Coyle started to write each boy's name down onsmall piece of paper,she would then folded it up and place the name in a bag. Aftershe hadplaced everyon...'s name in the bag, and shook it up, she reached inpullingout one name.Each boy was on edge waiting to hear whom she hadpicked, and hopping by amiracle it wasn't him. As Mrs. Coyle, opened thefolded up piece of papershe announced the name of the boy to play Dorothy. As she called out thename all the other boysin the room gave a big sighed of. He knew as well as I that I couldn't stand up to him without losing my life. It was sickeningly clear. I felt my breathing becoming heavier, I was nervous. Then I made the mistake of trying to look at him; I had to tilt my head straight up to make eye contact. He looked straight down. Neither of us spoke. I held his gaze. A slight smirk curled across his lips. I was motionless. Powerless. As I looked up at him, I thought of Stacy in there, in the bed. Their bed. So tiny. So. Before women, before sex, but after the discovery of pleasure. I remember the motion and the feeling; the pure wanton release of youth, and the unbelievable frequency of it. I blush, remembering the stiff stained sheets; proof of the act, or sometimes just the dream.I lie on my back, calm and sure in the warmth, and slide my hands down my skin. There's a certain inevitability in the movement, despite the fact that I'm convinced I could stop.Fingertips slide gently over the cloth at first, proud. "Really" she said, "Go on then ... try."After about thirty seconds of fondling she began to lose patience and said, "Come on, what day was I born?"I said, "Yesterday."When you are over sixty-seven who gives a crap?I got caught taking a pee in the swimming pool today.The lifeguard shouted at me so loud, I nearly fell in.When you are over sixty-seven who gives a crap?I went to the pub last night and saw a fat chick dancing on a table. I said, "Good legs."The girl giggled and said, "Do you really.
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