This story is a bit wordy and fairly long, so if you are looking for immediate gratification, you might want to look elsewhere. It contains heterosexual and lesbian sexual activity.
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The following story is a work of fiction. Any resemblance between actual persons, living or dead (or just confused) is entirely coincidental. Please do not copy/redistribute the story, in part or in total, without the author's permission.
This story takes place in the entirely fictional city of Springfield, California, so don't go looking for it on a map. And in my little fictional world, there are no unwanted pregnancies or STD's, except as plot driving devices. The author encourages the practice of safe-sex.
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Keith Brooks was in no small amount of pain and discomfort as he sat in Mr. Primley's office. Mr. Primley was the principal of Springfield High School, and was by all accounts a decent enough fellow, but he looked about as furious as his pasty face would allow.
Keith was the blonde-haired, blue-eyed American dream. He was a handsome, eighteen year old boy and was going to have one last great summer playing baseball and hopefully bringing the school its first state championship in ten years. Assuming his arm healed in time.
It was Keith's injured arm that had brought him and one other student to the principal's office. The other student was Pat Baker. Pat was, in fact, a girl. In every school, you had to have one Keith and one Pat. Keith was the one everyone wanted to be like. Pat was the freak that everyone crossed the street to avoid.
It wasn't that Pat was repulsive by any stretch of the imagination. She had short, spiky black hair on top of a darkly beautiful face. Her skin was pale, her eyes and indecipherable mix of gray and green adorned with annoying perfect natural lashes, her cheekbones were high and her lips seemed deliciously full. But her face also appeared to be made of stone. No one had ever seen her smile.
Pat was known for her almost hermit-like nature. She interacted with no one. She spoke only when required by her teachers. She wore the exact same clothes every day (smartly pressed olive-green slacks and a black tee shirt) and ate the exact same thing every day. This was confirmed by the geeks from the computer club that spied on anything more peculiar than them. There were no first hand accounts of her eating habits. She never had lunch with other people.
Keith was a nice guy. But he was also a teenaged boy, and teenage boys do incredibly stupid and asinine things when faced with three simple but dangerous words: "I dare you . . ."
A number of leaders in the school's social hierarchy had been chatting during lunch about the endless plethora of trivial items that dominated the thought processes of the hormonally challenged. One such topic of conversation is why the school weridos were . . . well, weird. They had already gone over the goths, the computer club members, the hippies and the white kids who thought they were gangster rappers (despite driving Volkswagen Beetles) before the conversation stopped on topic-zero . . . Ms. Pat Baker.
"She is such a freak. I mean, she HAS to be a dyke," one of the school council members had said.
"I heard her dad was in prison," said someone else.
"I wouldn't be surprised at ALL. She's only here this year because she got held back from missing a bunch of classes."
"I'll bet she worships Satan."
And the conversation had carried on for a while after that, particularly in regards to assumptions of the girl's sexual orientation.
"I bet she's straight," another girl had said. "I mean I've never seen her checking out any of the girls in gym."
"What's her bod like?" one of the football players had asked.
"Hard as a rock," a jealous sounding girl had replied. "I mean seriously, does the girl do anything BUT work out?"
Pat had been known to spend her free period in the school's weight room rather than going off campus or anything. It wasn't like she needed to study. When she showed up to class, she got top marks. And in her math classes, she was scary-smart. She was taking the most advanced classes the school offered in mathematics and was finishing the homework before class was even over.
"We NEED to find out if she's a great big lesbo or just a freak," the first girl proclaimed. "Someone has GOT to hit on her." The question then became, who would it be? All eyes had fallen on Keith. He had no girlfriend at that time, and it was just assumed that no girl could resist his charm. When getting fed THAT kind of support, it was hard to resist the will of the mob.
It was a simple plan. Approach her, talk to her, and ask her out. Use all the charm he needed. He wasn't expected to actually go out with her if she said yes. Even though Keith had agreed, he had a horrible feeling of guilt in his stomach even as he had approached Pat in the hall after school as she was making her daily dash off campus. For some reason, she always seemed to be in a hurry as soon as the bell rang. She had never done anything to him, and she really didn't deserve to be humiliated. But the mob had spoken.
"Hey," he said, dropping in stride beside her.
She kept walking, showing no recognition of his presence.
"You're Pat, right?"
She had kept going.
Keith had gotten a little annoyed. He forgot that he was just part of a scheme to mess with the girl. She was being rude! He got in front of her, moving left or right as she tried to get around. Finally she met his eyes, and her stare was as cold as the other side of the pillow.
"Get out of my way," she said crisply. "I have to go."
"I just want to talk," he had said, flashing his best smile.
"Get a psychiatrist," she had shot back, moving to once again get around him and once again getting blocked.
"Ouch! Good one!" He had been simmering inwardly. He hadn't done anything that deserved that treatment. Yet. "Hey, I was just wondering if you'd like to . . ."
He had gotten cut off as she did a nifty spin move and squeaked past him. That was when he had lost his cool for just a moment and had made his mistake. He had reached out and grabbed her arm.
Keith had found himself with his face smashed against one of the school lockers, her arm twisted behind him. He was in a lot of pain. His face was hurting and his shoulder and elbow were both throbbing.
"Don't you EVER lay a hand on me," she had whispered, her voice filled with almost brutal tension. "Ever!" She released him and walked out the door. Several of his cronies helped him out, but the damage had been done, both to his arm and his pride. He had just been slapped around by a girl.
The next day, he and Pat had both been called into Mr. Primely's office during first period. The entire incident had been witnessed, everyone had pointed the finger at Pat as the person to blame, and now the starting pitcher for the school's baseball team had his arm in a sling, his shoulder hurting from having almost been popped out of the socket and his elbow bruised. The doctor's told him he'd be fine for the rest of the season, but it had given the team and student body a good scare. The rumors were flying even as this meeting was taking place.
"I will not tolerate this kind of behavior at this school," Mr. Primely said firmly. He kept glancing at Pat, whose eyes were trained on the floor. "Look at me, Ms. Baker. What do you have to say for yourself?"
Her eyes snapped up, but she didn't look angry at the principal. She opened her mouth. "I was attempting to leave the premises at 15:30 hours. Mr. Brooks placed himself between me and the door and blocked passage. I got around him and he grabbed my wrist, in direct violation of school policy on appropriate physical contact. Sir."
Keith just stared at her. She was acting like this was a trial. "She completely overreacted," he said, looking back at the principal. "I was just trying to talk to her and . . ."
"He initiated physical contact that was obviously unwelcome. I was defending myself," Pat interrupted.
