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Oct. 31st, 2001 07:24 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
judecorpHeart, Mind, Clitoris. The three steps to "winning" a girl, according to one David Marciniak, age 16. A certifiably foolproof plan to scoring the snatch; the direct 1-2-3 of securing the elusive high school valedictorian booty. The first was easy, he said, and since he was diligently working on the second, the third would soon be relegated to those things listed as "only a matter of time."
Heart. He was certain this was his, certain that the phone calls and the notes were indications of some deeper emotion so often professed in the halls of Mt. St. Charles Academy, but rarely truly meant. Dave, the guitar god, the Casanova of Catholic School, had scored. "Her heart was easy," he told a friend known for having less experience, less luck. "And I'm working on her mind now. It's not as difficult as you would think."
Mind, it would seem, involved nothing more than convincing her that he was not a complete and total asshole. This would prove to be a greater challenge than he could see past his own burly muscles and bad breath. Nice guys don't date little girls for the express purpose of a foot of height advantage and a hundred additional pounds. Nice guys use polite words to parents for reasons other than the fact that they're beating up their daughters. Mind knows that nice boys don't back girls into corners and lean over, lean over, lean over.
Clitoris. Fat fingers and clumsy hands. Endless searching in dark caverns behind bushes and trees. One hand occupied on shoulder, or hip, or waist. One hand seeking purchase in underclothes bearing mismatched days of the week. One large mouth, covering.
He pushed and pushed until he entered, those stubby sausages with gnarled fingernails, like jamming the too-fat straw in the shoddy plastic top of the McDonald's cup, tearing, demanding. Heart? Mind? Clitoris. Was there any doubt?
Heart. He was certain this was his, certain that the phone calls and the notes were indications of some deeper emotion so often professed in the halls of Mt. St. Charles Academy, but rarely truly meant. Dave, the guitar god, the Casanova of Catholic School, had scored. "Her heart was easy," he told a friend known for having less experience, less luck. "And I'm working on her mind now. It's not as difficult as you would think."
Mind, it would seem, involved nothing more than convincing her that he was not a complete and total asshole. This would prove to be a greater challenge than he could see past his own burly muscles and bad breath. Nice guys don't date little girls for the express purpose of a foot of height advantage and a hundred additional pounds. Nice guys use polite words to parents for reasons other than the fact that they're beating up their daughters. Mind knows that nice boys don't back girls into corners and lean over, lean over, lean over.
Clitoris. Fat fingers and clumsy hands. Endless searching in dark caverns behind bushes and trees. One hand occupied on shoulder, or hip, or waist. One hand seeking purchase in underclothes bearing mismatched days of the week. One large mouth, covering.
He pushed and pushed until he entered, those stubby sausages with gnarled fingernails, like jamming the too-fat straw in the shoddy plastic top of the McDonald's cup, tearing, demanding. Heart? Mind? Clitoris. Was there any doubt?
