By Runner
One crisp Wednesday in October--October 30th,to be precise--I was
asked to substitute for three days in a all-girls high school physical
education class. It didn't particularly matter that I didn't usually teach
P.E., and a job's a job, so I took the assignment.
Everything was going along fine until last period when the girls'
basketball team came out to the field where I was sitting at a table with
the roll book. Since I don't coach basketball, and in fact think the game
has gotten ridiculous (the players are taller than the hoops) I decided to
have the girls play tennis up the hill at the tennis center.
I hadn't looked up because I was busy with papers, but when I did look
up, I had to look WAY up because there wasn't a girl shorter than 6'2" on
the squad. They stood pressing around the table oozing adolescent pheromones
from every pore in their pubescent bodies. The air was getting thick with
feminiscence, and I was beginning to get dizzy and sweat my own hormones to
the point that every local bitch in heat in every neighborhood home began to
howl from their doghouses like lovesick coyotes.
And then there were the legs--long up to each sinewy neck, with muscles
that tensed and rippled sensuously with every step or turn, and they were
huddled around me checking their names by peering over the top my head and
pressing their thighs against my back, their globular breasts against my ear
and cheek, until I wanted to push them back, back, back and away...but...I
didn't.
When everyone was accounted for, I pointed to a box of tennis racquets
and balls, and told them to head up the hill to the tennis courts. I gave
these directions while still seated because in my condition it would not
have been prudent to stand up.
One of the tallest of the group, 6'5", asked, "Aren't you coming,
coach?"
"Not quite yet," I answered covering two facts at the same time.
"You girls go on ahead and I'll catch up to you."
I had a throbbing ache, and it will be no surprise to you that it was
not in my head. And there they went, thirty sensational young woman--sixty
deliciously tapered legs with thighs like tree trunks--thirty scissors
princesses, potential super scissors queens, and they were mine...in a
sense.
I couldn't stay where I was and I couldn't leave the table and I
couldn't think straight and I couldn't get the perfume of these blossoming
Amazons out of my nostrils, and I couldn't get out of my mind the marvelous
possibilities that these creatures presented.
I remembered the Serenity Prayer, something about asking God for the
serenity to accept the things I couldn't change, the courage to change the
things I could, and the wisdom to know the difference. The erection had gone
into a priapism which meant it was going to be a long afternoon and I would
just have to have the "serenity" to live with it. And I would have to have
the courage to stand up regardless of the consequences, and found the wisdom
to use my clipboard to the best advantage.
Off I went running along after them, my mind filled with thoughts of
strong constricting limbs girdling my entire body. And this was before I had
ever even heard of KanDor. I was rapidly turning to jello inside, and still
the legs, oh the legs, writhing along in front of me. The backs of the
thighs tensing and pushing and squeezing those legs, legs, legs into motion,
and I wanted them to be wrapped around me like a dozen boa constrictors
and...WHAM!
There was a flash of white hot light and an explosion inside my face as
though I'd been shot right between the eyes, and it would have served me
right if I had been, and I thought I saw a tablet with The Eleven
Commandments before me, the eleventh reading, "Thou shalt not fantasize
about under-aged girls!" And then everything began to spin and I felt myself
hit the ground.
After what seemed like a decade of fog, I began to hear a voice above
me--a sweet angelic voice. So this was it. I had been struck down in my
prime by a bolt of lightning straight from an angry, vengeful God (who had
probably never had a carnal thought in his whole existence--well, maybe
once), and here was an angel of death sent to take me to hell, directly to
hell, without passing GO and without collecting $200! And wouldn't you know
that the angel had legs, long, long legs that I knew had to go straight to
heaven (or to what most men consider heaven).
"Coach," the voice said. "Are you all right."
Now I knew that I'd been accepted to the Pearly Gates where
St. Peter (an appropriate name for the occasion) would give me a stern
lecture and have me fixed like a beagle so that I couldn't molest any
immature seraphs.
The haze lifted and standing over me in a kind of straddle where I
could just see up one leg of her gym shorts, was the tallest girl.
"Oh, Coach," she said sympthetically, "you're hurt!" And
she pointed to a kamikaze chin-up bar that had obviously leaped out from
behind the handball court and smote me down, the craven coward!
"Your face," the girl said, wincing more than I thought was
necessary for the situation.
I reached up and took hold of the bridge of my nose. It moved two
centimeters to the left and three centimeters to the right. I was spattered
with my own blood which blotted out the words "I'M WITH" on the front of my
shirt and left the words "THIS IDIOT." Naturally, the arrow pointing away
from me to the left was also blotted out.
I struggled to get to my feet and when I had accomplished this task the
entire world looked like it was on a diagonal. The diagonal tilted toward my
end of a see-saw and down I went hitting the ground hard.
"Coach," the tall girl said adamantly, "you mustn't get up!"
Once again I propped myself up on an elbow and tried to get vertical.
Suddenly, there was a hand pushing back on my shoulder.
"Coach, you need to stay down!"
I pulled myself up again and suddenly this terrific, irresistible force
crushed my chest. I felt as though someone had nailed me to the ground and
put a sack of concrete across my torso. When I looked up I realized that
the girl had pinned me down with her knees on my collar bones and shoulders,
her thighs clamping tightly around the sides of my face, her crotch pressing
on my chin, not a half inch from my mouth.
"This is for your own good, Coach," the girl said, leaning her face
down over mine while she pinned my hands with her own. "You might have a
skull fracture and if you try to get up you might die."
Looking into her eyes and feeling the press of her groin and thighs
against me, I decided that I didn't want to get up that badly after all.
But something failed to tell that to my legs which were
kicking in an effort to escape. Another Amazon came to my rescue by sitting
firmly on my pubis, right over what appeared to be a pillar of salt. The
bulge must have made her uncomfortable (or maybe too comfortable) because
she began rocking up and down and scooting back and forth and back and forth
over it for what I could only assume was better leverage. And so she kept
moving and moving and telling me that I mustn't move, and I really, REALLY
wanted to move, but realizing that this, of course, was for my own good I
did not argue.
In the distance, I could hear a familiar voice. It was Ms. Prissbody,
the principal. And there I lay apparently giving head to the tall girl while
the other one sat masturbating over my fly. It was then that I heard the
distinct sound of raging, swirling water, signifying that my 20 year
teaching career had just gone plunging down the toilet.
"Good work girls, "said Ms. Prissbody sternly, "We mustn't let him move
until the ambulance arrives." And with that she took a place between the
girls sitting on my abdomen, and I thought I heard a slight moan from deep
in her throat as she took her seat.
When the ambulance arrived, the women dismounted, the girl at my fly
giving me a loving squeeze along my zipper with her muscular hand.
Once in the ambulance, the attendant, naturally a woman, unzipped the
fly and prodded up what appeared to be The Leaning Tower of Runner (okay,
some guys have a "Directional" problem without having an "Erectional"
problem as well).
"Well," the female EMT said, squeezing the purple flesh like she was
trying to get toothpaste out of a tube, "It's a good thing we got here when
we did, this thing could have exploded any second. We have to get it
deflated immediately or gangrene could set in. I think mouth to mouth is in
order," but she didn't mean mouth to mouth and by the time we arrived at the
emergency room entrance the chances of an explosion had all but disappeared.
"Id case you didit notice," I said through bloodclots in my nostrils,
"Da probleb is wid by dose."
"Why so it is," she said as she grabbed the dislocated cartilage and
snapped it into place to the melodic strains of my screaming something like,
"Ju dub bitch! Whad da fug do you thing you doig?"
The doctor placed eight sutures in an upsidedown U into the broken skin
over the bridge of my nose to close the exterior wound, and used a coupon to
redeem three boxes of Johnson & Johnson's gauze pads to stem the bloodflow
from within.
Having found no sign of concussion or skull fracture, he permitted me
to return to school the next morning, where the students ignored the purple
upsidedown U of stitches as well as the black and blue racoon eyes that
remained with me for a week. They didn't ignore the carnage because of
disinterest, but because it was Halloween!
The following summer I found myself in the plastic surgeon's office
having an outpatient rhinoplasty to repair what was left of my damaged
proboscis. They gave me a sedative pill to relax me, then as I grew sleepy,
a towering, blonde nurse in a short nursing gown placed the anesthetic
needle into my arm and smiled seductively as the fluid made its way to the
conscious center of my brain. And as I began to yield to the narcotic effect
of the drug, my hand slid knowingly down the inside of the nurses thigh
where it was sandwiched between her long legs and squeezed with vigor. The
hand was asleep fifteen seconds before my brain.