Freak Show

A lot, apparently. He hit the stairs full gallop, full speed, talking a blue streak, forgetting to even take a breath, so that he just kept going and going and going until he ran out of air and wound down like a tin woodsman. Then, BIG GULP, and he was off and running again. He didn’t even notice my pretty new dress or the enormous conehead I was wearing.

He seemed genuinely upset. And this time, there was no good-natured undercurrent. No possibility of flirting.

“I’m sorry, Billy, I can’t just sit back and do nothing. I know you like Bib. Don’t bother to deny it. It’s obvious. People have been talking about it since the beginning of the year.”

“Flip, Flip. Whoa. What is this? Calm down. Look in my eyes. I PROMISE YOU, I DO NOT LIKE BIB. Why does this upset you so much? Why can you not accept that?”

“Come on. It’s so obvious. You sneak stares at him all through biology. I see you. We all do.”

Now THIS was the very definition of irony. Because when I look at Bib, I’m looking to see if HE caught me staring at FLIP! I spend the whole hour trying NOT to make puppy eyes at Flip, but when I do, I get paranoid that Bib’s noticed, so I have to quickly check HIM out!

There was more: “You were hanging ALL OVER HIM at lunch this week. It was disgusting. I was embarrassed for you. You HUGGED him the other day. What was THAT about?”

“I want Bib to like me because he’s YOUR FRIEND! I didn’t want your friendship with ME to be a strain on your friendship with HIM!”

It’s all just weird, plain and simple. There was absolutely no RATIONAL way to explain Flip’s behavior. He was acting like he was jealous of Bib! Like he felt threatened by him!

What the hell, right? When nothing makes sense, acting sensibly isn’t going to get you anywhere. So: DEEP BREATH.

“Work WHAT out, Flip? What don’t you get? It’s you! I’m always looking at YOU in biology! Not Bib.”

His eyes opened wide as he absorbed what he must have known all along. “But . . . but . . . in gym class . . .”

“An accident! Like I told you the first time! I can’t help that it was Bib’s ass in my face. It could have been anybody’s ass. Bernie’s. Mr. Reamer’s. I’m a freakin’ teenage boy! What do I care? Flip, it’s you. It’s you. It’s you. You are the only person I think about day and night. You gotta know that. It can’t be a surprise. It’s you. It’s ALWAYS you.”

He got all golly-eyed, “Wait. Wh-what?” he stammered. “Why are you saying this? You know I’m straight.”

He was walking back and forth now, shaking his head. “I don’t know,” he said. “This is wrong,” he said. “I’m straight,” he said, but with a little less conviction. He didn’t understand what was happening to him.

He paced around my room, and the words kept coming faster and louder. Over and over again he said he was lost; he was confused; he didn’t know what to do. This wasn’t supposed to happen.

Our heads moved slowly back together again. Closer, closer . . . His lips brushed against mine. Softly. Quickly.

As he slowly gave in to his feelings, his tongue did a slow pirouette around mine. He drew me closer, kissing me harder. I turned into Liquid Billy and slid down his throat—happy, happy, finally happy.

I danced in his mouth, dangled from his epiglottis, and did a delirious free fall into his stomach.

I bathed in his gastric juices, nibbled on his semi-digested food, and played tickle games with his intestines. There I was; I was inside him; I was a part of Flip now—small at first—timid, shy, unsure of a rhythm, but with each passing moment, I felt my confidence grow. I became fluid, buoyant, growing larger, like a balloon, filling up inside him, until I was just beneath his skin—and he was my shell. My skin. He was mine.

No, no, no. I pulled him close again and let my tongue trace the line of his lips—they were soft, juicy.

I kissed him harder, pushing him down, climbing on top of him. I didn’t care who we were anymore. I kissed him harder because I was happy, yes, finally truly happy. Who cares if the whole school hates me? Who cares if the WHOLE FUCKING STATE hates me? Flip Kelly was kissing me! I did it! I’m happy! And I deserve this moment.

I couldn’t help myself. I kissed his eyes, his nose, his cheeks. I opened my eyes and looked at the most gorgeous boy I’d ever seen.

Did I go too far, cross some invisible line? Had I forgotten myself and become overconfident? Like Oedipus Rex before me (or was it Vanilla Ice?), I was so caught up in my own satisfaction, I ignored the warning signs and various red flags.

“Hubris leads to nemesis,” my history teacher said the other day—whatever that means. It’s probably Latin for “Don’t molest straight boys.”

And while we were falling against walls and leaning on tables and rolling over couches . . .

Yes, just when he finally seemed fully committed, and all his doubts and misgivings were swept away in a great and glorious tide of homo-passion, that—

That’s when two hundred slack-jawed Yankees pointed and gasped and lunged for their cameras.

Within half a second, we were literally blinded by the explosion of flashes as the Jungle Queen sailed past.

Look! There was Flip, shirtless, his jeans around his ankles. And there I was, splayed out on a table, dress hiked up, bodice pushed down, in the unladylike process of licking his armpit.

Hoping against hope, I said, “Who cares?” and I lunged breathlessly back for more.

“Go away,” he cried. “Get away from me. I can’t do this. I can’t believe you . . . after I told you . . . And in front of all those people. . . .”

“No, Billy! I gotta go. I can’t. . . .” And he grabbed his shoes and searched for his shirt, and never finished the sentence, he was out the door so fast and taking the steps five at a time.

Oh my God! I’m having an aneurysm! Yes! And a stroke! . . . BRAIN . . . POPPING! . . . MELTING! . . . TURNING TO FOAM! . . . Everything’s going black. This is it. I’m dying.

And like every great woman of tragedy, I frantically followed him out the door, pointlessly screamed his name from the patio, and furiously ripped my dress off. Then I fell to my knees, looked up at the stars, and screamed, “WHYYYYY?” as he peeled away in a cloud of dust.