This is a story about sex. And a story about sweaty high school locker rooms. It's a story about both, actually.
But mostly, this is a story about some really poor decision-making.
And I know what you're thinking! "Yeah, of course there's some poor decision-making! The do-goods and the try-hards rarely wind up in reluctant, erotic stories, right?" Well, you're wrong. I was a do-good and a try-hard throughout high school, but a couple really bad decisions just weeks before graduation led me to the wildest gym class of my life.
The first bad decision was this: I skipped gym class.
My second bad decision was this: I skipped gym class again.
I bet you can guess what my third bad decision was. And my fourth.
You see, I was a do-good and a try-hard in, say, English class, or Ancient Greek Roots and Origins, or Medieval Poetry. I could work my ass off for a single test in Physics. My GPA, for the classes that (vaguely) mattered, was nearly a 4.0. My life was together, I was 18, set to graduate, committed to a damn fine liberal arts college on the East Coast, and making all the right choices. The one thing I couldn't get right was that fucking gym class.
And it's not like I wasn't in good shape. Was I a little on the shapely side? Sure. I had some solid thighs. I could Netflix with the best of them. But I could chill with the best of them, too, and I was nimble and fit enough to do so. Like any other teen, I was a lazy oaf, but I was horny enough and young enough to keep my body in shape.
So it wasn't that I couldn't handle the mind-numbing intensity of public school gym class at the end of my senior year. I was just lazy.
I mean, what motivation did I have for showing up anyway? I'd committed to a college, my GPA was doing just fine (and if it wasn't, I don't think I'd care), and there were much more interesting things to do during that period, like breaking my friends out of chemistry or hooking up in the band room, or both. Who cared about that fucking gym class?
But on this particular day, exactly 18 days before the end of my senior year, I did. Because, as my teacher Mr. Stokes kindly informed me at the beginning of the period, "You're going to fail. If you miss another class of gym, you're going to fail, Carly, and I'm not sure we can give you your diploma if you don't get your final gym credit."
Fucking gym class.
So I'm standing there, in front of this hawk-nosed, wide-mouthed, beady-eyed stud of a gym teacher, and I do what any failing teenage girl would do.
You probably think I sucked his dick, right? Or showed him my tits? Hell no. Guy's not even good-looking. And so old he'd probably have a heart attack before I could murmur the words, "Wanna talk about this in your office?" while showing off the cleavage between my small, firm breasts.
Nah. I just lied.
"I completely understand, Mr. Stokes," I said, beaming with all the sweet, scholarly purity I could muster. "Thank you for this warning. But right now, I've got this horrible headache coming on. Could I please visit the nurse's office?"
It took a while for that one to go through his thick skull (no doubt struggling to detect my lie), but he eventually let me, and I darted out of the sweaty, musty gym quicker than a dateless boy at prom. I walked down the hallway to the nurse's office for a little bit, just in case anyone was following me, and then ducked through the door into the girls' locker room.
The ceilings were really low in there and skirted with some dim fluorescent bulbs. The rows of lockers surrounding me were all painted the same dull shade of grey, the painter's equivalent of an out-of-tune banjo. And it smelled like sweat. And perfume. And maybe chicken nuggets? I couldn't really pin down that last scent.
But most importantly, it was empty, and I wanted to take a second to figure out how long I could possibly be at the nurse's before anyone realized I was gone. I sat down on a low wood bench, relaxed a little bit, and then freaked the fuck out.
Shit shit shit shit shit.
Someone was coming into the locker room.
Two people. I could hear their voices.
I made another bad decision.
I tiptoed further into the girls' locker room, shoved myself into the nearest locker, and pulled the door firmly behind me.
Little did I know, by closing that door, I had sealed my terrible, unfortunate, embarrassing, and incredibly hot fate.
Tony and Amanda were walking into the girl's locker room. And I didn't even have to wonder why Amanda would be taking her boyfriend into the girl's locker room.
The two had been dating for, like, three years at that point, which is borderline absurd for a high school relationship. They weren't particularly good-looking or likeable as far as couples go, but everyone knew that Tony and Amanda had a ridiculous amount of sex.
