by Deena Bright
Dear People Magazine:
Wow, what a fun, informative, and great magazine. I had a subscription once, but I let it expire for two reasons: (1.) I couldn’t read them fast enough before a new one came in the mail. It was driving me batshit crazy. I kept feeling like a total failure. They were piling up next to the toilet, mocking me every time I went to the bathroom. Every so often I’d have to take 3-4 laxatives just to catch up. Okay, well, maybe that part was an exaggeration, but for the most part, I couldn’t keep up. (2.) It’s a pretty pricey subscription. So now, I’m a checkout buyer. If I like the people and stories on the front, then I’ll buy it at the grocery store. My FAVORITE is when it’s HALF THEIR SIZE. God, I just love those success stories, probably because I fantasize about it being a picture of me one day on the front cover.
Dear Johnson & Johnson (owners of Benadryl):
All I have to say is that I have no idea how I would be able to raise my kids without you. Truly. When the seasons change, my kids start pouring snot, mucous, crust, and other green bodily fluids. My house becomes a non-breathing hack-fest of hell and germs. Your shit dries them right up (and puts their whiny asses right to sleep). Thank you for your remarkable product.
Dear Mattel, Inc. and Ruth Handler (owner/creator of Barbie):
Readers, I am sorry, but I am not on the “feminist bandwagon.” I love Barbie. I do. I always have. I love dressing her up and doing her hair for dates out with her hot hunk, Ken. I even love to get her naked with Ken. Yeah that happened. Ask my best friend about how much trouble we got into for making Barbie and Ken doll orgies. Her parents walked in on our plastic pussy party and all Hell broke loose. She was younger than me, so she was no longer allowed to play with me. I was a bad influence. My parents couldn’t be mad; they let me watch Porky’s. They didn’t have an argument.
Now that I have a daughter of my own, I am once again elated to be playing with Barbies and doing their hair and matching their clothes. It’s so fun. I finally got the Barbie dream house after all these years, too. I mean, SHE, my daughter, finally got the Barbie dream house. I do require that all of her Barbies and Ken dolls remain clothed at all times. I did learn a little bit about proper child-rearing.
Dear Seth MacFarlane, Alec Sulkin, and Wellesley Wild (creators of TED):
Although I love Mark Wahlberg and his sexy body, I did not see the movie, Ted. However, I do believe you will enjoy this story. Readers, you know when you are on vacation and at a souvenir shop with your family and the shopping gets chaotic? Well, we were at a store called IT’S SUGAR (yum), in Charleston, South Carolina. As you can imagine, my three young children were in hog heaven, picking out numerous amounts of sugar-induced candy and goodies. My husband is the worst of them. He’s a sugar-a-holic. Anyway, my daughter kept bugging me to buy her a talking TED stuffed animal. Of course, I refused. She was 3-years-old at the time. I decided to wait in the front of the store for everyone to pick out his/her treats and for my husband to pay for everything.
Once we were in the car, my husband handed the bag to my oldest son to pass out the treats. My son gave the stuffed TED doll to my daughter. (I had no idea that she asked him to buy it.) Oblivious to anything other than the candy surrounding him, he mumbled a “yes” and paid for the toy. I grabbed the bear out of my son’s hand, turned off the radio, and put the bear to my husband’s ear, pushing the “play” button. Ted spewed something about what he was going to do to some chick and called my husband a “bastard.” The TED doll quickly went out the window. MEN!
Dear Godiva Chocolatier:
God, I love chocolate. Maybe Tiffany Kaszmetskie and I aren’t so different after all. I don’t know when I started saying “Holy Godiva,” but it certainly stuck. I say it all the time, and so do some of my friends. My children even say it. So, I guess I should be getting some kickbacks for promoting your yum at all times. I’ll accept a nice box of chocolate covered peanuts. Thank you in advance.
Dear Cameron Crowe (writer of Jerry Maguire):
I really liked the movie—a lot. Sure Cruise and Zellweger were great together, but man, do I love me some Cuba Gooding Jr. He was hot. Is he still hot? I have to Google him and check it out. Hold on… yep, he still is. Granted, he’s aging, but aren’t we all? I’d still welcome him for a round of fun.
This novella, All Girls’ School, is dedicated to all the couples out there that cannot be who they truly are and love who their hearts desire. May there come a time in the very near future when all love is put on a pedestal and respected for what it is: unconditional, undying love. To my wonderful friend and her beloved wife, your love and devotion to each other is an inspiration to all of us. Thank you for having the courage and strength to stand tall and proud, holding on to one another for courage, for love, and for life.
IF I PULL an all-nighter tonight, then I can sleep in tomorrow morning and into the afternoon. Then, I can crack the physics book for a few hours after dinner tomorrow night and be ready for Monday’s midterm. I’ve already got adiabatic cooling and heating down. I’m just worried about all the allotropic forms. It gets confusing when the different structures—
“Uhhh Sar-bear, are you not into this?” Jake asks, bringing me back to the task at hand.
“What? Of course I am. How can you even ask me that?” I question, rolling out from underneath him.
“Well, I guess because your eyes were kind of glazed over like you were memorizing the Table of Elements,” he says, brushing the hair out of my eyes.
Not quite. Chemistry was last year.
“I can’t believe you would even question it,” I reply, scowling. “I mean, look at all I’ve done for this night. I got on the pill two months ago… I… I… stole the key to my aunt’s condo while she’s in Maui… I got…”
“Sarah, I know all that. But, just now, when I was trying… trying… you didn’t seem at all like you wanted to do this,” Jake explains, his brow furrowing. “If you’re not ready…”
“I am ready! I’ve been ready. I’m the one who’s been ready all along,” I argue.
“Listen to me, it’s not a big deal that Brooklyn told you that we’re probably the last virgins in our class. Being a virgin’s a good thing. It’s admirable—”
“Admirable my butt. Plus, I’m turning in my V-card for your big D-card tonight,” I joke, kissing his forehead. “Plus, you’re handing over your V-card to me tonight, too. It’s perfect.”
“Big D? It’s a good thing you have no other experience… it might be ‘Average D’ or ‘Okay D,’ but there’s no way it’s ‘Big D.’ I’ve seen—”
“Will you stop? It’s fine… and so big. I told you that the first time I touched it,” I explain.
“You have nothing to compare it to,” he argues again, kissing my neck.
“Yeah, just like when you told me that my tits were gorgeous… how many others have you touched?” I joke, giggling as he kisses my collarbone.
“Touched? None. Seen? Thousands,” he admits, maneuvering back between my legs.
“You might want to seek some therapy for that porn addiction,” I advise, spreading my legs further.
Again, he begins pressing his fingers inside of me. “Are you sure it’s just a myth?”
“Of course it is… women don’t walk around getting wet and dripping down their legs, because they’re so turned on… it’s just something people talk about for fun,” I say, hoping like Hell he believes me. I know that girls get wet. I just think there’s something wrong with me. I just can’t see to relax enough and let go when Jake and I are fooling around. “They wouldn’t sell Vaseline and KY Jelly if girls really did get wet… just lick your hand or something and rub it on your thing, so it can slide in.”
“My thing? God, we are a bunch of damn amateurs. Don’t you have any Vaseline?” he asks, looking around.
“Yeah sure, right here in my aunt’s nightstand,” I quip, slapping his arm, playfully. “No! Of course I don’t carry around—wait—yes I do,” I say, sitting up. “Grab m
y purse! I’ve got that squeeze Vaseline for my lips.”
Jake gets up and walks to the chair, grabbing my purse. Handing it to me, he sits on the bed, waiting for me to find my tube of lube. I can’t believe we’re really going to do this. Granted, we’ve been dating for over three years. It’s our senior year; we’re both eighteen. It’s probably time. Brooklyn’s right. We really might be the last virgins in our grade—maybe even the school. It’s now or never.
I squeeze a giant glob of Vaseline on my hand and rub it on his… his… thing. Yeah, I have to go with “thing.” I really can’t bring myself to say anything else. Everything else sounds so vulgar, so gross. I don’t even like looking at it. It looks like a misplaced organ, just hanging out—all veiny and gross.
Okay, so maybe we aren’t mature enough to handle this if we can’t even talk about it with actual adult terms. But Brooklyn stated the obvious. We’ve been going out for so long. We love each other. What’s the hold up? We might as well. Right? It’s just sex. No big deal.
Jake crawls between my legs again, slick and slimy from the Vaseline. I stretch my legs apart as far as they’ll go, hoping that we can just get this over with. Pressing himself at my opening, he looks in my eyes and says, “I love you, Sar-bear.”
Smiling, I say, “I love you too, Jake-potato.”
I do.
I really do.
There is nobody else in this world I’d rather hand my virginity to on a silver slimy platter. He’s my best friend, the person who’s always been there for me. If we actually do get married and have kids, then we’re the next country song waiting to happen. If he would’ve grown up next door to me, then Kenny Chesney and Tim McGraw would be salivating and vying for the rights to sing our “love story.”
Jake Tyler and I have been friends since middle school when I couldn’t figure out how to crack an egg without ten shells filling the bowl in Family Living, aka home ec. class. Jake’s a natural in the kitchen—has always been a regular Betty Crocker, or Betty Jaker, as I’ve always called him. I have a whole slew of goofy nicknames for him. He helped me bake my cookies; I let him copy off me in science, sealing our friendship with baking soda and Bunsen burners.
Then, freshman year, I didn’t have a date to homecoming and his trampy girlfriend broke up with him to go to the dance with some senior football player. Freshman girls should not, repeat not, go to dances with senior boys. That was the start of Amberly’s slutty stage. I’ll let you know when it’s over. She’s the skankiest senior in our class, and poor Jake never got to reap any of her benefits when everyone else in our school has. Anyway, Jake and I went to the dance together, had a blast, basically because we were together and have been ever since.
Together works for us.
It will be hard to leave him in a few months.
Kissing me again, he lines himself up at my opening, waiting again for my nod of approval. Jake might be more nervous than I am. I just want to get this over with and check one more menial thing off my senior year “to do” list.
As he pushes through the threshold, I gasp and whimper. “Are you okay?” he asks, his face full of worry.
“Yes, just keep going,” I say, holding my breath and wincing at the pain shooting through my center, threatening to rip me in half. Yeah, I’m pretty certain he’s enormous; otherwise this wouldn’t feel as awful as it does. God Almighty, we must be doing it wrong. It hurts like Hell. I’m adding this to the list of stupid things that people do—or get used to.
With cigarettes.
And beer.
The first time I tried smoking a cigarette, I hacked up my lung and left it in the neighbor clubhouse all black and charred. The stupid neighbor boys that I was with told me that I’d “get used to it.” Why in the world would I want to get used to that shit? So I could die earlier? No thanks. I’ll keep my lungs all clear and shiny, thank you.
Then shortly after the cancer-stick incident, I tried a beer at a party. I gagged and had to swallow it down like the vomit that comes up during class that you just can’t let loose everywhere, otherwise you’ll never live it down. The beer was sour and bitter. I heard those stupid words again, “You’ll get used to it.” Again, I’ll pass and stick to alcoholic froufrou drinks that still do the trick, but taste rather refreshing.
I don’t think I’ll be able to pass on sex again though. Jake looks pretty into it. God, I don’t really feel much like “getting used to” having my insides torn in half and feeling what it must feel like to be a wall when someone’s drilling holes all the way through it. This is far from enjoyable. It’s the opposite of enjoyable.
“Oh my God, this feel so… so… so… ahhh,” Jake growls like a wounded animal, his eyes squeezing shut and his body tightening before he slumps down on top of me, nearly suffocating me.
“Ummm, okay,” I say, patting him on the back, encouraging him to give me an air hole to breathe out of.
“Sarah, I’m so sorry. I couldn’t… I couldn’t help it. I didn’t know it was going to feel that good… I mean, I hoped, but I had no idea,” Jake admits, his eyes wide, grinning from ear-to-ear. “Give me a minute… and wow… I can make it up to you.”
“Jake, there’s no rush,” I say, running my hands through his hair.
There is no way in Hell we’re doing this again tonight. I’m sure I’m going to need to get stitched back up after this. What’s that called when you have a baby, and they have to cut your crotch and then sew it back together? Episi-ectomy or something? I think I need one of those, for sure.
Continuing, I add, “No need to rush round two… plus I have that physics midterm on Monday. I want to get home and start studying.”
“Physics? That’s what you’re thinking about?” he asks, his face pained.
“Of course I’m thinking about physics. When am I not thinking about school? If I don’t get a scholarship for James Madison, then I’m going to—”
“Kill yourself… I know. I’ve heard it a thousand times before,” he says, sitting up and turning away from me. “I just thought that maybe tonight… you could have something else on your mind.”
“Come on, don’t do this now,” I say, wrapping my arms around his back and kissing his shoulder. “I’m sorry… you’re right. That was insensitive of me.”
“I just thought that maybe if we’d… ya know… made love, then you’d maybe consider not moving to Virginia… and… and… go to school here… in Ohio,” he admits, holding my hands against his chest.
“Jake, you don’t want me to choose you over my dreams… we both know what happens when people do that… look at our parents… total assholes,” I remind him, scooting around to face him. “And they’re only assholes, because they didn’t pursue their real dreams.”
“I know, you’re right. I just wish we wouldn’t have already decided to break up before college. After tonight… it’s going to be impossible to let you go,” he says, playing with my hair.
“Stop, we have months before I leave,” I say, snuggling my head onto his shoulder. “Think of all the sex and fun we can have for the rest of the year…”
“But then you’re going to leave and I’ll be here—”
“Here meeting all kinds of hot chicks that you’ll tell me all about,” I say, smiling. “And you better, because I don’t want you moping around waiting for me. We’ve already talked about this.”
“What if I don’t meet anyone and when you come home—in four years—we could just pick right back up where we left off?” he asks, hopefully.
“I won’t want you then,” I say, laughing. “Why would I want a douchebag who waited four years for some chick? That’s just lame.”
“Jesus Sarah, can you just be serious for one second?” he asks, shaking his head.
“Jake, I am being serious,” I explain honestly. “You know I don’t want any distractions or anything tying me down in college. You need to decide—right here and now. Are you okay ending this when I leave… or should we just do it now?”
&n
bsp; “Sarah, I don’t want—”
“Choose, eight or so more months with me or two more minutes—you decide?”
“Damn it,” he says, running his hands through his hair. “If I can’t have forever—then I’ll take the eight months.”
“Well God, don’t sound so happy about it,” I say, trying to lighten the mood.
“I’m not,” he says. “Letting you go means that I’m just going to hand you over to some other guy in Virginia who could never love you as much as I do.”
JAMES MADISON UNIVERSITY
Spring Semester
Sophomore Year
I DON’T UNDERSTAND all this elective crap. If I wanted to major in it, then I’d study it. This linguistics course is getting me nowhere in my life. It’s a succubus and sucking my soul right out of me. The reason electives even exist is so the university can drain more money out of poor and struggling college students. Not all of us have parents who are just dying to give us money and shower us with care packages every Tuesday filled with gift cards and weekly “I promise to love you forever” checks.
College life has made me cynical and morose. I thought getting away from high school, my parents’ reign, and the humdrum life of Northeast Ohio would be the answer to my caged lioness feelings. I was wrong. So wrong. Now, I feel like a free lion roaming around in a society still concerned with all the same crap that high school thrived on. I wanted out. I got out, but walked back into another place that looks sadly the same. But this time around, I can at least buy beer.
Ahhh beer. Yeah, you do get used to it. The proverbial “they” were right.
And sex, you get used to that too.
If given a choice though, beer always wins out.
