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GFOFORUMS » SLUTS » Writing » Easter Sweater

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Travis Rowdy

Getting Fucked On

Posts: 4
Registered: 13-10-2009
Member Is Offline

posted on 12-12-2009 at 11:00 PM

Easter Sweater

Freddy and I talked for the first time after his blood splattered my sweater. It was a Tuesday, in February, when he threw his face into his desk with all his strength. I sat to the right and one desk behind him in every class we’ve had. Last semester we had two classes together, in February we only had one.

I never knew what to say to Freddy. I had a crush on him. Whenever I spoke with someone I liked my vocabulary would be reduced to simple adjectives such as “cool” and “great.” I would also blurt out cliché phrases ripped from a greeting card. I didn’t want him to think I was an idiot, so we never spoke. He would offer me welcoming glances. Eventually, I realized this was just a social function and these glances were offered to anyone who passed him.

On Tuesday his neck was sweating more than usual. His body was curled upright, waiting for a war, before he smashed his face. The majority of his blood sprayed out of his right nostril, decorating my canary-yellow sweater with a moist red blob. Freddy raised his head slowly after the incident. The blood restricted his breathing. He tried to breath out of his mouth and his nose simultaneously. “Ffftth, ffftth,” he went. Our professor, along with the rest of our class stared at Freddy, not knowing what to do. I stood up and offered to help clean Freddy’s wounds.

Whenever there is an emergency I forget all social order. I want to fix the problem, so if that means giving an old obese man mouth to mouth, or stripping the clothes off of a stranger to protect them from a chemical burn, so be it. I’ve done both of these things. It’s not because of some personal moral code but because injuries and medical emergencies put everything out of order for me. I grabbed his hand and led him to the single stalled bathroom across the hall. Freddy left a trail of blood on the grey linoleum floor.

I love a good massage, partly because it relieves stress and partly because it is the only physical intimacy I ever really receive. I always get an hour-long Swedish massage. I usually go for the strong hands of Ralph, but occasionally I enjoy the soft touch of Veronica. I got a massage on Sunday, two days before Freddy splashed blood on my favorite sweater.

Ralph spread his hands down my back. The massage parlor room smelled of eucalyptus, and Ralph’s sweat. He placed his elbow between my left shoulder blade and spine.

“You’re carrying a lot of tension here.” He told me.

“I know.” I admitted. “I can feel it.”

When we were in the bathroom I ran a dampened paper towel over Freddy’s face. His eyes looked frantic and confused.

“What did you do that for?” I asked
His eyes calmed and met mine. “I don’t like my face. It’s the ugliest thing I’ve ever seen. I’ve been wanting to smash it.”

“I like your face.” I ran my finger down his swollen nose. “But you’re carrying a lot of tension right here.”

He looked cross-eyed at his nose. “I know, I can feel it.” He looked down at the ground.
“I don’t like my nose, it curls up too much. It’s the reason I have a weird profile, ask anyone. I also have pores deeper than moon craters that you can see when I sweat. I have three dark hairs that grow out of my nose that will never go away. I am always red for no reason in a constant blush. Two minutes in the sun and I burn. When I shave, I bleed. When I sweat, I break out. I hate my face.” He was breathing heavily, ffftth, fffth.

“I see. I still disagree.” I smirked.

His face softened. “Do you like the things that I say in class?” he asked.

I smiled. “Yeah, I guess so.”

He slipped his coarse hand into mine. “Thank you for saying that, that’s nice of you to say.” He looked intently at my eyes. I looked away.

“You’re welcome. Why do you ask?”

He removed his hand.

“I hate the things I say. Words leave my mouth and I instantly want them back. People will stare at me, confused and annoyed. Now they will never look at me that way. They will only say, ‘Oh well, that guy is just crazy. He smashed his own fucking face into his desk. Let him say whatever he wants.’”

He looked at the stain on my sleeve. I was still wiping off the blood above his right eye, from his nostrils and along the bridge of his forehead. I turned towards the sink to wet another paper towel. He ran his index finger just below my left breast. I gripped the sink with both hands, wanting him to raise his hand and grab, but he continued tracing with his index finger alone. He traced downward, stopped briefly, then continued. I released my hands from the sink and slowly turned towards him.

“Wait!” he told me. “Don’t ruin it!”

He was drawing the head of a chick, mouth open, begging for a worm. He was beginning to draw a cracked egg covering the chick’s lower body. My sweater was his canvas and his paint was red. Blood red. His blood. He dabbed his finger under his nose and completed the piece. I thought of stopping him, but like he said, I would ruin it.

“There!” He grinned. He displayed his blood stained teeth.

“Your sweater reminds me of Easter.” He leaned back against the toilet, to get another perspective. He crossed his arms, exhaled, ffffffth, fffffth, saw that it was good and closed his eyes.

I stayed there with Freddy for a moment, breathing and grinning with him. He remained in his pose as I finished cleaning him off. I placed band-aids on the most resilient wounds.

“Freddy, are you awake?” I placed my hand on his shoulder. He lifted one eyelid at a time. “Of course.” With that Freddy rose from the toilet, left the bathroom, walked down the hall and drove home.

The next day I decided to wear the same canary-yellow sweater, letting Freddy know I appreciated being his muse.

I walked into the class I had with Freddy. He was absent.

I wore my sweater again on Thursday. Freddy was absent again.

On Friday Freddy came back to school, with his face swollen. He looked like a boxer. Oh Freddy the Great, my love, brave fighter of school desks. Easily defeated, but still a resilient warrior.

I walked into our classroom. Freddy was already sitting down. My feet slowed, halted, then shuffled towards him. Near Freddy’s desk I jerked a smile into my face. Then let out, “Hey! How are you feeling?”

He knitted his brows as much as his puffy face would allow. “Fine,” he said shortly.

“Oh okay, good.” I was in the lane between our respective rows of desks. I stood with one leg extended farther than the other. I placed my hands in my sweater pockets, and rotated my body to the right, to offer him a better angle to view his creation, but he had begun reading a book.

“Excuse me!” A classmate shoved past me rubbing her backpack on my stomach and separating me from Freddy. I gave up and went to my desk.

For two weeks I wore my sweater to class, without Freddy saying anything to me. He would stare at me, then make his eyes sprint away like moving targets.

I thought that maybe Freddy had forgotten our intimate bathroom experience, perhaps because of a concussion, but he remembered everything. Every day when he saw me wearing my sweater, he must have seen a desperate animal without enough emotional nourishment that hid in the corner of a zoo, with wild eyes and potential rage. A cornered, mangled beast.

On a Wednesday, in March, Freddy approached me after class. He walked behind me and tapped me on the shoulder.

He squirmed before he started. “Hey Emily. Your name’s Emily, right?”

“Hey, yeah. Freddy right?” I broke out in grins.

He looked down at his blood drawing on me. “Would you like to hang out sometime?”

“Yes.” I jumped.

He stood tall and grinned. “Alright.” His face had mostly healed. Pink scares now kissed his face in the spots where I placed band-aids. “Would you like to have dinner at my house on Friday?”

“Yes.” I could only say one word.

“Okay, great. Does eight o’clock sound good?”

“Yes.” Feeling like a skipping record.

“My house is a blue house on Hawthorne and Eight. Do you know where that is?”

“Yes.” It didn’t matter what question was asked.

“Okay. See you then.”

“Yes, uh, yeah see you then.”

Washing my sweater was becoming difficult. I used hand soap to clean it, avoiding the Easter chick. The blood became brown. Save the surrounding area around the chick, the fabric was beginning to whiten and sag. On Thursday night I scrubbed it, and hung it in my backyard on a wire. On Friday night, I took the sweater off the wire and ran my arms through the sleeves.

I rang Freddy’s doorbell and he swung open the door. He smelled freshly showered, with a hint of lavender. His hair was wet, and he was newly shaven. His neck was riddled with red dots.

He welcomed me in and ushered me to his dining room table. He had candles lit, scented “Havana.” We would be eating lasagna. He started us off with Cabernet. He sat across from me with shadows from the room cutting sharp angles in his face.

We settled down in our seats and both stared at our wine glasses in silence.

He cleared his throat and looked up at me, then looked away. “Thanks for coming over,” he offered. “I’ve been wanting to hang out with you, but I just felt embarrassed about my face incident. I think I wanted the swelling in my face to go down first, but thank you so much for helping me in class. You are very kind.”

“You’re welcome. You look good Freddy, your scars make you look tough.” I gave my own fake tough face, tightening my lips and eyebrows. He let out a nervous laugh. “Yeah, thanks.” He smiled and rotated his wine glass. “You look good too.” Was he complementing his wine?

I kept my eye on Freddy and reached for my wine. I tipped over my glass and wine poured off the table. “Oh no!”

“It’s okay.” He pushed his chair back. “I’ll grab a towel.”

“I’m so sorry, let me help.” I got up and planned to follow Freddy to grab another towel. Another emergency, I had to put everything back in order. My feet were rushed, and the slippery surface of my flats skated across the puddle of wine on the wood floor. I flew back, opened up my head against my chair and blacked out.

I woke up at dawn in Freddy’s bed. My eyes shifted through my surrounding in a haze. I recognized the familiar “Havana” scent that hung in the air and I knew where I was.

I was under his blue comforter. Dirty laundry covered the ground. Posters of John Belushi and Che Guevara hung on his wall. All of my clothes were still on, including my sweater. A wine stain had crept over and purpled out Freddy’s Easter chick, but there was a new drawing. A mother bird in purple was crying at the sight of her poor chick dying. It stretched over my shoulder. I got out of his bed, and walked downstairs.

I walked bare foot throughout his house, through the kitchen and the living room. I opened the front door and found Freddy slouched over on his patio furniture. Drool dribbled out of his mouth. His black leather jacket was half unzipped. He was still gripping on to his wine glass. Nine cigarettes ashed out by nine single drops of Cabernet were scattered at his feet.

I thought of waking him, but I decided to slip back under his blue comforter, in his “Havana” room. Freddy slept in while the sun caught fire.

Travis Rowdy Fortenberry

nicole

Getting Fucked On

Posts: 12
Registered: 19-3-2009
Member Is Offline

Mood: King Ghidorah

posted on 12-12-2009 at 11:21 PM

Like it!

Pretty good pacing with the drawing on the sweater.

It was a lot different than I expected based on what you described, but it definitely works.

Remember that poem that you recited about the guy with inverted knees? That would make a pretty rad short story...