begin watching our favorite soap opera.
But Beau and Hope were romancing each other to an empty couch. Jesse was nowhere to be found. I turned around to climb the stairs and noticed my brother’s friend Truman at the other end of the hallway. He was standing in Brandon’s bedroom, crouched strangely against the wall. His right eye was shoved up to a hole in the wall that Brandon’s room shared with Jordan and Shaun’s bedroom.
When Truman noticed me watching he began to laugh silently, hopping from foot to foot and beckoning me excitedly. Truman, always one for hijinks, was not to be trusted so I rambled suspiciously down the hall.
When I was within a foot of Truman he put his hands to his lips in a shushing gesture then guided my eye to one of the smaller holes in the sheet rock.
There, not three feet from me and directly at eye level were naked butt cheeks. I recognized the back of Brandon’s other friend Nate and pulled away from my first look at a naked ass I wasn’t related to in alarm.
I gawped at Truman, mouth working up and down like a fish, but he had already found himself another hole through which to view the action.
I put my eye back to the hole in confusion. There were Nate’s bum cheeks again. They were moving back and forth. The naked ass would launch toward me then just as quickly jerk back in the other direction. Toward me then away, toward me then away. It was on an away arc that I realized Jesse was kneeling in front of him.
“Oh!” I jerked my eye from the hole and scurried upstairs in embarrassment. I immediately called my friend Lisa and ran to her house to dissect what I had just observed.
“But why is it called a blow job if you’re sucking?” Lisa asked.
“I guess I can always ask Jesse. She’ll know.”
“What’s that you’re doing?”
“It’s a make-up sponge.”
“Like, to clean make-up off your face?”
“No, it helps smooth on foundation evenly.”
“Oh.”
She was the girl who taught me what ‘fingering’ means.
“He fingered you?”
“Yes! Can you believe it?”
“Like, he gave you the bird? Flipped you off?”
“No, he stuck is finger up my pussy.”
“Oh!” I flinched as the word pussy slid off her tongue as if slathered in the baby oil she was rubbing liberally on her bronzed legs.
She was the first girl I knew who took a razor to her bikini area.
“Look how smooth it is.” She said while thrusting her pelvis into my face.
“Um.. what exactly am I looking at here?”
“My bikini line! No razor burn, see!”
“You shave there? Why? I only shave to my knees.”
“Boys don’t like a hairy beaver.”
“Oh.” Beaver?
Hers were the first naked boobs I saw once we all began to develop tiny little mounds on our previously flat chests. Her tits frightened me with their ice cream cone shape and thick, pepperoni nipples. Triangles, I thought. Like upside down pyramids. Is that what boobs are supposed to look like, I wondered, attentively scrutinizing my own rapidly developing rack.
She was the kind of girl who whipped off her clothes without fear, changing in front of anyone who happened to be hanging out in her room. Me, other friends, her mother, even her little brother. It was kind of creepy. But I kept going to her house because exciting things always seemed to happen there.
Like me, she was a product of a broken home. Cracked. Right down the middle. Her parents had divorced long before I met her in the fifth grade. She lived with her mother and little brother in a modest home a few blocks away from my house. Her mom seemed to live at work, some sort of frozen foods company, so Jesse’s house was excellent for hanging out without parental interruption.
My house was mostly unsupervised as well. By adults, that is. My older brother Brandon ran his personalized version of the Third Reich, so it was hardly the ideal place to gather should one want to discuss the finer points of fingering or shaving beaverish bikini areas.
The ruler of Jesse’s house was a small poodle named Rusty. This mangy little critter with crusty eyes and epileptic fits was an old lady dog. The kind of rat dog that barks itself into apoplexy whenever the doorbell rings, has never socialized with other animals and has the run of the roost. I would routinely step in Rusty’s shit whenever visiting Jesse’s house.
“Jesse, Rusty made a mess here on the stairs.”
“Oh, just leave it.”
“Well, I kind stepped in it.”
“Just scrape it off. Come here, I want to show you this thing called a depilatory.”
Jesse’s mom Reba was a haggard, single mother that smoked incessantly. The spewings of her dirty habit coated the furniture, curtains and walls in a fine silt of solidified cigarette smoke. Reba spent most of her evenings haunting Salt Lake City bars, occasionally dragging home some mustachioed, old guy sporting cowboy boots and a bolero tie.
Reba’s sporadic appearances at home infused the air with tension thicker than the rotten skim milk in their refrigerator. Reba wasn’t mean, just harsh. Her liberal sprinkling of curse words into nearly every sentence frightened me. The bloody underpants she left soaking in a basin of cold water in the bathroom confused me. The spiral of smoke continuously swirling into the air around her head choked me. But she loved her children and that, coupled with a generous does of laziness, afforded them the opportunity to get away with more than any child has a right to.
Often I could hear Reba creaking around upstairs doing whatever it was she did up there in her dark, smokey bedroom in which a waterbed was the dominating feature.
“Jesse!” She’d screech down the stairs in a nasal and sandpaper voice similar to my favorite sitcom mom Roseanne. “Where are my curlers?”
“Under your sink!” Jesse would shout back.
Thirty minutes and a few cupboard bangs later we’d hear, “I’m leaving!” And that was the extent of my relationship with Reba.
Jesse was known for her shapely calves. They were freakishly big for such a small girl. Her muscles would swallow seductively with each step she took. The talkative calves drove the boys wild. So much so that Jesse was the first girl I knew to go all the way. All the time.
Jesse's storied sexuality traveled the halls of Orem Junior High faster than the geeks to computer class. One day a friend of mine asked me why I hung around with “C.C.”
“Who’s Cece?” I asked, confused.
Tammy lowered her voice to a stage whisper and hissed dramatically “Not Cece....C.C! It stands for Community Cunt!”
“That’s awful!” It was the first time I’d heard THE WORD and even though I didn’t know what it meant, it’s guttural sound assaulted my ears like an emphysemic, old man clearing his throat.
I nodded dramatically, as Tammy’s revelation seemed to warrant, pretending to know exactly what this cunt was that she was talking about.
After school I went directly home and interrogated the only person I was sure would know the definition of any and all derogatory words.
“Brandon, what’s a cunt?” My older brother nearly sprayed his Cap’n Crunch across the room.
“Why do you ask?” he snickered after swallowing.
“Because Jesse’s nickname at school is Community Cunt.” This time he snorted milk up the wrong pipe.
“Who calls her that?”
“Tammy said everybody. So what does it mean?”
“Cunt is another word for your unit. In fact," he added thoughfully, "it has a lot of the same letters”
“What unit?”
“He stared at me meaningfully, eyebrows raised.
“Oh. That.”
“So they’re saying Jesse gets around huh?”
“I guess so.”
“Does she?”
“I guess so. She talks about boys fingering her all the time. I know what fingering means though.” I leave him to finish his after school bowl of cereal in shocked crunching.
As we moved upward through the ranks of Junior High I quickly learned that although C.C. was a harsh nickname, Jesse certainly earned her community wide status. But it never bothered me. I’d sit on her waterbed and watch raptly as she curled her bleached hair, applied her foundation with a sponge and plucked stray hairs from her freshly shaved "beaver".
We never talked about her legendary status unless she was regaling me with tidbits from her latest sexual escapade. She always shared the stories as if they were as meaningless as sitting through a math class or watching a boring movie.
“So he pulled it out and it was crooked.”
“Crooked? What do you mean?”
“It curved.”
“Curved or bent?” My innocent mind required clarification for mental imagery purposes.
“Curved.” She paused thoughtfully then added “like a banana.”
“Have you ever seen a bent one?” I asked in awed tones.
Jesse gave it serious thought, unwound a straw colored lock of hair from the curling iron before answering.
“No. They’ve all been straight or curved. No bent ones. That would be weird, like it was broken or something.” She used a pointy comb to rat her bangs into a fine mist of hair, than sprayed the whole affair with a turquoise can of Aqua Net for a good thirty seconds.
“If it’s crooked does it hurt when it’s inside?” I asked after my coughing subsided. Jesse fanned the toxic fumes away from her face.
“Not really. It was kind of tricky getting it in at first, but it just took a little maneuvering.” She embellished the word 'maneuvering' with an odd little flourish of her hips. I was speechless as I considered the kind of pelvic work required to get a banana inside my vagina.
I was never sure if I believed Jesse's tales of promiscuity. They were certainly entertaining stories to hear about boys I knew, but often it almost seemed like she was making up most of what she claimed went on.
Then one day I caught her in action. In my basement. The downstairs of our home was finished; carpet, sheetrock, paint - but because my brothers all had rooms located in that region, the walls tended to resemble swiss cheese.
Gaping holes remained in sheet rock where angry punches had been thrown or Nintendo paddles had been launched after a particularly bad round of Super Mario Bros. I had bore witness to a few unlucky heads pushed through the crumbling wall as well.
Jesse and I were watching Cindy Lauper’s video for Girls Just Wanna Have Fun on M-TV while we waited for Days of Our Lives to start when Brandon and two friends clattered noisily in the front door. They'd just completed their usual afternoon of skateboarding on each and every sidewalk considered off limits to young hooligans like themselves and were in search of sustenance. Namely, cereal, that after school snack of champions.
A few minutes later the phone rang.
“Monica! It’s for you!” Brandon shouted from upstairs. I left Jesse watching Days of our Lives to take the call.
Brandon was, of course, eating cereal and chewing as loudly as possible in an effort to make my top secret conversation as miserable as humanly possible.
Once I hung up with my friend Lisa, who wanted to tell me that our friend Andy told her he like-liked me, I went back downstairs to begin watching our favorite soap opera.
But Beau and Hope were romancing each other to an empty couch. Jesse was nowhere to be found. I turned around to climb the stairs and noticed my brother’s friend Truman at the other end of the hallway. He was standing in Brandon’s bedroom, crouched strangely against the wall. His right eye was shoved up to a hole in the wall that Brandon’s room shared with Jordan and Shaun’s bedroom.
When Truman noticed me watching he began to laugh silently, hopping from foot to foot and beckoning me excitedly. Truman, always one for hijinks, was not to be trusted so I rambled suspiciously down the hall.
When I was within a foot of Truman he put his hands to his lips in a shushing gesture then guided my eye to one of the smaller holes in the sheet rock.
There, not three feet from me and directly at eye level were naked butt cheeks. I recognized the back of Brandon’s other friend Nate and pulled away from my first look at a naked ass I wasn’t related to in alarm.
I gawped at Truman, mouth working up and down like a fish, but he had already found himself another hole through which to view the action.
I put my eye back to the hole in confusion. There were Nate’s bum cheeks again. They were moving back and forth. The naked ass would launch toward me then just as quickly jerk back in the other direction. Toward me then away, toward me then away. It was on an away arc that I realized Jesse was kneeling in front of him.
“Oh!” I jerked my eye from the hole and scurried upstairs in embarrassment. I immediately called my friend Lisa and ran to her house to dissect what I had just observed.
“But why is it called a blow job if you’re sucking?” Lisa asked.
“I guess I can always ask Jesse. She’ll know.”