THE S CLUB

Neil assumed even a greater haughty veneer. He incorporated a top heavy posture and seemed to always be walking downhill. The gait seethed of rebellion. His lips were pasted in a grin that was smug to some silent joke.

“Eddie my boy,” he announced, ”The S Club is finally getting some new blood, or should I say, tits!”

I had an after school headache and I hated people. Especially people my own age. ”What?” I said agitated at the prospect of being alive. “What for Chrissake?”

“The S Club is getting some tits,” he said. “Big beautiful bouncy handfuls of tits.” he was thrilled. “And she fucks too.”

“Who is it?” I inquired.

“Ronnie La Neere,” he answered.

“Ronnie La Neere,” I said, “but she is such a skunk.”

“Yeah, I know,” he swaggered, “but she is a skunk who will strip and do more.” He made a fist of anticipation. “Oh boy! That will be some Friday afternoon.” He strutted ten feet in front of me and then swooped back to me. “Imagine, my boy,” boasted Neil. ”Great big beautiful tits.”

The trouble was that they were Ronnie La Neere’s tits. Ronnie continuously chewed gun and listened to the Top Forty. She did more that just identify with its themes, she became its themes. When the Wall of Sound burst forth from the radio, she became animated, rolled her shoulders in syncopation of the melody. For three minutes in her depraved life, Ronnie would be happy.

“Ugh,” I said, ”You can have those tits.”

Still tits were tits. Big beautiful gorgeous bosoms. Pink wondrous cantaloupes with plum nipples on them.

“When is she gonna be over?” I asked.

“This Friday,” he said. ”Gee that will be twenty second of November. The day of that I first get laid!” Neil whooped it up. “A day that will go down in history.”