George and Girls
Weird fiction piece by Clark Humphrey
12/15/94
George knew about the boys with reputations. They were the ones who’d had a few affairs, perhaps with some of the more prominent or busty girls in school, and boasted about them to death. George was different. He was both far more active and far more discreet. He had to be discreet, to keep his nose from getting bashed in by angry boyfriends. By the spring of his senior year, his nose remained unbashed.
The girls secretly thought George “more mature” than the other boys. Some of his favorite trysts, indeed, had been with some of the 16-year-old girls who normally preferred the 21-year-old males who still hung out in their cars outside the school.
George didn’t think of himself as terribly “mature,” at least not the way his mother defined “maturity.” Hell, if he was “mature” in that way he wouldn’t even be as crazy for girls as he was. And he was crazy for them. He fell into a secret swoon at the right perfume. He wa obsessed with the way girls walked, the way they stood up and sat down, the way they talked (even when they talked and talked and talked). He was sincerely enthralled by every girl he met, fascinated by every girl he slept with. He gave far less than he should have, social-standing-wise, for the rituals of boasting and strutting to other boys, the realm in which most other boys tried way too hard to prove their manliness.
George knew from the third grade on that he was in love for life with girls, not with any one specific girl with with all of girldom. He knew from the sixth grade on that he was going to be perpetually horny as soon as his horniness hormones kicked in, and his suspicion proved right a year later. He daydreamed not about cars or guns or sports but strictly about legs, shoulders, lips, hair, eyes, breasts, hands, fingernails, hesitant alto voices answering the teacher’s questions right every time, musical soprano voices rapidly dishing all the latest dirt to one another in the halls.
Ignoring his mother’s demands, George never went out for sports and didn’t take many computer classes. He preferred classes and activities with as many girls as possible. In middle school this meant the rowdier boys would always call him a faggot, in keeping with that peculiar middle-school logic that said a boy who only liked boys was a real man and a boy who liked girls was a fruit. By high school, when real homosexuals began to emerge (some more openly than others), George wasn’t usually thought to be one, but he wasn’t thought to be much of a Real Man either. That was fine with George; it helped his drive for discretion.
His current romantic situation was typical of his life this past year. There was Janelle, a young woman of 16 he was seeing less often these days, maybe once every week and a half; from past experience he knew it was only a few weeks before she cut him off altogether, saying it was too dangerous and her boyfriend was close to catching on. He was now spending two or three afternoons a week making love to Shannon, who told her mom she was doing “volunteer work” at church when she was really exploring her own inner truths with him in his car or in one of the eight secret trysting places he’d discovered around the neighborhood. And he was starting on the road to the inevitable with Winnie, the exquisite and intelligent exchange student from Barbados. Some of the other white boys liked to shout in the locker room how they’d be the first to “taste the brown sugar;” George didn’t say, and never would say, how rapidly he was earning Winnie’s respect and confidence, and would soon earn her desire.
All George’s lovers knew he was simultaneously involved with other girls. Indeed, at least half of them got involved with him on the discreet recommendation from one of his prior lovers. They generally said he wasn’t a potential “trophy guy,” someone to show off to dad on visitation day or to go to basketball games with. But he was a definite dream lover. He always smelled nice, he was polite to excess, he actually listened to you and paid attention, he cared about your problems, he had smooth skin and skillful hands, he was never hesitant about going down, he always used protection without complaining, and he could stay up and inside for almost ever. He was perfect; too perfect. Girls soon tired of his utter niceness. They always left him to go back to the challenge and excitement of their boyfriends, usually tougher guys the girls always thought they could tame and civilize.
George knew how his days of discretion would end. He would fall in love with someone too smart, too clever, too damn special to let go of without a fight. He would openly declare his love for her, let her boyfriend have his macho-stupid way with him, and then display his busted-for-life nose to her as proof of his commitment to her. He hasn’t met that extra-extra-extra-special someone yet, and figures he might not until after he goes off to college or wherever. For now, he’s more than willing to enjoy every chance he can get to visit inside the miracle that is woman, to exchange split-second knowing stares with past lovers in the cafeteria, to await the next confident smile that asks if he’d like to study for finals with her this afternoon.
