Dear Journal,
I decided that I must act in regards to my growing fixation. There was a sock hop on Friday, and originally I was thinking about asking her to it, but then I realized that kind of event was too squeaky clean for her. Too boring. Plus, she’s a senior, and an older one at that. I bet she’s almost twenty from the looks of her. She’s probably flunked a lot.
So, I’m going to follow her to a local juke joint. I know where she goes on weekends—I’ve driven by and watched her lean against the pool tables and smoke. I want her to torture me with a pool cue, or let me fuck her right on the table and dig her pointy heels into my back. I was hoping it would make me feel—something.
I just want to feel something.
I asked my classmate Nathan if I could wear his leather jacket, and I’m going to put some grease in my hair like the older guys use. It sort of makes me look like Elvis, so maybe she’ll be intrigued.
Wish me luck,
William
My mouth hung open. This seemed so . . . real. The voice was consistent and authentic—it truly sounded like a person and not a character. I kept having to suspend my disbelief that I was reading props for a scene and not truly the journals of a lonely and tortured vampire. Vampires typically didn’t age, so how could he have been in high school? That helped me center myself, so I skipped quickly to Friday night. Bizzy asked me to get my vibrator ready, but I had a feeling it wasn’t going to end in something sexy.
May 30, 1955
Dear Journal,
Well, I can safely say I felt something, and I’m still not sure how to register it.
I greased my hair, put on the leather bomber, and headed to Abe’s, the juke joint in Allentown. There she was, looking like Bettie Page herself. Long black hair, short bangs, darkly arched eyebrows, and a high-waisted pencil skirt that begged to be hiked up around her hips.
I never actually fantasized about her—just what she’d do to me. I wouldn’t even say she’s my type. I’m not entirely sure I have a type. Her face could be anyone’s, but what dragged me toward her was what was suggested in her commanding voice.
She smiled as I held out a lighter, igniting her cigarette.
“I’ve been wanting to introduce myself to you,” I said slowly. She feigned inattention, but she definitely took a good long look at me. I smiled inwardly, confident she was checking me out. Still, she didn’t speak.
“My name is William, and I have to say I’m curious about you.”
That got her attention. She pulled the cigarette from her mouth, leaving a red ring of lipstick on the brown paper. “Oh yeah?” she asked simply, hand on her hip.
“I heard girls like you are good for guys like me,” I said, not really knowing how to broach the subject, and she frowned. She must have thought I meant that she was loose, so I immediately clarified.
“Guys who like to . . . submit,” I said quietly, using the buzzword I learned.
Her brows flicked up. “Follow me,” she said, and I walked next to her.
“Behind me,” she barked. I complied happily.
She took me out by the Dumpster and asked me to remove my pants. I nearly gasped. I was a virgin, and my first time was about to be behind a dirty juke joint either on or against a Dumpster.
She slid the belt from my pants and took it in her hands. “Turn around,” she said.
My brow furrowed. This was not a sexual position for me, and I didn’t understand what she wanted me to do. I wasn’t even facing her when I heard the sounds.