aplus
03-17-2005, 11:30 AM
I would appreciate crits and compliments on this one...I am not usre how I feel about it, and I am still tinkering with it...holla back...1
Higher Learning
Whether it was drugs, booze, or destructive behavior, Latoya Wilson’s entire family was hooked on something. But for me, it was her face which became my first addiction. She had a curved jaw line, gentle features, and cute eyebrows shaped like crescent-moons. Latoya’s confidence projected a vibe of effortless cool. I enjoyed the rhythm of her voice, how she transitioned from dull bass to smiling soprano within the same sentence. My hormones forced me to stare at her during class. I even became fascinated by the silver ring wrapped around her second to last toe.
My infatuation was heightened by that curiosity all adolescent boys have about the opposite sex. During an extended conversation in study hall, we established that the attraction was mutual. However, I was still terrified that Latoya would catch me peeking at the pointed impressions of her young nipples underneath her thin yellow blouse. The insane idea that she might somehow hear the blood rushing to my penis made me incredibly nervous.
In order to ignore my rising thoughts, I smiled and focused on her hair; it was parted in the middle and spread out around her face like a silken halo. After school, Latoya gave me one of those baby goodbye waves where only the tips of her fingers moved. Soon we became inseparable, at least by teenage standards.
Through late night phone conversations, I discovered that Latoya was the daughter of a broken man. She was predestined to have a car wreck of a childhood. As we became closer, I was transfixed with this collision of family and failure. Latoya was the oldest child, a premarital accident who shouldered verbal and physical abuse for every mistake. Despite being unappreciated, she still covered for her parents, handling way more than her share of lies to compensate for their constant screw-ups.
But this is really not my story to write. It isn’t my responsibility to tell you about Latoya’s kid sister who willingly sold sex to neighborhood boys, her brother who was serving time upstate in a juvenile facility, or her drunken mother who chased absolution in liquor bottles when she wasn’t resting her scotch-soaked bones. And I probably shouldn’t discuss the apartment she grew up in, a government-subsidized shoebox cluttered with dirty dishes, ashtrays, roaches, and despair.
It’s also not my place to talk about Latoya’s deadbeat father, a scruffy blob who always wore a sweat-soaked tank top. The man would literally down a foot-long hoagie with a resounding belch and then roll back onto the couch, absorbed by his laziness. Even though the family could barely manage to pay bills, this sloth worked only when he wanted. And he had a wicked right jab for anyone who questioned his flimsy work ethic or his lies. I never actually witnessed her father’s temper, but I saw tangible evidence of its existence on Latoya’s body: bruises, scrapes, swollen eyes, and three burn marks from unfiltered cigarettes.
I cannot provide all this background information without telling you the truth. And the truth never seems to fall into your lap; you almost always have to search for it. One day, I followed Latoya home and discovered that the girl I adored was hiding a shady secret. I found all this out during our senior year. It was a time when I was ambivalent towards the future, still sheltered inside the womb of high school yet easily influenced by peers.
Latoya was disgusted by her habit. She only did it to cope with the unhealthy atmosphere her family had created. She maintained that she could quit at any time, but her voice sounded unsure about that claim. I didn’t get it, but I desperately wanted to understand. Remembering back, Latoya warned me that I would love it, and then I would be willing to do anything for it. She even forced me to wait a few days, despite my eagerness to feel the way that she felt.
Residuals of the drug looked like dirty powdered sugar or chalk dust. I caught a glimpse of it on her nightstand and framed the picture within my memory. Reluctantly I slept that night, imagining syringes and opiates. My urges soon transformed into an obsession. I reveled in the concept of trying it. Despite her reservations, Latoya decided to help me fulfill my dreams. She told me to come over Friday night, a time when we would most likely be unsupervised.
Rugged metal jabbed perforated my vein while a plastic plunger pushed waves of ecstasy into my bloodstream. My arm felt like scorched earth. Retreating to her bedroom, I clenched my legs up to my torso, tightened my fingers into fists, and sweated away the remainder of my rejected innocence. After carefully injecting her own dosage, Latoya flung the door open and stalked towards me, asking if I was okay. She rubbed my hard-muscled, cylindrical neck, coaxing me to find relaxation within the sting of the high.
Once the rush smoothed out, we made love.
Compared to trying smack, unprotected teenage sex seemed rather bland. But we went at it anyway, out of some deviant form of obligation. Besides, I was more than happy to let Latoya take care of the rigid erection I had been sporting all night. I methodically placed puckered kisses on her mahogany skin. Once my tongue touched her throat, her chin pointed up towards the ceiling. I carefully unlocked the second and third buttons of her blouse. My fingertips gradually caressed the scars that her father’s tobacco sticks had left behind. We fu*ked furiously, momentarily forgetting about this torturous world.
Latoya abruptly crashed to sleep fifteen minutes later, after halfheartedly faking a climax. Remaining awake, I savored the destructive potential of the heroin with the passion that women must feel after having rough sex; I enjoyed having it inside of me, but I couldn't comprehend why bliss had to be coupled with pain. At that point, I realized that Latoya could never want me as much as she wanted another fix. And that didn’t bother me, because I felt the same way.
Higher Learning
Whether it was drugs, booze, or destructive behavior, Latoya Wilson’s entire family was hooked on something. But for me, it was her face which became my first addiction. She had a curved jaw line, gentle features, and cute eyebrows shaped like crescent-moons. Latoya’s confidence projected a vibe of effortless cool. I enjoyed the rhythm of her voice, how she transitioned from dull bass to smiling soprano within the same sentence. My hormones forced me to stare at her during class. I even became fascinated by the silver ring wrapped around her second to last toe.
My infatuation was heightened by that curiosity all adolescent boys have about the opposite sex. During an extended conversation in study hall, we established that the attraction was mutual. However, I was still terrified that Latoya would catch me peeking at the pointed impressions of her young nipples underneath her thin yellow blouse. The insane idea that she might somehow hear the blood rushing to my penis made me incredibly nervous.
In order to ignore my rising thoughts, I smiled and focused on her hair; it was parted in the middle and spread out around her face like a silken halo. After school, Latoya gave me one of those baby goodbye waves where only the tips of her fingers moved. Soon we became inseparable, at least by teenage standards.
Through late night phone conversations, I discovered that Latoya was the daughter of a broken man. She was predestined to have a car wreck of a childhood. As we became closer, I was transfixed with this collision of family and failure. Latoya was the oldest child, a premarital accident who shouldered verbal and physical abuse for every mistake. Despite being unappreciated, she still covered for her parents, handling way more than her share of lies to compensate for their constant screw-ups.
But this is really not my story to write. It isn’t my responsibility to tell you about Latoya’s kid sister who willingly sold sex to neighborhood boys, her brother who was serving time upstate in a juvenile facility, or her drunken mother who chased absolution in liquor bottles when she wasn’t resting her scotch-soaked bones. And I probably shouldn’t discuss the apartment she grew up in, a government-subsidized shoebox cluttered with dirty dishes, ashtrays, roaches, and despair.
It’s also not my place to talk about Latoya’s deadbeat father, a scruffy blob who always wore a sweat-soaked tank top. The man would literally down a foot-long hoagie with a resounding belch and then roll back onto the couch, absorbed by his laziness. Even though the family could barely manage to pay bills, this sloth worked only when he wanted. And he had a wicked right jab for anyone who questioned his flimsy work ethic or his lies. I never actually witnessed her father’s temper, but I saw tangible evidence of its existence on Latoya’s body: bruises, scrapes, swollen eyes, and three burn marks from unfiltered cigarettes.
I cannot provide all this background information without telling you the truth. And the truth never seems to fall into your lap; you almost always have to search for it. One day, I followed Latoya home and discovered that the girl I adored was hiding a shady secret. I found all this out during our senior year. It was a time when I was ambivalent towards the future, still sheltered inside the womb of high school yet easily influenced by peers.
Latoya was disgusted by her habit. She only did it to cope with the unhealthy atmosphere her family had created. She maintained that she could quit at any time, but her voice sounded unsure about that claim. I didn’t get it, but I desperately wanted to understand. Remembering back, Latoya warned me that I would love it, and then I would be willing to do anything for it. She even forced me to wait a few days, despite my eagerness to feel the way that she felt.
Residuals of the drug looked like dirty powdered sugar or chalk dust. I caught a glimpse of it on her nightstand and framed the picture within my memory. Reluctantly I slept that night, imagining syringes and opiates. My urges soon transformed into an obsession. I reveled in the concept of trying it. Despite her reservations, Latoya decided to help me fulfill my dreams. She told me to come over Friday night, a time when we would most likely be unsupervised.
Rugged metal jabbed perforated my vein while a plastic plunger pushed waves of ecstasy into my bloodstream. My arm felt like scorched earth. Retreating to her bedroom, I clenched my legs up to my torso, tightened my fingers into fists, and sweated away the remainder of my rejected innocence. After carefully injecting her own dosage, Latoya flung the door open and stalked towards me, asking if I was okay. She rubbed my hard-muscled, cylindrical neck, coaxing me to find relaxation within the sting of the high.
Once the rush smoothed out, we made love.
Compared to trying smack, unprotected teenage sex seemed rather bland. But we went at it anyway, out of some deviant form of obligation. Besides, I was more than happy to let Latoya take care of the rigid erection I had been sporting all night. I methodically placed puckered kisses on her mahogany skin. Once my tongue touched her throat, her chin pointed up towards the ceiling. I carefully unlocked the second and third buttons of her blouse. My fingertips gradually caressed the scars that her father’s tobacco sticks had left behind. We fu*ked furiously, momentarily forgetting about this torturous world.
Latoya abruptly crashed to sleep fifteen minutes later, after halfheartedly faking a climax. Remaining awake, I savored the destructive potential of the heroin with the passion that women must feel after having rough sex; I enjoyed having it inside of me, but I couldn't comprehend why bliss had to be coupled with pain. At that point, I realized that Latoya could never want me as much as she wanted another fix. And that didn’t bother me, because I felt the same way.