People I Wish I'd Fucked, Part 2:

The Rebel

This is a boy I have long fantasized about. Our interactions created in me such a base urge to screw that it became absurd; I have many second-rate porn stories created with him in mind. His goal in life was to try every drug on Earth (I assume he meant the non-prescription, illegal sort). He liked porn; we had great plans for combining my artistic abilities with his pornographic ones in a stop-action claymation format. He was every bit the horny teenage boy; I knew he totally wanted to fuck me and oh did I let him know that I knew. And despite being a drummer, he had a lung strength and capacity higher than a tuba player's--no doubt thanks to his close relationship with bongs. Oh yes, a rebel boy he was.

Throughout most of school it was only in band that I ever was in the same room as he--being a percussionist, he was in the back of the room while I was in the front. Being rebellious, he was always goofing off. The years advanced and I interacted with him rarely, yet little by little I realized just what he was--a drugged out intellectual boy. Rather smart, quite talented musically and otherwise, but as much ambition as a coke dealer (that, thankfully, he was not). Years of band together led to a friendly, although impersonal, relationship: flirtation, hinting, and showing off. (Tip: Never put your head inside a quad drum while the player does a rim shot. Ever.)

We did finally have a non-band class together. It was a science class, and we sat at the same table (along with The Comedian, although he sat opposite from me while The Rebel sat next to me). This class is where I discovered that he was actually quite smart and we had many a successful project completed together--and yes, quite a fliratious path to get there. I can't even remember what project it was, but midway through the semester we had a project that granted us a length of string in the materials. Normal, average beige string, about a yard long. A cotton probably. Suddenly the dynamic changed: we no longer focused on our academic ventures, but instead on my trying to find a way to tie up his hand so that he could not free his fingers. OH HEAVENS if there is anything better than getting to TOUCH a man's hands (a percussionist's hands!) it is TYING THEM UP. The intimacy level surely crossed the border into eroticism. Oddly, the teacher got quite a kick out of this and started hanging out near our table to watch this experiment in human mobility (...). Sadly, I had a boyfriend at the time, and a frightening one at that, so any in-class activities never left the room. The next year he had a girlfriend from a different school, a most-preppy Mormon girl whose involvement with The Rebel boggled the mind, and the year after he transferred to her school. I saw him occasionally after that, but neither was ever in a position to act on any of our long-ago urges.

If I ran into him now, my little Rebel Boy--well, knowing what I do now and being involved in the things I am, I would not let him escape me a second time. I did learn one thing from our "time" together: when binding a person's hand in such a way as to allow no chance of escape, it is best to start with the thumb.