It’s March of 2015. I’m graduating high school in a matter of weeks. I still don’t know where I’m going to college (or if I’m going to college), or where I’m going to be otherwise in the next six months. Zach, Timmy, Jordan, Amanda and I were at a senior event after school. The gym was filled with bubble blowers and a couple big speakers bumping ‘07 We the Kings and Timbaland. There were bouncy houses set up alongside buckets of apple juice, and a game of Twister was commencing under the bleachers. The popular girls were braiding each other’s fried platinum hair and taking pictures on their iPhone 4s’ in their cheetah-print mini skirts. Meanwhile, the five of us were stoned next to a pile of stale donuts from Mariano’s that the after-school tutoring program had left over.
There isn’t much fun to be had at a private Catholic high school (vomit), and everybody who went to my school made me want to choke, so I only stuck around for the people I could actually consider my friends. (Shout out to the real ones.)
Zach tapped me on the shoulder mid-thrust of the powdered sugar munchkin into my mouth and asked me if I wanted to walk around upstairs. I said “Hell yeah,” and swallowed the last of the donut, “let’s smoke your bowl in the teacher’s lounge.”
We snuck up the stairwell and rattled the lockers with our hands all the way down the hall. He asked me about the art project I had been working on at the time and asked if I would to show it to him in the studio. (It was a bust of Salvador Dali — and yes, I do hate myself.) I guess showing him a clay bust of a giant curling mustache must have really got him going because within seconds we were making out on top of the work tables (sorry, Mr. G). Something the art kids knew that the rest of the students didn’t was the hidden hallway behind the storage closet in the studio that led our school’s chapel a couple doors down — naturally, I wanted to show off, so I took him back there, guiding him with my hand in his. We pried open the door of the chapel and walked out into the room where the priests get ready and robe themselves or whatever. We broke into their wine stash. It wasn’t great. Too fruity.
Sitting in the pew, we were silent apart from our giggles every few minutes at the situation we put ourselves into. I got on top of him, and we kissed again. He grabbed my back with his hands and rubbed my nipples under my shirt, telling me we were so bad and how much he loved it. He asked if we should really do this. “Are we crazy?”
“Yes.”
“Do you want to?”
“Yes.”
He slid my panties off, and we fucked right in the pew of my lame-ass Catholic high school’s chapel — wet, hot, and hard.
Fuck you, God. I nutted on your holy chair.