Sheldon's Nutshuckers and the Head of Medusa
Copyright© 2012 -- Nicholas Hall
There are times in my young life when I question my own judgment, or in the present situation, my lack of it, wondering how a freshman in high school, only wishing to stay in the background so I don't get thumped too badly by some big lout, can face such turbulent, difficult encounters such as today. I sit here, thinking to myself, "Sheldon Miller, if any one walking through a cow pasture on a bright, sunny day can step in a pile of cow shit, it's you!" Hell, I didn't just step in it, I fell in it!
Have you ever noticed how hard these wooden chairs are in the outer office of the Assistant Principal? I don't suppose so, if you've never been here. I've never been here before either. Perhaps I should send the Board of Education a brief note registering my displeasure with the seating accommodations in this office? Scratch that idea; it'd only make matters worse.
Just look at her; sitting there with her lips pursed, glasses slightly akimbo on her nose, typing on her keyboard like it's a matter of life and death. Probably is, mine! "Ms. Lila Drummond, Secretary" is her name. How do I know? It's printed on a plaque resting on the front of her desk, that's how. Just because I'm here for some sort of discipline doesn't mean I can't read. Once, way back when I was in eighth grade (last year), we went to an opera at the university with one particularly excruciating aria at the end sung by a lady with a horned Viking helmet on her head, tits as big as beer barrels, and an ass to match. Well, that's Lila, folks!
I think she's related to that scraggly-haired lady guidance counselor down the hall. The only difference is when Lila has something done to her hair, she doesn't get a permanent, she goes in for an oil change at Jiffy Lube. They must use some sort of blue dye in the oil though. She really looks old, probably fifty or so, I'd bet. I'll bet when she farts, its dust.
Speaking of farting, you'll have to excuse me; I think last nights' chili is begging to make its presence known. Yep! I'm going to try to sneak it out, perhaps no one will notice. SHIT! It's a real rumbler; you know, the kind that sort of lifts you about an inch or so off of the chair as the noxious gas exits your ass. I'll say this; the wooden chair certainly adds some timbre and resonant quality to the fart.
Have you ever wondered why last nights' chili tasted a lot better than it smells the next day? Lila noticed; I can see her wrinkling her nose and looking over her horned rimmed glasses at me. Clayton Johnson, sitting across the office from me on an identical chair, notices too, since he's now holding his nose and trying really hard not to laugh.
The guy sitting next to Clayton, much, much older than I, probably seventeen or so and a senior, just looks at me. Dark hair fitted into a short pony tail, blue-green almost steely eyes, tan complexion, probably a good foot or so taller than Clayton or me, lean, not an ounce of fat on that trim body, but not muscle bound, slim waist with pants barely hanging on his hips, and long fingers, almost delicate. Looking him over closer, I can see he has both ears pierced with some sort of blue stone in each, a tattoo of some sort on the left side of his neck, and with his sweatshirt sleeves pulled part way up, tattoos on each of his forearms. They probably read "Mother" or "Born to Ride," or something like that. He looks tough enough to have "Champ," etched into his dick, except when he gets excited, it probably reads "Champion, Akon, Ohio, 2010." Tyler Wells said one time he was going to get "Made to ride" tattooed just above his butt crack, but Jakeil Davis said if he did, he'd be sorely disappointed in him. No, he didn't say that! Jakeil said if Tyler got that tattoo, he'd kick his ass into next week. Tyler's ass just wasn't for anyone to use as they pleased.
Anyway, this guy keeps staring at me, never blinks, or rolled up his nose when I farted so he really must be one, tough, son-of-a-bitch. He's really a scary, mean looking fucker. So, here we sit, waiting our turn until Dr. Peter Twachtman (Peter Pussyman to students behind his back), one of two assistant principals in our high school, is ready to subject us to the rack I heard he keeps in the closet in his office.
Looking over at Clayton again, he's not very big, you know, sitting next to the tough guy, and looks like he belongs in junior high rather than high school. Clayton's really a great guy, but the poor little shit sure fell into this time! I probably wouldn't be here either if Tony hadn't told me about Clayton when the Nutshuckers got together Sunday afternoon and evening at my house for an afternoon and night of fun and games.
Tyler didn't have to work, Jakeil's mother was home so he didn't have to babysit his little brother, Tony got everything done at home on Saturday he was supposed to, and me, I was just plain horny, walking around with a bad case of rigor mortis in my dick. I felt like Le Roy (Digger) Verdon, the funeral home director at the end of a funeral -- anxious to bury a stiff about six feet deep. Don't I wish! Jakeil and Tony might come close, but not quite. I live close to school, so we walk there on Monday morning instead of riding in Tyler's car. He's going to leave it at the house so he could have Mom show him how to bake his favorite lemon bars after school and before he has to go to work at Paul's Pizza.
The `rents were home, so our daytime activities, out of necessity since I don't think Mom would have really appreciated walking in finding us bare-ass naked with Jakeil buried to his pubes in Tyler's hole and me sucking that fleshy rocket of Tony's like a new born calf, were confined to shooting pool (not pocket) and other games where you didn't have to diddle with someone's fiddle and bow. However, my friends, when bedtime came around, in the dark of the night, secured behind a locked bedroom door, bathed in that soft half- light from the outside street lamp, four naked high school boys began our American History lesson; you know, "Listen my children and you shall hear of Jakeil's midnight ride up Tyler's rear."
Tony lay stretched out before me, brown, hairless except for his pubes, with lightly sprinkled arm pits, and a dusting of a moustache, unsheathed cock-head dripping, resting on his stomach, nudging his navel, smiling at me in that fucking beautiful white-teeth gleaming smile of his, presenting to me the smorgasbord of his lovely body to engage with my own nakedness. I slowly lowered myself over him until my own throbbing cock came in contact with his longer length, rubbed up and down his smoothness for a moment until he sighed with the pleasure and contentment I brought to his body and the excitement he brought me.
Laying my head next to his, inhaling his warm, soft scent, I kissed my way to his lips, lightly brushing them, until I gently plucked the bottom one with my mouth, then nuzzled my mouth south, twirling my tongue around those sensitive, delightfully taut nipples of his, licking my way further until my wet, warm tongue poked into his navel, and laved further to his smooth, moist, nicely-sized cock-head, tasting the glans and slit covered in his pre-cum, savoring the very sweet taste of him.
"Oh, my God," sighed Tony as I reluctantly eased off and nosed down to his soft, flesh covered walnut-sized orbs, sucking one and then the other into my mouth, leaving them moist and him wanting, as I parted his thighs enough to reach that sensitive spot behind his nuggets. I knew what I wanted and so did Tony. Now was the time, now was the place, and he was the man I most wanted.
Gently rolling him over on his stomach, I looked over at Jakeil and Tyler next to us in my large bed, coupled in a slow and easy fuck. Jakeil buried to his full length in Tyler as Tyler clasped him about the back with his arms and cinctured him closer with an easy wrap of his legs about his thighs. They were in no hurry; desiring, needing, and enjoying the closeness, this intertwining, as Jakeil pushed forward and back slowly enough to prolong their pleasure until dawn.
Returning my gaze to the lovely form in front of me, those firm, half-round, brown cheeks enticing me, I carefully separated them with my hands, exposing that brown, puckered gate of delight to my eyes. As much as I wanted to quickly mount him, splitting those wonderful mounds like a ripe peach, my desire to taste him was more powerful. Starting at the top of his cleft, I began lovingly sliding my tongue down until I reached his portal and, once there, deliberately began probing it, seeking entrance, until the very tip of my tongue found its goal, slipping in, not far, but enough for me and Tony to realize the full pleasure of rimming.
You know, I always thought it would be a disgusting taste, but not so, at least Tony wasn't. I tasted him, slightly funky, with a musk that identified and marked him as Tony. Not at all displeasing, but I must admit, I do prefer the taste of cum. Don't you? Using lube from the tube on the table next to the bed, I gently massaged some inside and out of his entrance and slicked my own stiff prod with a generous amount. Moving forward, positioning myself between his thighs, I leaned forward over his back until my cock-head touched that twitching, pulsating, portal and began a slow, deliberate, careful, sensuous entry into a world that neither he or I knew until now.
Once fully seated, I stretched out over his back, lay my head alongside of his, brought my arms under and over his shoulders, securing our bodies together, and began a rhythmic back and forth motion of my hips, pushing my prick deeper and deeper into him with each thrust. Do you remember the first time you made love to someone; the warmth, the tightness, the rippling constriction of your lover's canal massaging your cock, telegraphing a message to your brain that's where your maleness was meant and ought to be? The sensitivity of it, sent me quickly seeding Tony as my final push left me emotionally and sexually gratified -- for the moment.
Withdrawing, breathing deeply as the coolness of the room wafted across my still heated shaft, I signaled Tony it was his turn to take me and claim me as I had him. He was so caring, so loving as he caressed my body, lubing himself and me, probing gently until reaching that which he sought, and began a very slow, deliberate penetration. Tony was big -- it felt bigger than what it appeared through my eyes, but a welcomed bigness. Once his cock-head popped through my anal ring, the sensations I experienced, shifted from pain to pleasure, as that rocket of his headed for moon orbit. I felt full, stretched, and delighted. Each time his shaft passed over my inner sex-button, an electrifying impulse shot to my own erect penis and gonads so, when he pushed to his depths, began shivering, shuddering, swelling, and surging in my chute, releasing his payload inside me, I fired my own rocket again.
Resting on top of me, his hard cock still embedded and twitching as it squeezed the last of his essence into me, Tony asked, "Have you ever taken a close look at Clayton Johnson when he showers?"
Murmuring "no," still in that half-conscious status of post-coital bliss, I turned my head, seeing Jakeil resting quietly on Tyler, both asleep, but with Jakeil still submerged balls deep in Tyler's buns, his ass cheeks twitching periodically, signaling pleasant dreams, " why?"
"You know," continued Tyler softly, not wanting to awaken our bedmates, "he's not very tall, small, even for our grade. While we were showering, I took a real good look at his package because he is so fucking cute and I was curious. His dick is not big, but not little, perhaps five inches or so when boned up, and he was really stiff looking at my torpedo. What I did notice is he is just beginning to grow hair on his pubes. It looks like his balls have dropped so I don't doubt he can shoot a load. I outright asked him how old he really was. He told me he wouldn't be fourteen until November. Apparently his folks started him out in first grade when he was five because he is so fucking smart."
I quickly turned my head to get a better look at Tony's face. "You're shitting me aren't you? That makes him a year younger than us."
"Damn straight," Tony responded.
I pondered what Tony said, finally saying to him, "No wonder some of those big-ass bullies pick on him."
"Tony, I think the `Nutshuckers' need to step up and help him when we can."
God, this office is so boring, just waiting for the death sentence to be passed. The guy next to Clayton is still staring at me, but Clayton just gave me a small, frightened smile. Poor Clayton looks so nervous and scared; I bet he's ready to just shit. Speaking of shitting, the tough guy next to him looks so mean he could shit ten penny nails at a barn raising.
I don't know about Clayton, but I'm getting hungry. The other guy probably doesn't need to feed but once a month like alligators and other predators do. My lunch, along with Clayton's and some others, ended up on the cafeteria floor. It was one of my favorite meals too -- submarine sandwiches and French fries.
Tony and I joined Clayton and a couple of his buddies at their table to eat our lunch. I wanted some more mayo for my sandwich and Tony wanted more catsup for his fries, so I traipsed back in line to pick up the plastic bottles holding the condiments. Starting back toward our table, I saw Jon Erickson (our football hero quarterback -- gag me with a spoon why don't you) slap Clayton on the back of his head and dump his lunch tray on the floor. You know me, quiet and generally unassuming, changed roles, stepped up to Erickson and said, "Hey, Asshole, why don't you pick on somebody a little bigger?" Well, that ugly fucker did -- me!
Erickson grabbed me with both hands, pulled my shirt and me towards him, and shouted in my face, "Trying to protect your little faggot friend are you?"
I'm sorry, but I was scared shitless. Never in my life have I ever been in a fight. I've always done everything I could to avoid one. I don't know why I did what I did, but, you see, I had no other choice, did I?
As loud as I could, announcing to all here and present (as they say in court on television) in the cafeteria, in the most sensuously loud voice I could, "OH, YES, JON; TAKE ME AGAIN LIKE YOU DID LAST NIGHT! FILL ME WITH YOUR CREAM, PEANUT DICK," and pushed the catsup and mayo bottles down the front of his pants and squeezed them, really, really hard, spewing the contents into his shorts.
Jon screeched, "You fucking little faggot," and pushed me on to the table. As I began skidding the length from the force of his shove, I could see the mayo and catsup stains beginning to soak through the front of his jeans all around his zippered fly. As I sluiced down the table, cafeteria trays and lunches cascaded to the floor and in the midst of all of the hullaballoo, I thought I heard a "thwack," a thud like someone hitting the floor, and Ericson howling, "You fucker, I think you broke my nose!"
Teachers suddenly appeared from their hiding places in time to save the hero, settle down the cafeteria, and escort Erickson, Clayton, the tough guy, and me to Dr. Pussyman's office.
Jon Erickson came out of the office, noticed Lila busy typing our obituaries, and flipped me the bird. "Tough Guy" stepped up, stood in front of Erickson, and said something very softly to "Mr. Quarterback Hero." Erickson's face turned white, except for the black eye and red nose. "Tough Guy" sat back down and Erickson quickly left the office. I wish I could've heard what was said; I'll bet he told him something like, "Fuck with me again and I'll stuff your nuts up your ass without detaching them first." I'll be that would hurt, don't you think so? Be damned difficult to walk to class like that, all hunched over, with your head between your legs in an effort to relieve the pain.
Lila, evidently suddenly realizing there were some of us yet to deal with, looked up and announced, "Mr. Johnson, you may go in now," and smiled that sweet, fat-faced, cabbage patch doll smile of hers. I'll bet sending kids in to that office turns her on like an electric light. By the time she gets to me, she'll probably be in the throes of a violent orgasm. If she shudders and shakes the way Tony and Jakeil do when shooting a load, she'll quiver like a big, gigantic bowl of jello, rippling with such force, such strength buildings will crash, and the earth will split asunder, not unlike a strong earthquake shaking the west coast of the United States.
The "Tough Guy" said something to Clayton and jerked his head toward Lila. Clayton looked at me, tried smiling, but all he could do was let his bottom lip quiver a bit and walked in to meet his fate. He wasn't in there very long and came out, quite sad-faced, tears running down his cheeks. He looked over at me and held up one finger, indicating he was suspended for one day. Now that's just not right, is it?
"Mr. Pianetto," Lila said crisply, with some distain, "your turn."
That's who he is; Lou Pianetto, one of the meanest, toughest, son-of-a-bitches in our school. Rumor has it, one of his uncles was or is one of those big time gang guys from Illinois, and one of his brothers is away doing time somewhere in some unknown lockup. Probably in that prison located deep beneath New York City, where I hear they keep the really, really nasty man-killers. I know when I was in first grade the playground talk was that Pianetto, when he was in fourth grade, got shoved off of one of the swings by another kid. I heard that Pianetto stood up, slowly dusted himself off, walked over the kid, smiled at him and then grabbed him in the crotch, securing his balls in a death grip, and said, "Touch me again and you'll have these for your lunch." I think that'd convince me to play somewhere else.
Lou stood up, put his hand on Clayton's shoulder, said something to him (for such a tough guy, he certainly doesn't seem to talk very loud), and walked into the office as Clayton sat down again. After about ten minutes or so, he walked back out, just as calm and casual as could be, stepped over to Clayton, smiled at him, and motioned with his hand that Clayton should leave with him. I hope Clayton will be alright.
"Thunder Thighs" (Lila) then announced it was my turn on the rack. I was not at all happy about this coming session with Dr. Pussyman. He has a reputation for favoring athletes and dislike for artsy-fartsy students like me. I don't think he views playing a trumpet as being the same skill level as throwing a football or letting some fat guy flop on you while wrestling. He's a former wrestling coach and Dad said he's been promoted to his highest level of incompetence.
After about ten minutes of listening to how disappointed he was in me, one of the top students in my class, for initiating a fight in the cafeteria, assaulting Mr. Erickson, and my disgusting, perverted remarks toward one of our more outstanding school representatives (my God- Dr. Pussypants is a gay-basher- one of those right-wing religious freaks), he gave me two days suspension. That is so fucking unfair! I didn't start it, although I must admit I did assault Erickson with catsup and mayo, which I thought was pretty disgustingly, uproarishly funny. Maybe I should've gotten one day, but two days? No way!
The walk home was long; made longer by my dread of telling Mom and Dad of my suspension and why. I've never been in trouble at school. I certainly didn't hurry, toddling along slowly the eight blocks from school to home, pausing now and again to ponder some important object such as a leaf, a rock, a pile of dog shit someone forgot to clean up. That's how I really felt, like a pile of dog fecal matter. I just wanted to help someone else, someone who was becoming my friend, prevent a bully from practicing his trade, and divert attention from those who were unable or unwilling to defend themselves to me-as if I could -- and what did it get me? Punishment from someone who was supposed to be our mentor, an advocate, a fair and honest person, instead of favoring those more popular, skilled athletes or those kids whose parents have influence, and forgetting all of us who plug along, just trying to do the right thing and get through high school. I'll probably be grounded and not get to go to Homecoming a week from Friday. This is really going to suck, boys and girls!
Mom met me at the door. So help me God, I can do nothing but stand here looking at her and, I didn't want to, but eyes and cheeks heavy with tears, crying to her, "Mom, I'm so sorry!" Gathering me in her arms and holding me a moment, leading me to the couch in the living room, and getting me settled, she said, "Sheldon, your Dad is on his way home. It'll just be a few minutes, so wait and tell us together what happened."
No sooner spoken, then Dad walked in the back door. I think he's going to be royally pissed. Walking toward me, reaching me, and lifting me up, wrapping his arms around me, he whispered, "I'm so sorry Sheldon. I guess I never told you life isn't always fair," and rocked me back and forth. Poor Dad, he feels worse than I do, I think. It didn't stop my tears, I only cried harder.
The three of us sat on the couch while I told them exactly what happened and exactly what I said, after apologizing to Mom first for my choice of words, but pointing out I really didn't regret them. I repeated what Dr. Twachtman said and what he gave me for punishment.
Looking at me, Dad reached over, ruffled my hair, saying, "Sheldon, I can't say I approve of your language, there may've been a different method of expressing yourself, but I'm extremely proud of what you did. Your mother and I don't believe in punishing someone for doing the right thing and, you certainly did the right thing, coming to the aid of Clayton, but in rewarding them. We're both extremely displeased with Dr. Twachtman and will voice that displeasure to those in authority. We understand Jon Erickson received no punishment for his role in the fight, since he was the "victim" and not the "aggressor." Before you ask, Sheldon, Dr. Johnson, Clayton's dad, called me at the store. He also threatened to perform a certain delicate surgery on Dr.Twachtman, if there was any evidence of their existence, which he doubted. You did fail, Sheldon, to mention the role of Luigi Pianetta in this little fracas."
He had me there, I've no idea why Lou Pianetta was in the office, but I'll bet you five to ten, I'm going to find out in just a second. I was too busy sliding across the table, scattering lunches and providing an employment opportunity for the custodians to worry about Lou.
"Apparently, when Erickson pushed you onto the table, Clayton lunged up and started pummeling him with his fists. Clayton is not very big, so it was like a mouse pounding on an elephant. Erickson grabbed him, getting ready to bowl for the ten pin you left standing on the table, when Luigi stepped up behind him, tapped him on the shoulder, and when Erickson turned around, Luigi whopped him in the face with a lunch tray. That brought the teachers and led to this."
Well, I'll be damned, perhaps Lou is not all that mean, maybe some mean, but not all that mean.
"If you don't mind, Sheldon, I could use some help at the store for a couple of days and I'd be most proud to have my son accompany to work."
Have you ever cried so hard because you felt so loved, so happy knowing you did the right thing and someone else is really, really proud of you? If not, I hope you can have that same feeling someday or make someone else feel that way when you let them know you're proud of them and support them, accepting them for what they are, no more, no less. One hell of a good and lasting feeling, let me tell you!
Returning to school two days later, as the Nutshuckers were walking down the hall toward my locker, Clayton spotted me and launched himself into my arms, forcing me to drop my books, giving me a big hug and thank you for helping him. Of course he had to chatter away all about what happened while I was gone. I was too polite to tell him the Nutshuckers (no, I know better than to use our name in public, but you won't tell, will you?) camped out at my house for two days after school. It also gave Tyler a good excuse to trade recipes with Mom.
According to Clayton, Erickson got nothing, na da, for his part and was a candidate for Homecoming King, which we all knew he'd win since Twachtman counted the ballots. The King and Queen would be crowned at the Homecoming Dance a week from Friday after the football game. Lou received ten days, the maximum, for attacking the "football hero." Clayton overheard his Dad say to his mom he had half a notion to perform oral surgery on Twachtman through the anus -- it'd be quite a reach, but doable. Clayton also told us Erickson was up to old ways, pestering the smaller boys in our class, but leaving him alone. According to Jakeil, Tony, and Tyler, every time Erickson saw Clayton, he'd walk the other way. Lou must have really said something that made an impression. That doesn't make me feel any better since I really feel sorry for the ones he picks on. Don't you?
Mom said I could have the guys over Sunday afternoon and night. Although it was a regular occurrence, I still asked and the folks didn't seem to mind. If they suspected any hanky-panky, they never said. Besides, Mom and Tyler would get together for an hour or so, trying out new recipes and stuff.
That night, after a very sensuous reunion, all of us laying in my big bed, I said, "You know, guys, Erickson needs to be stopped and the Nutshuckers are going to have to be the ones to do it; but I don't know how we're going to."
"He sure scares easily," piped up Tony, "once he figures out something nasty his way comes."
"Where the hell did you come up with that one?" asked Jakeil.
"I learned it in English last week; came from Shakespeare or somewhere, maybe Thomas Jefferson or George W. Bush."
"Don't think so," we all muttered.
Unfortunately, nothing came to mind. Monday, Homecoming Week activities start. If we're going to do something it'd be the perfect time to do it. With all of the nonsense going on, who'd pay attention to what a bunch of skinny, little nerds were doing?
During the night, Jakeil slipped in behind me and slowly eased his length into my backseat. He's somewhat bigger in girth and longer than Tony, but Tony had prepared me well, stretching my portal and leaving sufficient personal lubricant behind to allow me to accommodate Jakeil without difficulty.
Jakeil was sunk in as deep as the Titanic, thumping my belly button from within on every push forward he made. His arms were locked under my shoulders, his head nestled alongside of mine, his lips nibbling on my ear, showering gentle kisses across the back of my neck as he sighed, "Sheldon, you're about as tight and warm as they get, with an ass to die for. If you weren't so attached to Tony and me to Tyler, I'd fuck you five times a day and six on Sunday." Suddenly, louder, he exclaimed, "I think I know what to do!" and began pumping faster.
"I-------- would------certainly-----hope-------so," I grunted with each slap of his crotch and balls against my ass cheeks as he gained momentum, "so---far--- tonight--- you've -- fucked —Tyler,—Tony, -- and- now -- me. If you don't knowhowbynowyouneverwill." as Jakeil moaned "Yes," and unloaded, shuddering and shivering as he always does. He lay stretched on top of me, enjoying the sensations rocketing, then orbiting, through both of us, as his magnificent member spritzed the last of his sperm in my derriere, joining those deposited early in the night by Tony.
The next morning, after breakfast and during our walk from my house to school, Jakeil explained his plan to us; "Erickson's not going to give up his pleasure of bullying unless he's totally convinced something terrible is going to happen to him when he does. He's going to be busy campaigning to be elected as Homecoming King to worry about anything too much. There won't be enough votes among the freshman boys he harasses to count. We all know, with Twachtman counting the votes, Erickson is going to be King anyway. Tuesday, Sheldon, prepare a note for me to tack on Erickson's locker that reads `Suffer the little ones no more or face the wrath of Perseus. (signed) The Nutshuckers.'"
"Who's this Perseus?" queried Tony.
"Perseus is some sort of god or something from Greek mythology -- we studied about him last week in World History. That's what gave me the idea. Polydectes was a king who ordered Perseus to bring him the head of the gargon Medusa, if he really wanted to marry his daughter."
"Hold up, here, Jakeil," I interrupted, "we just can't go around lopping off people's heads, as much as we'd like to do something to Erickson."
"Right, Sheldon, but we can make him wish we had," and laid out our jobs for us in the coming week. Tony grimaced a bit, but consented to do his part, as we knew he would.
Tuesday the note went up, voting was on Wednesday, and Jakeil picked up the duplicate school keys from me on Thursday. He called me early Friday morning confirming Erickson was indeed the Homecoming King. Jakeil's final instruction to me was to prepare a note reading, "You were warned; heavy the head that wears the crown. (signed) The Nutshuckers,"for him to tack to Erickson's locker.
Friday was one of those crazy days teachers try to have classes, students try to avoid learning anything, and everyone watches the clock since we're dismissed early for the Homecoming Parade. Since I had to march in the band, we left earlier than the rest of the student body in order to assemble in a park downtown. The police cars lead the parade, the flags followed the police cars, we followed the flags, the floats followed us, the politicians followed the floats, and the fire trucks followed the politicians. I am ever so thankful the flag bearers walk and don't ride horses. We march and drum and toot all through the downtown, up Fifth Avenue to Sixth Street, and end up at the football field- and a good time was had by all.
Tony and I hung out at my house until it was time to leave for the football game. The band plays a little concert before, then the national anthem, and puts on a half-time show. We had to sit in the bleachers for the whole game because every time something remarkable happened, such as a touchdown, we played the school song and everybody stood, sang, and slapped each other on the back. Yea, team! Tony, bless his heart, endured it all sitting in the bleachers. We won the game and that was nice. Yeah, I do like to see us win. All I could think of, however, was what I overheard a couple of guys in the hardware store say one day, "The losers get on the bus and go home; the winners get to fuck the homecoming queen."
After I changed clothes, Tony and I headed back to the field house for the big dance and coronation. Jakeil and Tyler were occupied getting ready for the final phase of our little surprise so we didn't see them.
As the crowd gathered in the dimly lighted field house, Tony and I maneuvered our way up the bleachers where we'd have a nice view of the activities on the portable stage located at the end of the cavernous structure, and of the crowd also. The stage area, curtained backdrop esthetically giving the illusion of a performance stage ( it was the same one used for graduation and all other such activities and was beginning to look a bit dingy), was darkened except for one spotlight focusing on the King's and Queen's shiny crowns resting on a small table. On either side of the table were the chairs where the Homecoming Royalty would sit once they were crowned and after the Grand March.
Nearing the appointed hour, Twachtman stepped up, microphone in hand, requested everyone to please be quiet so the ceremony could begin, and announced the Grand March would start right after the coronation with the new King and Queen leading the march. In short order, he announced the Sophomore and Junior attendants. Why our class, the Freshman Class, wasn't allowed attendants, I'll never know, but that's just the way it is. After a bit of a pause, to add dramatic effect, I should suppose, he announced Jon Erickson as King and Rhonda Schneidermyre as Queen. - YEA! She was ditzy as hell, but from what I overheard in the locker room, there was plenty of room for the football team.
Twachtman placed the crown on Rhonda's head (applause) and with great care and a shit-eating grin on his face, crowned Jon Erickson as King (applause). Rhonda and Jon each turned to wave, acknowledging the affection of their subjects (barf) and the parents present. I didn't wave back nor did Tony. We were too interested watching the results of our foraging around town begin emerging from a state of somnolent dormancy after being iced down in an insulated lunch carrier, then carefully and systemically positioned by Jakeil and Tyler, and now warmed by the hot lights shining on the stage, make their presence known.
Slithering cautiously from their resting place in the center of the King's crown, tongues flicking, eyes seeking something, anything, undulating between the points of the crown, came the inhabitants of the "Head of Medusa" ready, not to turn those who viewed them into stone, but into quivering masses of ineffectual human gnomes. I was particularly interested in my contribution, the large bull snake, thrusting its head above the crown, almost defying anyone or anything to challenge its right to be there. Its body stiffened, then slowly whipped about, causing the dozen or so lesser garter snakes to wriggle over the crown, hanging like dark, cold icicles, all the while writhing back and forth, performing a dance of intertwining reptilian splendor.
Erickson, still smiled and waved at the crowd, who by now was beginning to murmur shock and astonishment, which he mistook for adoration, until "Queenie" screamed and the large bull snake, obviously frightened by her shrill, siren-like wail and shriek, slithered down the back of Jon Erickson's shirt, heading south, seeking a nice warm and quiet hole to hide in, I'll bet. When Jon whooped, jumped, and began dancing around on the stage, I figured the cold, slippery body of the snake was hiking down the spine of the "King." "Queenie" continued to scream.
A couple of more snakes dropped from the crown as Jon continued his dance about the stage and, trying to rid himself of the cascading reptilian parade, tore the crown from his head and tossed it into the crowd standing near the stage. The minute he did, his eyes grew large, his mouth dropped open, and he started to yell, "Oh, shit, shit, shit." I'd bet at that moment, the snake had slithered down Jon's copious crack and goosed him proper. "Queenie" continued her yowling lament! I'll bet that forked tongue flicking across Jon's pucker was something he'll never forget!
The writhing, wriggling, tongue-flicking collage of snakes hitting gym floor did nothing to calm the crowd or "Queenie." People started heading for the bleachers to escape the menace of the "Garden of Eden," failing to notice the "King" yanking his pants and undershorts off in his attempt to rid himself of what, I'm certain, he felt was going to take his anal virginity. When Jon's shorts rocketed across the stage, I fully expected to see the bull snake poked out of his ass like the tail of a Capuchin monkey. No such luck, the snake merely dropped to the floor and wrapped itself around "Queenie's" leg, evidently wanting to go north instead of south until, our Prom Queen unleashed a waterfall of undetermined quantity, sending my snake scurrying from the flood, and heading toward Twachtman. Twachtman viewed what was motoring toward him as a threat to his well-being, not wanting his own oysters relished by the creature, tossed the microphone toward the curtains, and did a "Peter Pan" off of the stage.
Twachtman hit the wooden gym floor with a "smack," evidently forgetting or not being taught, to land on his feet. Shit, even a cat can do that! Someone turned on the lights, people started to settle down, checking furtively where they walked or sat, as little boys began catching the snakes and chasing little girls with them. Only "Queenie" continued to vocalize her discontent so, Jon, bare-assed naked as the day he was born, decided to silence her by clasping a hand across her mouth.
A voice, sounding very much like Tyler, shouted into the discarded microphone from somewhere behind the curtain, "Oh, my God; what is he doing to her, right there on the stage?"
All eyes swiveled to the front which such force and focus, Tony swore he could hear them "snap."
Need I say more? Guess what, Jon Erickson, it's your turn in the barrel. "Well, I suppose there's not going to a Grand March," I mused to Tony.
"Yeah," he returned, "and nobody gets to fuck the Homecoming Queen."
The Nutshuckers were sitting in Paul's Pizza Parlor the next afternoon, discussing the adventure and mayhem of the night before, when I heard the bell over the entrance door give its little chime. Clayton, clasping Lou Pianetta's hand, headed for our booth like a bee to honey or a snake to its hidey hole.
"Guess what, guys?" he bubbled.
"You just came in your shorts at the sight of me," answered Tyler.
"No, you silly goose," he giggled, "I don't have to do that anymore," and blushed.
I looked at Clayton, then at Lou, and back at Clayton. Clayton had that well and truly fucked look about him and Lou was smiling.
"Lou just gave me a ride on his motorcycle," he continued, "and it was so neat!" Lou continued smiling, slipping an arm around Clayton's waist, pulling him closer, announcing to us and all they were a couple.
"I didn't see you at the big dance last night," commented Tony.
"Nah, Lou couldn't go because of the suspension so we just did ---other things. Well, we gotta go," and smiled up at his boyfriend.
As Clayton and Lou started to walk away, I called Clayton back and quietly asked him, "Is it true that Lou has a tattoo on his dick, when fully erect, reads `Champion, Akron, Ohio, 2010?"
"You silly goose," he responded, "that's just another one of those rumors kids like to spread, you know, like the one that his brother is in some prison somewhere."
Clayton winked at me, waggled his eyebrows and said, "It reads, `Grand Champion, Chattanooga, Tennessee, February twenty-seventh, Two Thousand and Ten,'" and left.
P.S. -- Tyler's Favorite Lemon Bars
Mix together; one cup softened butter, ˝ cup powdered sugar, pinch of salt, and 2 cups of flour. Pat into an 8X13 pan and bake for 20 minutes at 350 degrees. Beat 4 eggs, add 2 cups of sugar, 6 tablespoons of flour, 6 tablespoons of lemon juice (from real lemons if possible), and 1 teaspoon of baking powder. Spread over top of the baked crust, and bake for 25 minutes more. Sprinkle with powdered sugar when cool and cut into bars.
Thank you for reading "Sheldon's Nutshuckers and the Head of Medusa." I hope you enjoyed following the adventures of Sheldon and Company as much as I did creating them. Other stories of mine can be found at:
Nifty- Beginnings - "Table Number Five" -- January 18, 2012
Nifty- Beginnings -"The Carpenter and the Piano Man" -- January 24, 2012
Nifty-Beginnings -- "Gillie" -- January 31, 2012
Nifty-High School - "Sheldon's Nutshuckers and the Stinky Pinky" -- February 14, 2012.
Nifty- Beginnings --"Last House on the Left" -- February 21, 2012
Nifty-College -- "First of May" -- February 29, 2012
The Literary works of Nicholas Hall are protected by the copyright laws of the United States of America and are the property of the author.
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