Our End is in Sight

By: Nicholas Hall
(© 2012 by the author)

The author retains all rights. No reproductions are allowed without the author's consent. Comments are appreciated at...

nhall@tickiestories.us

There are times in everyone's life when everything seems to move in slow motion, in reality taking just milliseconds, but the event, the happening, the entire episode drags on with the never-ending longevity of a really, really, bad movie, forcing you to watch, compelling you to take it all in, suffering through it, awaiting the final, disgusting, proverbial, "thank God that's over" ending; not at all different from what I was suffering through this extremely warm, late May day, in an auditorium filled with proud parents, bored teachers, and anxious seniors awaiting the end of the graduation ceremonies.

I was in quite a predicament, knowing what is about to happen, feeling the impending eruption of it, fearing, but yet, secretly delighted I was a participant. Should truth out, my parents will kill me, not to speak of the school board, the chief of police, the Pope, and anybody else that wants in on the action, rendering me dead, irreverently cold-cocked, deep-sixed, iced over as a mackerel ready for shipment, but not as dead as Raymond would be. In my despair and reverie, my thoughts turned to leaning over and asking "Hoover" Johnson, the horny little cock-sucker next to me, to lay his head on my lap and give my horn a bit of an "ah toot," you know for old times sake. Reginald "Hoover" Williams had a mouth and pair of lips on him that could suck a tennis ball through a garden hose and had, on more than one occasion, played my horn with such fervor that I thought my asshole was going to be propelled to the head of my dick when I exploded into his orifice. Such was his talent, I thought adding to the music being played by the band during the ceremony would help break the tension, but, since I didn't really want to distract from the program with the sounds of my desire and release, I refrained, leaving my pants zipped, the trumpet unsounded, secure in its case.

You see, I'm not totally to blame, complicit in this little event yes, but not entirely to blame, I don't think, maybe just a little bit, perhaps, since it was Ray's idea and I, stupidly, as always, became an active participant, using my equipment, helping him organize it, sort of. Turning Ray down when it comes to one of his wild-ass schemes of daring-do and adventure never seems to be within my ability, since I'm a sucker for him, always have been, always will be. I remember when we were about thirteen or so and Ray was staying overnight. He leaned over me after we'd retired for the evening and said, "I really want to fuck you, but I don't think you can handle a pole the size of mine."

Stupidly, I boldly said, "Bet'cha' I can."

Using a whole big glob of KY on his dick and up my ass, he slicked me enough that, with time, patience, a whole lot of wiggling and shoving forward, he implanted that abnormally long, thick cock of his up into my bowels far enough it felt like he rearranged my guts clear to my belly button. Since I won the bet, I chose to let him pump away until we both fired our rockets. Since that time, there doesn't seem to be any problem with me assisting him in his sexual pleasure -- and mine.

What really pisses me off concerning Ray is, he never gets caught, blamed perhaps, but never caught, no proof, no witnesses, no evidence of definable culpability, nothing! Nada! I, on the other hand, seem to come with blame attached, guilty or not, no matter what, I'm going to take it in the ass (not in the Biblical sense, if you know what I mean). Let somebody fart in church and, without fail, the whole damned congregation turns, looks at me, assuming the worse, silently assigns blame. I never fart in church, well, maybe sometimes, but not on a regular basis. Ray, on the other hand, is an accomplished aficionado, an impresario of the art. I once heard him proudly sputter out the first stanza of "Jingle Bells" with nary a note or beat missed while seated listening to a school Christmas concert in the auditorium, yet, as he was happily tooting away, including whole notes mind you, all eyes fell on me!

I would suppose that'd make most people angry, but not I, not with Ray, not with my best bud, like, we've been best friends forever. We grew up neighbors, went to grade school, middle school, high school together, became inseparable, sucking and fucking each other on a regular basis, yet opposites, almost twins. Ray is small, perhaps five foot seven inches or so, light-weight, weighing maybe a buck five, no more than a buck and a quarter, but wiry, quick, pleasant, drop-dead good-looking, always the life of the party, and a dick that really looks oversized on him. I, on the other hand, am a little taller, five foot nine or so, with an average sized dick, a bit uncoordinated, skinny, terribly shy when in crowds, more of a shadow, except when I'm with Ray, when he makes me feel like I'm really "in," part of the crowd, an important person, someone who matters to the rest of the world, know what I mean? Most importantly, Ray loves me! He is a bit darker in color, always carrying that "just tanned look" while I'm fair, so fair if I walk by an un-shaded lamp, I sunburn. Someone once asked Ray what nationality he was and he responded, "Welsh." The guys in physical education class said he was "hung-garian," no pun intended. The boy was indeed blessed!

Ray, the practical joker, is always doing stuff, like the day he stuffed a couple a dozen meadow frogs into Elizabeth Townsend's book bag, when, upon opening it in American Literature class, they erupted from it, frantic in their efforts to not only escape their confinement, but seek shelter from the screaming onslaught of hysterical females dodging their hopping antics about the room. There had to be at least a half dozen sets of wet panties in that room before all of the frogs were caught. It was rumored a couple of the boys offered their laps for the girls to sit on to escape the frogs; guaranteeing the young ladies wouldn't slip off, of course.

I suppose that was no worse than the day when over fifty sparrows flocked out of one of the lockers in the shop class. The teacher, desperate to rid his shop of the birds, opened some of the windows to shoo the birds out, and by his action, gave license to the class to participate with gusto, jumping about on the floor and shop tables, waving their arms, boards, shop aprons, hooting and hollering to the point one wondered if it was a school classroom, a frat house on "who fucked Herman" night, or a jackoff contest at an overnight camping trip.

There was one particular custodian, who, in his endeavors to keep our school hallways clean and cleared of all debris (including students), would seek the most inopportune times to sweep said halls, usually when full of students passing to class. He would ram into them with his broad, cloth-draped sweeping broom, injuring ankles, irritating students, and bringing much glee to himself. Ray decided it was time to cause the errant custodian some grief as well, give him his due, turn the tide, and spread the joy around, so to speak. Well, super-gluing a penny to the floor damn near sent the custodian to the nuthouse as the poor fellow tried, and succeeded, in prying it loose day after day, after day, after day, as a new one would appear, as if by magic, once the other was removed.

Most of the time, Ray just did little things that really didn't hurt anyone, except in those cases where someone needed their comeuppance, which was given in an adequate dose with no one the wiser as to whom the perpetrator of those antics was, except me. There were always suspicions, but, alas, no proof!

Our senior year of high school, the school board, in their infinite wisdom (now that's an oxymoron if there ever was one) decided, on a five to four vote, that our school needed a new principal, someone who'd bring law and order, strict discipline, a conservative right-wing approach to change our wayward, deviant behavior, "whipping us into shape," and correcting our complete lack of respect for society's most conservative ways embodied in God knows what document none of us ever read. For goodness sakes, the students in our school were no different than any other school's students in the area, well, maybe a little bit, but we weren't malicious, vicious Visigoths. We did tend to look out for each other and were a bit protective of one another, but kids in small schools are. Our whole high school has less than five hundred students in it, with the senior class enrollment of one hundred and three. It would've been one hundred and five but Larry Walker knocked up Marianne Vopt and they dropped out to get married. If they would've stayed in school, we would've had one hundred and six, if you count the bun in the oven. Thank God neither Ray nor I can get pregnant or we would've been dropping wee ones out of our asses like kittens in a litter.

The new principal was a real piece of work, an everything by the book, lock-step, hallways must be orderly, be on time, everything either black or white, right or wrong, and a not very friendly son-of-a-bitch. He was, as the school board president stated in a radio interview, "a man who would bring law and order, strict discipline, and respect back into our schools." The student body believed his prevailing philosophy was "school is a great place if we could just get rid of the kids," revealing his complete lack of respect for the students and doing little to increase our respect for him.

"Old Iron Ass" would give a student a three-day vacation for the littlest thing, for example, when George Middleton got shoved into the hallway, naked at the time of course, one day from the locker room after Physical Education class. No big deal, really! George was the original bunny buns with a cold shower shriveling him up to nothing, but nobody cared or kidded him, it was George for craps sake! Evidently the "Mighty Zeus" cared a great deal and, since George wouldn't nark on the rest of us by pointing out the perpetrators, a lightning bolt was tossed from the front office and so was George. George not only became quite the hero as far as the rest of us were concerned, but our "Remember the Alamo" became "Remember George," a rallying cry, a call to arms by those who felt retribution was deserved and shouldn't be long in coming.

When Carolyn VanderBek was late one morning because she had to clean up the kitchen after her mom and dad got all drunked up and tore the hell out of the place, it was pathetic and ridiculous the way "Mr. Clean up the school" handled the situation. Carolyn was responsible for getting her little brothers and sisters dressed, fed, and on the school bus and, as a result, she was late for school herself. It happened before and everyone knew what she was going through; no excuse to "Mr. No-Balls" -- tossed her out for three days because her folks wouldn't write her a note. They couldn't, they were still tanked, but even if he were informed of that, it would've made little difference.

Ray and I, we did a "Brer' Rabbit" and decided to "lie low," you know, hide in the briar patch, keep a low profile, be invisible, and trying to avoid contact with the front office. We didn't want to fuck up our last year of high school, though this wasn't a fun place to be. We just wanted out, take a powder, get out of Dodge, grab a fast train to someplace else, whatever. At least I thought so, but it appeared Ray had different ideas, not concerning laying low, but more amorous ones, more horizontal (like in the horizontal Samba) stretched across someone's back, doing some right serious poking.

You see, the principal had two daughters and one son. The two daughters were out of school, off to college, and away from home. The son, a junior in our school, was a horny little devil and not after the ladies. There wasn't a boy's crotch in that school he didn't ogle, appraising what he saw, intensifying his efforts to size every young lad in the school, hoping to lead them to that trough of sweet nectar and bliss, only he, so he thought, could provide. His eyes locked on Ray, checking out the bulge in his jeans, wondering if the rumors he'd heard concerning the equipment packed away in there was really as interesting as some people thought it was.

Well, as fate would have it, the principal and his wife left "Sonny Boy" home alone one weekend while they visited the two older sisters in college. Rumor had it, Ray spent those two days bunny-humping the shit out of their youngest progeny in the hutch, only rumor understand, no proof, but on Monday when "Sonny Boy" came to school, he walked rather funny. I'm willing to bet when he shit it was like tossing a softball through an open barn door -- absolutely no resistance or restriction of movement. A jealous lower classman snitched, dropping a hint to the principal that his youngest was no longer a virgin, brought "Sonny" to the office for questioning (he denied everything, of course), but the inquisition continued with Ray and I. Ray swore he was as innocent as the newly driven snow and I lied, saying Ray was with me all weekend, not hammering me mind you, just hanging out together.

Ray and I had a bit of chat concerning his little indiscretion, well, it wasn't all that little considering Ray's physical attributes, but I strongly advised him to keep it in his pants since no way was "Sonny's" dear old daddy going to let him get away with the deflowering of his precious youngest child without some sort of retaliation, proof or no proof. Ray, snuggling up against the back of my neck, while rooting me properly, whispered, "Not to worry; this may work to our advantage someday."

That may be, but I was right; dear old daddy put the heat on Ray, all over him like white on rice, but Ray was slick, careful, cautious, sneaky, nothing came to rest on him, the original "Teflon" man. The "Prickly Prick of a Principal" didn't ease up on the rest of us, however, especially me since I provided the alibi and he knew Ray and I were like Siamese twins. If he couldn't get Ray for something, he'd nail me and, boy did he ever! I was held up in History class one day by the teacher and as I was running down the hall, fearing I'd be late for my next class, the bastard nailed me for running in the hall -- dangerous thing to do, could hurt myself or someone else, not the way we behave in our school, and all of that crap. I got an after-school detention for that and caught hell at home for getting in trouble at school.

The situation at school became increasingly more difficult for all of us, becoming more and more not a happy place to be. Our April Prom was just about the crowning blow, the last straw, the ultimate challenge for all of us.

Our "esteemed leader" decided there was too much nonsense going on before and after the Prom and would set about correcting the situation. He declared only juniors and seniors would be allowed, no underclass students allowed in as dates; only students in our school would be permitted, no out of town or out of school dates allowed; couples of opposite sexes only, no same-sex couples or single individuals and, the final pronouncement; all participants must be there by eight o'clock or would be denied admittance and must remain until the dance ended.

What a bummer! Granted, there were some alcohol parties occurring in past years and some serious fucking before and after the dance, but his attitude was over the top, so to speak. It was well known in our class that Ray and I were a couple, but the dance restriction limited our attendance together, so we hooked up with friends of ours, two girls who were also a couple, and went to the dance anyway. It was really quite dull and uneventful. After the dance, Ray and I did spend the night together and that was quite eventful I might add, in fact several times eventful.

Things began happening those last few weeks of our senior year. Nothing major to start with happened, but just little things. For example, one day all of the chalk disappeared from the chalkboard trays in all of the classrooms. Another day, all of the light bulbs in the restrooms vanished, as if by magic. Kind of hard to wipe your ass if you can't distinguish brown from white isn't it? One Monday morning, before the start of the school day, the entire front lawn was adorned with "for sale" signs commandeered from all over the school district.

Not more than a week later, a half dozen goats were discovered tethered on the football field quietly munching, depositing little gifts on the turf and three dozen pigeons were fluttering up and down the high school halls not so quietly cooing, crapping a bunch, and generally being disruptive until they were all expelled from our fine institution. People began talking, growing concerned over what was happening at the high school, wondering what could've caused their normally sedate little school and collection of passive children to turn into a hot bed of insurrection. When parents asked their children, all they received for an answer was "the principal sucks" and "don't say anything please, he'll just take it out on me," or, if a senior, "don't say anything, I want to graduate."

Things definitely were not going well at good old Central High. A deadly sickness seemed to be threatening the very wellbeing and future of our school. "His Excellency" responded by clamping down harder, removing privileges, requiring students to register their cars, forbidding them to gather in the parking lot before or after school or during the lunch period, convinced that was the central planning place for all of the subterfuge was happening.

Someone hacked into the school computer system, changed all of the grades, causing confusion, and required a full week of intense work before the system was restored and the grades were re-entered correctly. This brought police detectives to the school investigating "rampant cyber-crime," but no trace was found, no "foot prints" since it was accomplished through some web site in a foreign country, supposedly. After a school play, when "fearless leader" was ready to leave, he found all the tires removed from his car -- took him awhile to get home. The tires were found later on top of the school building.

Three weeks before graduation, everything got quiet, really quiet -- nothing happened. Everyone and I mean everyone, even "Numb Nuts" waited for something to go "boom." It didn't! It was noisier in Grant's Tomb than it was in our school. Two weeks before graduation and nothing -- the tension began to ease. One week before graduation, nothing, and everyone started to relax. Graduation rehearsal was perfect, nothing or anybody screwed up, and people thought we'd be home free.

Now, sitting in the auditorium during the graduation ceremonies, I fidgeted in my seat (not having been relieved by "Hoover") waiting for my name to be called, the last on the list; Jonathon Alexander Ziemensky, "Last of the Mohicans," "Horatio at the Gate," "Last Man Standing," "fart-blossom" himself. My name was called, I stepped forward, accepted the diploma, then checked, as everyone before me had, to see if it was signed (yep), and returned to my seat.

Each year, after the diplomas are awarded, before the recessional, the faculty presents a visual tribute to the outgoing senior class. It usually consists of a video produced by the local funeral home of pictures, music, and a narrative of the class and their activities from grade school through high school. The funeral home sends the material to some place in California to prepare a disc with everything on it. It's shown at graduation and each senior gets a copy for a remembrance as a visual yearbook.

This year, with all of the nonsense going on, Principal "Hard Ass" took personal charge of the senior tribute by carefully editing, monitoring the content, hand delivering the material to the funeral home, and personally locked up the finished product in the school safe. Just before the ceremony was to begin, he personally loaded the disc into the school computer system for broadcast on the projection screen in the auditorium graduation night.

Everyone settled back, ready to watch the usual tribute, but with different faces, accompanied by the same tunes played year after year. It really was a good program including pictures of us in kindergarten, then elementary school and middle school, and high school participating in concerts, athletic events, dances, plays, and candid shots, all with a background of low, soft, really inspiring music (the school song, yeah, really great, ha-ha). The final photo of the senior class appeared on the screen. It was the photo for the printed yearbook with all of us standing on the bleachers at the football field. The music rose, the picture faded, the audience began to applaud, but the photo was replaced with a video clip, with a heading of "Kiss my ---, Mr. Chapman, and one hundred and three bare asses pointed at the screen moving rhythmically to "Shine on Harvest Moon." Pandemonium broke out. We all knew it was coming, but no one except Ray and I knew when and where. The rest of the class thought it would just be sneaked into Chapman's office when no one was around.

I never asked Ray how it did it and he never volunteered, although I have some suspicions it involved a regular fucking of "Sonny Boy." I just know it sure as hell beat gluing pennies to the floor.

OMG!

Thank you for reading "Our End is in Sight." Congratulations to all of you who are seniors in high school and graduating this spring. I hope your senior year was better than those of Ray and Jonathon's. I wish you the best for your future and for your successes in the life ahead of you. Take care, stay safe.

Nick Hall