Walani Pt II

Well, the big day was coming up! He’d have his cock cut off, and no more feel the orgasmic delights of ecstatic masturbatory bliss (etcetera, etcetera). Smooth flesh would crown his pubic mound where once his (insert favorite euphemism here, e.g. John Thomas, Love Rod, etc.) had happily rested…

With but one fairly major drawback.

There was absolutely No. Fucking. Way. His parents were going to let him to go to Walani on spring break even if he was eighteen.

They were the type of fairly nice, moderately conservative, once-hip now-very-dowdy couple who thought the height of vacational bliss was a trip in the family 1985 station wagon singing show tunes (nothing wrong with show tunes, granted, but several days of Rogers and Hammerstein was enough to get on Julie Andrews’ nerves) and watching the Arizona landscape whiz by. “My, what an interesting rock formation,” his mother would enthuse as Brad and his sister tried to nap or surreptitiously play video games on a smuggled hand-held system. The wanton glamour associated with someplace like Walani would prompt severely disappointed glances and a suggestion he go spend some quality time with Grandma in West Virginia.

And not only that, but even if they had been inclined to allow him to go to Walani on spring break, they would not let him go alone. They had grudgingly admitted he could drive on the freeway, but only after much sighing and sunrise-sunset-reminiscent lamentations about ‘how quickly they grow up.’

There was only one thing for it…

Deception.

Brad arrived at Jenna’s house and tapped nervously on the large, hulking door.

There was a rustling within.

Eventually, Jenna emerged, dressed in her typical gothic ensemble complete with grade A sneer and grade B cigarette.

“Eh? Oh. Hi. Come in if you want, but Bertrand got lose, and he’s making a devil of a mess in the papers.”

Bertrand was a pet mouse. It had teeth like an asp’s.

“Thanks, Jenna.”

Brad slipped in the door, and leaned on the wall while she nudged enough accumulated detritus out of the way to close it again. Brad had many friends at school, most of whom were bought with smiles and vapid conversation. Well-muscled, bland young men had little difficulty in the socialization scene. But Jenna was unique - being dark, sarcastic, inclined to a 60-year-old-smoker’s hack at age 17, and almost definitely a lesbian.

Brad didn’t mention that, and Jenna didn’t mention what she’d suspected for the past year and a half – ever since that incident with the Russell Crowe poster (after which her sole comment had been “Really? Russell Crowe? No one has any taste any more. Go get yourself a fucking poster of Cary Grant.”) It was a pact of mutual silence and mutual understanding. Which more or less worked.

“Not that I’m not glad to see you, Brad. Really. But it’s before noon on a weekend. You know what that means: I should be in my bed, sleeping. So what do you want? Spill. I don’t have any pot.”

“I don’t smoke pot,” Brad protested, “I keep telling you that.”

“We all have our faults. Cigarette?”

“No!”

“Too bad; they’re good practice.” Jenna flipped open the pack and stuck a pale cylinder between her lips. Brad let the bad double entendre pass. “Now, fill in the following sentence. I have come here because I want:” She gestured a blank.

“To go to Walani over Spring break.”

“And you want me to pick you some swimming trunks?”

“And I want you to convince my parents it’s a good idea.”

“Oh.” Jenna leaned against the refrigerator and clucked her tongue against her front teeth around the cigarette. “Okay. And why is it a good idea?”

“You know how my parents are,” began Brad. He was a terrible bullshitter and he knew Jenna would see straight through his transparent attempt at lying. His only hope was he figured she would assume his lies were concealing information about his sexuality and not… well, not what they actually concealed. “They’re so protective. I want to get out. I’m going to college next year – state, probably, and I want a taste of life.” He grinned. “You know what they say about the college girls at Walani.”

Jenna snorted.

“Jenna, you know I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t really… if I didn’t… I don’t ask for favors often…” Brad let some of his sincerity show through. His beseeching slate grey eyes begged: please!

Even Jenna melted under such a gaze. “Look, you tell them we have a school … thing there. I don’t know. A thing. Tell them that. Debate tournament, model UN, performance of The King and I, whatever. And that I’m going too. They can come and double check with me, and I’ll make myself scarce during break, okay?”

“Thanks. They trust you.”

“I know.” Jenna shrugged; she was the sort of girl that parents generally clung to, if they could see past her defensive aura to the solidly dependable, formidable force that lurked beneath. “And you… just think about what you’re going to do there, okay? That stuff is fucking dangerous.”

“STDs?” babbled Brad. “I know enough not to pick up AIDS or some-“

“Pfft,” scoffed Jenna, stubbing out her cigarette on the floor near a pile of papers, leaving yet another small heap of ash on what had once been pure white linoleum. Someday, she’d make the house catch fire. “Friends are friends. You make your own choices. But just think. There are arteries and shit down there. And – hell –“ she shrugged. “Lots of guys have gone through it historically, granted, and been fine, but… I think most of ‘em took some convincing. The slavery/knife variety. I don’t know. Just think about it.”

Brad stood, staring, his jaw slack. “How…” he stammered.

Jenna rolled her eyes and sighed slightly. “It’s your choice of reading material, dear. Chinese eunuchs in the Imperial Palace – autobiographies of whatsisname Kuang Hsu, and the chick who smuggled in the pair of false eunuchs… Empress… Empress…”

“Wu.”

“Right. And the castrati in Europe and the harem guard shit and…” she shrugged. “You have a very specific library. And, uh, Walani has a reputation. I’m not exactly Miss Pristine, Chaste, Missionary Position either.”

“Erm,” said Brad, intelligently.

“You do what you want,” finished Jenna. “Just think about it, okay? I’ll go talk to your parents, and tell them about the trip to Walani and how much our team needs you to come along, etc., etc. and you go get your tickets. And if you change your mind –“ she spread her hands in an empty gesture of conciliation – “then the school trip can get cancelled later, is that cool?” Brad nodded gingerly. “Cool. I’ll be over later. Now, mind your step on the way out… Bertrand’s still hiding in here somewhere…”

Brad left.

The way to Walani was open.

And in a way it was a comfort to know that Jenna knew about his… fetishes… and was comfortable with them. It was nice to know that there was acceptance somewhere, even if it came from a nihilistic gothic lesbian. It was strangely hopeful.

One of the tourist guides had billed Walani as ‘the sort of place where dreams come true.’

Indeed.