Breast Stroke

1. PROLOGUE

You know how when you hear a catchy song, and it gets stuck in your head for days… or at least until another one comes along to take its place? Well, Michael Jackson’s new song ‘The Way You Make Me Feel’ was pulsating in my skull, echoing my teenage emotions.

The song emphasized my feelings as I sat poolside with the other members of the male swim team, watching the female team’s practice session. My eyes firmly fixed on the row of skimpily clad booties tensed up in preparation to dive into the shimmering blue pool.

This was the last practice before our final match of the season, and the excitement was intense. Because of our banner 1987 season, this was the first time in the school’s history that both the male and female swim teams had qualified for the regionals. It felt like we were on the brink of something big, something that would be talked about for years to come.

Then, I saw her approach a starting platform - Cynthia Crane - my dream girl… possibly every guy’s dream girl. The backlight from the afternoon sun created a radiant glow around her thin, sexy body, making her look like she had just stepped out of a magazine. As she released the pressure of the swimsuit elastic that clamped her inner thighs, I could swear she was intentionally trying to expose herself to me.

Transfixed, I didn’t realize I was stroking the towel hanging around my neck, almost drooling like a complete fool. My heart raced as I tried to take in every detail of her. Her silky blond hair that would soon be enveloped in a skintight swim cap; her long, toned athletic legs and her luscious breasts.

Then she turned towards me. Shit, did she see me gawking? I quickly looked away. When I slowly glanced back, trying to be subtle (and probably failing miserably), she was gone.

Suddenly, my face was shaded, something blocking the sun's rays. I looked up to see Cynthia towering over me, and her expression told me she was not pleased. This was emphasized when she grabbed my towel and led me like a dog on a leash to an isolated area under the bleachers.

She slammed me against a railing. “What were you staring at?” her eyes flashed with anger.

Not sure if I should cop to it or lie, I tried to charm her. Charming? Me? Right! “A... a... an angel,” I reluctantly said, regretting it the moment the words shot out of my mouth.

“Cut the crap. You were staring at my tits,” she busted me, her voice sharp and accusing.

“No, I wasn’t.” Good comeback. Real smooth.

“Yes, you were,” she said, lifting my chin so I could focus my eyes on her face instead of her cleavage. It didn’t really work, though. My eyes kept drifting down.

“Do you like what you see?” she asked.

Was this a loaded question? Is there a right way to answer that? Do I fess up to the truth and risk being the victim of her vengeance, or lie and hope she buys it?

“No,” I reluctantly answered, my voice barely above a whisper. Her face showed she was offended.

“Yes,” I quickly changed my reply, hoping to salvage the situation before it spiraled out of control.

“Then touch them,” she demanded, her voice firm and unyielding.

I couldn’t believe my ears. Did she really say that? I continued to stare at them, my mind racing.

She repeated her command, this time in a stern and husky voice that sent shivers down my spine.

I hesitantly but happily obliged to the best of my ability, which is not saying much. My hands were shaking as I reached out, half expecting her to slap them away at any moment. The tension in the air was thick, and I could feel my heart pounding to escape my chest.

“Like this,” she said, and then seductively circled my nipple with the edge of her fingernail, driving shivers to my nether region. The sensation was electric, sending jolts of pleasure through my body that I had never experienced before.

She worked her fingernails gently down my body to my crotch. I felt the bulge quickly growing to attention, and as she gently caressed it, I let out a loud moan, which was abruptly stifled by the sound of a gunshot.

The starter pistol summoned the girls, including Cynthia, to dive into the pool. I quickly realized that this was yet another of my many recurring fantasies. To make matters worse, my teammate and best friend, Flip Carlson - more about him later - elbowed me and pointed to my groin.

I immediately covered up my expanded Speedos with my towel and slunk away.

To get rid of my unwanted boner, I did what every good Catholic boy does to clear his mind of evil thoughts… Pray. Yes, pray.

So, I started reciting my Hail Mary’s as I banged my head against a locker, hoping to clear my mind. “Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee. Blessed art thou amongst women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus. Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners. Now and at the hour of our death. And, Mary, help me to get rid of the raging hard-on I got going on. Amen.”

I couldn’t help but wonder if every guy my age feels the same way. It’s like a never-ending cycle of desire and confusion. I mean, one minute I’m just a regular kid, and the next I’m caught up in wild fantasies that seem to take over my life.

Is it normal for seventeen-year-old guys to always be horny? Or am I the only one craving to fondle perky little nipples every minute of the day?

2. INTRODUCTION

My name is Marty Malloy. Yeah, I know. It sounds like the guy from Back to the Future, but I had the name first.

In just a few months, I’ll be hitting the big one-eight. For many, this milestone signals the start of newfound freedom and an invitation to embrace responsibility, but for me, it looks like an impending deadline - a countdown to a future I’m not entirely certain about.

I’m not bad looking, but let’s face it, I’m no Brad Pitt. I don’t have the movie-star looks that everyone seems to drool over. I wear glasses, which means I’ve heard all the name-calling that comes with them. You have no idea how many times I’ve been called ‘Mr. Magoo’. That’s the mature version of ‘four eyes’. Real creative!

My mother says I’m cute, but she also says that about my little brother and our cocker spaniel.

I’m five feet, eight inches tall. I like to think of myself as a tall person in cramped quarters. There are moments when I glimpse myself in the mirror and desperately wish that a few extra inches would reflect back at me. I keep waiting for that one last growth spurt, but so far, it seems my body has decided to call it quits.

I guess you could say I’m a little introverted. It’s probably because I’m not the sharpest knife in the block - especially when it comes to social interactions. Expressing myself doesn’t come naturally. When I try to share thoughts or opinions, I end up stumbling over my words and sounding foolish. It isn’t that my mind is devoid of ideas - far from it - but translating them into coherent speech feels like an arduous task every single time.

I often wonder what it would be like to have a different life - one where I could express myself without fear of tripping over my own words. I watch my friends joke around and flirt with girls, and I can’t help but feel a little envious. They seem so confident, while I’m just trying to figure out how to get through the day without embarrassing myself.

#

I live in what people call a middle-class neighborhood, one of those sprawling suburban areas where the hum of lawnmowers mixes with the shouts of children playing outdoors on sunny afternoons.

We have a small front yard with a patch of grass that I get the pleasure of mowing every weekend. Lucky me. And I don’t get paid for it. It’s not the biggest chore in the world, but it’s still a hassle when I’d rather be hanging out with friends or playing video games. And the smell of freshly cut grass plays havoc with my sinuses.

We have a modest one-story house painted a light blue, with white trim around the windows. It has three bedrooms. One of those rooms is a ‘guest room’ that gets way more use than I would prefer. It’s always filled with relatives - grandparents, aunts, uncles - who visit way too often. Because of that, I have to share a room with my little brother, Jon, which can be a real pain.

I’m Irish, but only on my dad’s side. He’s a devout Catholic who is never shy about sharing those beliefs with anyone who will listen. Every Sunday without fail, he happily marches off to church, expecting the rest of us to happily follow suit.

He’s a large, imposing man with a typical Irish temper, sometimes triggering his desire for corporal punishment. Although he never actually hits us with his belt, which he often threatens, his oversized hands are more than capable of accomplishing his goal.

When he returned from the war in Vietnam, he married Mom, whom he claims was his high school sweetheart. I didn’t think twice about it until I did the math and realized that my mother was in seventh grade when he was a senior.

They got married just days after my mother turned eighteen. It wasn’t blessed by either family since she was a Methodist and he was Catholic. Mom has never been an adult on her own, so she relies on my father for everything, including discipline. It’s just as well. Her idea of discipline is praying for God’s forgiveness. I’d rather get the belt. At least that’s over quickly. Her prayers and moral lectures, on the other hand, can drag on forever, leaving me in pure agony.

I was always told I was the perfect child. But if I was so perfect, why did my parents have my brother five years later? I think he was an accident, but my parents vehemently deny it, insisting that his arrival was intentional. This leaves me to wonder if they simply wanted a backup plan in case I turned out to be a dud.

3. MY SCHOOL

Saint Francis High is a small Catholic school in our neighborhood. The building is L-shaped, with the two wings intersecting at the main entrance where the administration office is conveniently located. Built probably in the forties, the red brick walls proudly show their storied past. Above the main entrance, a prominent cross towers as a constant reminder of the school’s religious roots and values.

Inside, the classrooms are even less forgiving than the facade suggests. They are small and, especially during the scorching months, become uncomfortably hot. The air-conditioning system, which seems to have an on-again, off-again personality, often leaves us sweltering under the weight of humidity, making it more like a sauna than a place of learning. It feels like we’re in a never-ending battle with the heat, and it’s hard to focus on schoolwork when you’re sweating bullets. The only redeeming value is that the cafeteria serves surprisingly great French fries.

The school’s layout is straightforward: one wing is designated for the boys and the other for the girls. We get brief opportunities to mingle before and after school and during lunchtime, which adds a hint of excitement to our otherwise boring days. The boys get to visit the girls’ wing for typing class. Despite the prevalence of computers and programs to teach typing, the school’s limited budget and antiquated equipment mean we spend our time battling with IBM Selectric typewriters. Luckily, they are electric and have a feature to correct our typos.

A significant part of our daily experience involves adhering to a very strict dress code. The guys’ uniforms consist of blue or gray corduroy or cotton pants paired with a baby blue button-down collared shirt. No shorts allowed. Can you believe it? No shorts! Even when the summer heat blares down mercilessly, we’re stuck in long pants.

The girls’ uniforms are much more forgiving. They have the option to wear blue cotton pants or blue and gray plaid skirts, along with a light blue or white blouse. The biggest limitation is that the skirt must reach their knees. The nuns take this regulation quite seriously and make the girls kneel to see if the skirt touches the ground. If it doesn’t, they get detention. Beverly, Cynthia’s best friend, used to be caught daily showing too much knee. Now she has longer dresses, but when the nuns aren’t around, she rolls them up at the waist to show a little more skin.

In terms of academics, there are three levels of students in the boys’ wing. The ‘A’ class is for the smart ones - the overachievers who seem to have it all figured out. Then there’s the ‘B’ class for the average students, who are just trying to keep their heads above water. And finally, there’s the ‘C’ class, which is for the fuckups - the guys who have all the fun. I don’t know if it’s the same way in the girls’ wing. Never really asked.

When I started high school, I was placed in the ‘B’ class, a comfortable fit for me during my freshman year. However, after consistently achieving better-than-average grades, I was moved up to the prestigious ‘A’ class. It’s tough being there. The workload is intense, and the teachers expect a lot from us. They pile on the homework and tests; sometimes, I feel like I’m drowning in it all. Now, I struggle to get straight Bs, which is a constant uphill battle. I often wonder if I’d be happier in the ‘C’ class, where the pressure is lower and the fun is greater, but then I remember that I want to graduate and make something of myself.

Despite all its quirks and challenges, I guess Saint Francis High isn’t such a bad place. Sure, the rules are strict, and the classes are tough, but I’ve made some good friends here. And who knows? Maybe all this discipline will pay off in the long run. For now, though, I’m merely trying to survive high school, one day at a time, navigating the complexities of adolescence. Such is the life of Marty Malloy - soon-to-be eighteen-year-old, glasses-wearing, swimming enthusiast, and introverted student at Saint Francis High School, striving to find his place in the world one awkward encounter at a time.[CW1]

[CW1]With a bit of adjusting, I could see this as a cover or other promotional quote.

If setting up for a series, would it suit better to have the first with him about to turn 16? Room for more books to follow… May increase the stakes, also, that he has longer to endure the school etc.

Decide whether to style the school name as St. or Saint and do a search and replace to make consistent throughout.