Sherrie

It was a time before special ed; else Sherrie would have never been in our class.  There was one class for all-none for gifted students-none for slow learners.  Had those alternatives existed, it might still have been difficult to place Sherrie.  She was gifted-as we came to find out years later-but not in learning; there, she was a non starter.  I doubt Sherrie-during the five years I spent in class with her-ever learned anything.  Searching my memory of those years, I can remember hearing her speak only one word, but-that one word-I'll never forget.  Neither would my brother.

When I entered school-just as there was no special ed-there was no real kindergarten.  Instead, some of us were placed in a special class.  While in that class, I loved school.  I liked the teacher; she smiled a lot; but that class was used to identify which students were ready for the first grade and which should remain in the class for a year to prepare them for the first grade.  They decided I was ready for the first grade.  I was.  I just wasn't ready for Miss Clark, my first grade teacher.

I remember my aunt saying, upon hearing that I was in Miss Clark's class, "Oh, how nice.  Miss Clark is such a good teacher."

She had the adults fooled.  Apparently, no one never asked her students for their opinion.  They could have modeled the wicked witch in the Wizard of Oz after Miss Clark, except that she would have been too frightening for the children seeing the movie.  An old maid with gray hair, she was any child's nightmare.  She was mine-that's for sure.  I was a confident, happy kid, before the first grade.  By the second, I was a shy, introverted kid, who shit in his pants.  If there's a special hell for teachers who torment their first grade students under the guise of teaching them, she must be in it-and, I hope there is such a hell.

I remember Miss Clark yelling at Sherrie once.  She probably did more than once, but I was more concerned-at the time-with her yelling at me.  She hit me on the hand once with a ruler because I couldn't read a particular word.  I guess-in a way-it was effective.  I remember to this day what word it was-"white."  Once I peed all over the floor because I was too afraid to ask to go to the restroom.  I thought at the time, "If I just let a little of it out, it won't hurt so much."  Once it started, though, it wouldn't stop.  I soaked my jeans and puddled the floor.  If Miss Clark had such an effect upon me-actually a pretty smart kid-I can only imagine what effect she had upon Sherrie.

As I've indicated, Sherrie wasn't smart.  I guess she wasn't placed in the class for an additional year of preparation for the first grade because it wouldn't have done any good.  After five years of preparation, she still wouldn't have been ready.  I don't know why she was in school at all.  Maybe there was a law that she had to attend.  Maybe her mother sent her to school just to be rid of her for the day.  She was never kept back, though.  She was passed-along with the rest of us-from grade to grade.  She was in my class from the first to the fifth grade.

She was ugly, too-fat, covered with sores-had a porcine face with little pig eyes to match.  She always sat in the back of the room.  In my memory, she's always sitting alone-her desk in a row by itself.  That might not be accurate.  It doesn't seem reasonable that it should be, but, that's how I remember her-sitting there in a thin pink dress which was hiked far enough up on her fat legs that her panties were exposed.

We teased her, of course.  We were just like other kids-cruel little beasts who pick on anyone who's different. She never told us to stop.  As I said before, I only remember hearing her speak once in the five years that I knew her.  I don't even think that she cried, but I knew she didn't like it.  A change came over her face-like she'd been robbed of her last chance at happiness.  Of  course, it didn't stop us.  We only stopped when we became bored with it.

My brother, Jerry, who is a year older than I, wasn't in my class during the first four grades, but, when he was in the fifth grade, he contracted rheumatic fever.  He missed the whole year of school; he almost died.  It damaged his heart.  I used to put my ear to his chest to listen to his heart beat.  It went, "thump...shhh...thump...shhh..."  I could hear the blood leak through the valve that didn't close as it should.  Of course, I teased him, saying that he had romantic fever, not rheumatic fever.  I probably actually thought that was what it was called-the first few times I heard it.

His illness kind of evened things out between us.  A year old-bigger and stronger-he'd always picked on me as older brothers are wont to do.  I caught up with him during the year he was sick.  I think his body was trying so hard to stay alive that it didn't have enough energy left to grow.

I guess I could have turned tables-picked on him as he had on me.  I was as big as he-and stronger.  I didn't, though.  We'd almost lost him.  Of course, my mom was protective of him.  She gave me hell, even when we wrestled in fun, but I felt protective of him, too.  It was as if he were my little brother-one I had to watch out for.  I did feel responsible for him-tried to watch out for him.  I guess that's why I feel so guilty about what happened.

Of course, he would have been pissed to think that his little brother was trying to protect him.  Damaged heart or not, he was the older brother.  I guess he wouldn't have listened to me-even if I'd said something at the time.

Sick or not-growing or not-he went through puberty on schedule.  We both hit puberty at eleven, but, since he was a year older, he reached it a year earlier than I-during that year he was sick, although he might have been too sick to notice its onslaught.

By the time he was twelve-about the time I reached puberty-his hormones were raging.  He wouldn't leave his cock alone.  I doubt that he ever went a day without jacking off at least once.  Usually it was two or three.  He introduced me to it.  Because of him, I knew how to beat off, even before my balls had matured enough for me to shoot.  I liked it-and did it most days-but, I didn't seem to need to do it as much as he.  Maybe my hormones weren't raging yet.  Maybe they wouldn't be for another year.  Maybe that's what saved me-that or that one word-the only word I ever heard Sherrie say.

Behind the school, which was on a hill, there were some bushes-planted in two rows-between the school yard and the street which ran behind the school.  They had grown so that they overlapped and their tops were interlaced, forming an almost impenetrable tunnel, which hid us from the prying eyes of teachers.  We played in there all the time.

I don't remember how we convinced Sherrie to go in there with us.  It'd been Jerry's idea, of course.  He was always the instigator.  I don't know how many times he got my ass in a sling-whether at school or at home-with one of his schemes, but he'd talked us into it-Robert, Terry, and me.  "Let's fuck Sherrie," he'd said.

Now, you've read my description of Sherrie.  She hadn't improved any since the first grade.  If anything, she was uglier-if for no other reason than that there was more of her.  Like the rest of us, she'd grown.  "How," you might ask, "could you want to fuck someone like that?"

We were kids-boys.  None of us had sisters.  I doubt that any of us had ever seen a pussy.   I sure as hell hadn't.  It was a mystery to us-a magical thing-able-in our imaginations-to transport us to paradise.  Yeah, we would have preferred to have access to Mary George's pussy, but she wasn't offering; nor was she likely to.  Sherrie, though, we could fuck.  At least Jerry had convinced us that we could.

We got Sherrie into the tunnel with us during lunch.  "We want a fuck," Jerry said to her.  I don't think she had a clue as to what he meant.  Jerry tripped her, placing one foot behind hers and pushing her.  She fell onto her back.  Once there, she was like a stranded whale.  It only took one guy, holding onto her shoulders to keep her there-that was me.  Jerry pulled down her panties, pulled out his dick, and climbed on top of her.

When he stuck his cock into her, she squealed, not unlike a stuck pig.  As he rammed his cock into her pussy, his pants slid down over his butt.  In my mind's eye, I can still see his round butt with the crack down the center, bouncing like a basketball being dribbled close to the floor, as he pounded his cock into her.  It wasn't long before he squealed, too-more of a moan, actually.  I knew he was coming.  Although his cock was inside her, I could picture the long white streams of spunk shooting from his cock.  God knows, I'd seen him jack off often enough.  He was so proud that he could shoot farther than I could.

When Jerry finished, he climbed off.  From my view point-I was still holding down Sherrie's shoulders-I saw his cock when he pulled it out.  It was about half hard.  A drop of come dripped from its one eye, but what really caught my attention-it was bloody.  He had busted Sherrie's cherry.  I hadn't even thought about her being a virgin.  I guess I hadn't really thought about her being a person-not a normal kid like us, anyway.

As Jerry zipped up his pants, Robert unzipped his, letting them fall down around his ankles-then knelt down between Sherrie's legs to take his turn.  That's when I heard her speak-the only intelligible word I ever heard her say, "No."

She didn't say it loudly.  The others probably never heard her.  I don't think I would have, if I hadn't been bent over holding her shoulders-with my face next to hers.  I was so shocked that I turned loose of her, sitting back onto my haunches.  She didn't try to get up and she didn't say it again-just that once.  She closed her eyes, though.  I think I saw a tear at the corner of one of them.

Robert finished-then Terry, I guess.  I really wasn't watching.  I was looking at Sherrie-thinking about what she'd said, "No."  Somehow that one word had changed everything-at least for me.  She was no longer just a pussy.  She was a person.  Somewhere under all that fat, there was a person who felt-who, just as I, wanted to be liked-wanted to be respected.  I can't say that I thought all that at the time.  Maybe those thoughts came later-but, when it came my turn to fuck her, I couldn't-I wouldn't.  We left her lying on the ground.  Her panties had slipped off her feet and had been ground into the dirt by the boys in the throes of their lust.

The other boys were proud of themselves-especially Jerry.  They'd had their first piece of ass.  They kidded me, of course, because I hadn't fucked her.  I was still cherry-they weren't.  They were men.  I was still a boy-at least in their eyes.

Sherrie didn't come back to class that day-or any other day.  After school, I went back to the tunnel, half afraid that I'd find her still lying there-maybe she had bled to death, I thought; but, she wasn't there.  Her panties were-still crumpled up in the dirt-but she wasn't.

Jerry and I shared a room.  We each had our own bed, but slept in the same room.  That night-the night they'd fucked Sherrie-after we'd gone to the bed for the night, he said to me, "Joe..."

"What?"  I said, voicing by my tone, the irritation I felt.  I thought he was going to razz me again-as he had been all day.  I was beginning to wish that I'd fucked Sherrie-anything to shut him up.

"I can't feel my dick.  Do you think she gave me V.D.?"

What do you mean, you can't feel your dick?" I asked.

"Like it's just numb all over-and it won't even get hard.  It just lays there-all shrunken up like."

"Maybe you just overworked it.  Maybe after fucking, it needs more rest."  Didn't you have to fuck someone to get V.D.?  And, hadn't Sherrie been a virgin?  I'd seen the blood.  If she'd been a virgin, she'd never been fucked-at least not before today-not before Jerry.

"It can't have been overworked.  I only beat off once today-and I only shot into Sherrie once.  I'm still horny.  I want to jack off, but I can't.  I can't feel my hand on my dick at all.  It's like the fucker's dead.  I think Sherrie killed my cock."

Sherrie had killed his cock-and Robert's and Terry's.  Eventually, we told our parents what had happened.  Before long, everyone knew about it-the school, the police.  No one could explain it, though.  All of us, including Sherrie and me, were tested, but none of the doctors ever found anything-no virus or any other kind of bug.

They cut off their cocks-Jerry's, Robert's, and Terry's.  They had no choice.   They would have putrefied, if they hadn't.  Their cocks were dead-up to where they stuck out from their bodies-and that's where they were cut off.  I only saw Jerry's.  I didn't see Robert's or Terry's-we weren't allowed to associate with them.  They'd told their parents that it'd been Jerry's idea-which it had-so, their parents had blamed him.

There was talk about sending us all to reform school, but I guess that someone decided that the boys had been punished enough.  Compared to losing their cocks, reform school would have seemed-somehow-inadequate-and, since they weren't sending them, they couldn't very well send me.  I had only held her.  I hadn't fucked her.

Everyone knew that Jerry didn't have a cock.  People would stare and whisper behind their hands whenever we went out.  Once at school, some of the older boys wrestled Jerry to the ground and pulled off his pants for a look.  I tried to fight them off, but they pulled mine off as well-to see if I still had my cock.  We moved soon after it happened-as soon as the charges against us had been dropped. 

Jerry was never the same kid.  If any boy needed his cock it was Jerry.  His life had centered around it since he'd hit puberty.  He was still horny, but he couldn't do anything about it.  Looking back, I think they should have taken his balls, too.  At least, he wouldn't have suffered so-wouldn't have been horny all the time.  He had wet dreams from time to time-I saw his sheets-but he never talked about it.  Wet dreams were the only relief he ever got.

I never talked about sex in front of him.  I never beat off when he was around, either-even though we'd always done it together before.

Jerry died three years later.  They said it was his heart-that his rheumatic heart had given out-but I don't think so.  I think that-without his cock-Jerry just didn't want to live.  Sherrie killed more than his cock.

How did she kill his cock?  I don't know-but I'm sure that she did-not with magic I guess, but with some kind of telekinetic power that she had.  Maybe God gave her that to make up for all she didn't have.

I miss Jerry.  To this day-fifty years later-I miss him.

I learned one lesson from this experience, though.  No girl-or woman-ever had to tell me "no" twice-not even when I thought "no" really meant "yes."

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