The students in this story are in their final semester of high school, and all of them are 18 years old. Copies of their birth certificates are on file in the principal's office.
*****
The girls always took a little longer than we did to get ready, and so we always had to wait for them to come out. We'd mill around self consciously in the middle of the gym. You put fifteen naked guys together anywhere and they're going to mill around self consciously.
Finally the girls would come out, in a single tight little group. Even clear across the gym you could see that they were naked too—bare legs, bare feet, bare chests, bare everything. They shuffled their way toward us, just as self conscious as we were.
There was Gretchen P, who just fifteen minutes ago in Civics class had answered a tough question about the Supreme Court with the confidence of a National Merit semifinalist, now embarrassed to have the whole world see that her breasts and her bottom were just as perfect as her SAT scores.
There was Nancy W, who sat beside me in Calculus, blushing for all she was worth and trying to remain inconspicuous in the middle of the pack.
There was Harriet T, whom I'd known since kindergarten, trying to pretend she didn't mind that I was looking at her vagina.
And there were our fifteen teenage penises, fully exposed, nowhere to hide, getting more and more self conscious with every step closer they took.
—
Mr Palmer blew his whistle. We formed up into two parallel lines, the boys on one side, the girls on the other. Mr Palmer had played basketball in college and took it for granted that everyone knew. He called the roll, strutting up and down in his faded gym shorts and open-mesh jersey. His pretty assistant, Ms Latimer, stood to the side.
After roll call came the inspection. Mr Palmer inspected the girls, and Ms Latimer inspected the boys. Ms Latimer was just a couple years out of college herself, with a perky, athletic figure and a jaunty blonde ponytail. She was wearing baby blue cotton shorts and a navy sports top.
We boys were supposed to keep our cocks and our balls clean shaven, and our pubic hair trimmed to regulation length. Ms Latimer had told us that most girls these days, herself included, found the nude look to be much more attractive than the unruly rats' nests we'd had at the beginning of the semester. Needless to say, nobody wanted to be seen as unattractive in Ms Latimer's eyes. We all took our grooming pretty seriously.
She walked down the line, scrutinizing each of us in turn. Most of us still couldn't make it through the inspection without getting a boner. She just took them in stride, knowing we couldn't really help ourselves. In fact, it made the inspection a little easier for her.
If she was satisfied with your trim—no missed spots, no errant hairs—she'd look up and give you a friendly nod of approval. And her eye would always have a little twinkle in it, as if to say that, just between the two of you, she wasn't really as immune to your manliness as she was pretending to be.
Meanwhile, Mr Palmer was inspecting the girls. The code for them was about the same as it was for us. They had to shave or wax their vulvas and keep their pubic hair trim and tidy. But they also had to shave their legs. Mr Palmer made it a point to run his hand over each girl's thigh, front and back. He never touched anything else, but he always felt their thighs. For whatever reason, he always seemed more embarrassed than they did.
—
After inspection, Mr Palmer always started us off with calisthenics: jumping jacks, running in place, jazzercise kick-boxing. Because our two lines faced each other, we couldn't help but see the way the girls' boobies bounced around during these exercises. Nor could we help letting them see the flipping and flopping of our cocks. It was an object lesson for all of us never to take ourselves, or each other, too seriously.
Then sit ups. Then push ups. Then leg raises. Then halfway back and hold it. Nobody was thinking much about cocks and boobies now. Glycolitic depletion turns out to be a pretty powerful anaphrodesiac. Finally, mercifully, Mr Palmer blew his whistle. We collapsed to the floor. And as we lay there panting, Ms Latimer read out the partners for the day.
I got Meg B. Meg was one of the more reserved girls in class, someone you didn't always think of right off the bat. But, in fact, she was not a bad person to have as a partner. She was trim and reasonably fit, with pretty, petite breasts and pretty chestnut hair bobbed just above her chin. And, actually, a sweet, shy smile that kind of reminded me of the little mermaid. She smiled shyly as we paired up. The blood was starting to find its way back to my penis. And back, apparently, to her pretty mermaid nipples as well.
—
The day's activity was rope climbing. It was set up like a race to keep things exciting. Three pairs of students on each rope. We had Donny M on our team, so there was no way we were going to win. But at least we could shoot for not coming in last.
When it was our turn, Meg went first. She grabbed the rope, jumped up on the knot, reached higher, hauled herself up a good several feet, wrapped the rope around her leg, and stepped on it with her other foot to brace for the next haul.
From my vantage point below it was a pretty explicit lesson in neuromuscular movement science—the strain and release of her biceps and shoulders, the flexing of her buttocks, the tautness of her calves. And of course I couldn't help but notice the pursing and unpursing of her pretty anus as well. It's kind of intimate, I guess, to be given such a close-up view of your classmate's private parts. But it's kind of sweet too.
Eight pulls and she touched the bar, then slid back down, breathing deeply, her chest deeply flushed. "Good job," I called as she jumped down and I jumped up. I used to worry about my equipment getting tangled up in the rope, but that doesn't really happen. I concentrated on climbing and tried not to be too self conscious about the anatomy lesson I was providing to Meg.
Three climbs each pair, in rotation. The first pair in each team wore a sash around their waists so we could keep track of how each team was doing. First and second place were pretty well assured, but we battled hard for third and won it by half a rope. Bashful shoulder hugs all around.
—
The position of the day was something called the Catherine wheel. This was the most nerve-wracking part of the class, hoping to avoid being chosen for the demonstration. Fortunately, Mr Palmer called on Ned B and Susan C. They went sheepishly forward, and the rest of us breathed a collective sigh of relief.
It was one of those complicated kamasutra positions, and Mr Palmer and Ms Latimer had to go over it a couple of times to get Ned and Susan arranged the way they wanted them. He ended up sort of half sitting on the mat, half lounging back on one elbow, with her sitting on his lap and leaning back on both of her arms. She had her legs wrapped around his middle, and he had one of his legs hooked around her waist. The demonstration never involved actual penetration, and so Ned's erect penis was sticking out perpendicularly, poking between Susan's thighs. The two of them were red with embarrassment.
"You're on top in this position, ladies," lectured Mr Palmer. "You control the action. Brace yourself with your arms and thrust yourself back and forth." Susan did her best to illustrate, hyper aware that what everyone was looking at was the way her pussy lips kept kissing up to the underside of Ned's rigid cock.
"But you boys have to help," Ms Latimer chimed in. "Use your leg and your free hand to guide your partner's movement." Presumably, that's what Ned was trying to do.
"You can also use your hand to stimulate her manually," Mr Palmer continued.
"To gently caress her clitoris and her breasts," Ms Latimer explained. Susan's slit was already glistening. Ned brought his hand up and teased it gently.
