The Schoolgirl themed party actually took place in an old Catholic school. 

Don’t ask my how that was set up or who organized it, but it was almost real enough to be creepy. We wore suits and ties, blue blazers, and tweed jackets; we wore Dockers and blue shirts, sweater vests and loafers.  A few of us even showed up in tracksuits looking more like Sue Sylvester than anyone else.

They showed up in knee socks, white shirts, plaid skirts, and Mary Janes.  We brought the rulers and they brought the cigarettes. Their sweaters were tight, their skirts were short, and their pigtails danced in the cool autumn wind like it was the first day of school.  In other words, we fetishized the shit out of each other.  

I kissed the first girl that called me Sir.  There was no way around it, and by the time I had left my hand print on her smooth tight ass she was begging to be punished.  

The second girl pushed and pulled, called me a pervert and slapped my face hard with each smirk. She quoted Sappho and Stein, and she struggled when I held her down.

At the end of the evening I kissed Ophelia.  She was in theater, had a smile that could drop a horse, and lips that could start a war.  Her thigh-highs were real, her skirt was scratchy, and every time I tried to kiss her she pushed me away with strong hands and a frown.

It wasn’t until I quoted Neruda, Bukowski, and Cohen, that she kissed me back, and by then it was over.  She tasted like cloves and her cunt was strong and awake.  She took me in like Hemingway and reminded me over and over again that she would never be mine.  

I came like the Red Sea.  I came like the snows of K2, and I came like the waves of Hokusai.  She called me mister, and I called her freshman and we drenched each other more times than we could count.

We came like Hamlet: awake, afraid, and perfectly unsure of everything.

Guy New York