Primal Scream (Box Set #1, Taboo Sex + AFF) (32 page)

His past didn’t matter to him. He never thought things over, never gaining from experiences, before moving on to the next new thing or person. He was familiar with this comfort zone that he had marked out for himself, like he was living within the confines of a cardboard box.

And Jack stayed in the box, as he wished—cold and alone, forevermore.

# # # # #

Story #3: Catholic School Girls Rule

Dedication: For all the great people I met throughout my school years.

* Disclaimer: Content includes religious irony (reader discretion is advised—draws some inspiration from The Holy Bible, Nietzsche, South Park, and Bertrand Russell).

* P.S. Jess was baptized and raised Catholic, and attended two all-girls convent schools in Singapore for 10 years straight.

Chapter 1

Tall. Tanned. Lean. Perfection.

Chantal Cheok eyed the young man who’d just completed several freestyle laps in the Olympic-sized public pool. He looked a little bit like a
beng
—a Singaporean-Hokkien slang term for ‘gangster wannabe’. He was fit, toned, non-bulky, and in a pair of metallic blue Speedos which he filled out beautifully.

They were hardcore sports enthusiasts. Chantal would rise at 6am, every Sunday morning, to go swimming in the morning, before the rest of her day kicked in (church, catechism class, lunch, tuition classes, so on and so forth).

She’d seen him several times in the past few weeks, always in the centre lane, right in the middle of the pool. Chantal preferred staying in the first or last lanes, in case she got tired halfway. When she needed to, she could hold on to the side of the pool to catch her breath.

Chantal thought she’d go up to him today. She would’ve liked to have gone up to him in her everyday school uniform, which she’d altered to her liking. She kept a shorter version of the grey-and-light-pink pleated plaid skirt in a secret compartment in her backpack, which she used whenever she was “out and about” and not on school grounds.

A narrow black tie was part of Chantal’s uniform too—she was a class prefect, after all. She’d give the heads up to friends and classmates whenever she knew about upcoming random spot-checks on students’ dress code, along with full-body spot-checks to confiscate “banned items,” such as chewing gum, make-up, and cell phones. Most of the prefects at HIGH (Holy Innocence Catholic Girls’ High School) took great pleasure in helping to retrieve confiscated belongings, if they could get by the authorities, unnoticed.

Chantal watched as the boy stepped out of the pool, with a confident kind of slight swagger, when he started walking off to the male bathroom stalls.

Ass Like That, Touch That Ass, Shake That Ass, Bounce That Ass
—she’d give him a nice little booty shake and lapdance, if any one of those rap and hip hop songs came on.

They made eye contact for a couple of seconds.

“
Can I touch that ass?” she imagined him asking her. It was more of a fantasy. He looked the sort who’d just grab straight away.

He was, indeed, into ass worship—he loved diving right in with reckless abandon—all leading to the ultimate submission of ass in the face.

She liked watching his pert butt from where she was. If she wasn’t careful, the elbow she was resting on the side of the pool would slip, and she might end up in an embarrassing spluttering situation if she took in an unexpected gulp of chlorinated pool water.

She wanted to grab his hair, and wring some of the dripping water out of his sopping wet crop. He had a stylish cut that was shorter on the sides, slightly longer on top.

He always swam for twenty minutes. He seemed like a busy, no time for any nonsense kinda guy. Where did he live? Was he a high school senior, like Chantal, or was he duly employed somewhere?

She decided she’d get that out of him today: whether he was still in school, or not.

She climbed out of the pool, squeezing some of the water out of her long black hair, oblivious to the lifeguard in his red shorts and late twenties, who had his eye on Chantal’s butt like she had with the guy in the blue Speedos. The guard had given a low whistle when Chantal walked in earlier, in her black-and-white Roxy one piece swimsuit with the hot pink accents, before she jumped into the pool. She’d pretended not to notice, even though she liked it whenever anyone admired her ass.

She hurried toward the male cubicles, light and nimble on her feet. She gave a quick glance into the restroom to see if the blue Speedos boy was anywhere in sight. There was no sign of any movement—until Chantal heard a grunt, and a low, muffled moan, somewhere at the far end of the restroom.

There was a heavy, sinking feeling in her heart. She glanced back, knowing that she shouldn’t be entering a male restroom.

But it was okay for a female to “accidentally” walk into a male restroom. She had, in the past—“nice one,” she’d said with a smile to the guy she’d really accidentally walked in on, and that was that. If a guy strode into a female restroom, there’d be shrieks and piercing screams yelling angry upset violated looks and a whole lotta commotion, before the male intruder realized his error.

Chantal had to know if it was
him.

She quickly and quietly entered the bathroom, and made her way to one of the stalls at the back. The cubicle door was wide open, and a dark-skinned Indian male was bent over, arms out against the tiled wall for support. He was grinding against the body behind him, wantonly abandoning his ass to the older male standing behind him. And another pale, very young, skinny dude was rubbing his naked body against the one in the middle. They were sweaty and locked together, balls deep inside each other (save for the first guy bending over), almost like they were entering some kind of physical-spiritual erotic trance.

Chantal retraced her steps after a couple of moments, even though the three men never noticed her presence. Neither of the guys was the blue Speedos boy. That seemed to be all Chantal could focus on:
blue Speedos
—that exact shade of blue, a little deeper than sky blue, with a slight metallic shimmer that seemed to subtly dazzle her.

Chantal left the swimming pool complex when she couldn’t find the boy. She kept an alert eye on her way out, as she walked to the bus-stop, but didn’t see him anywhere. He had a knack for coming and going without a trace.

Next week,
she determined.

For now, her thoughts shifted to the three males she’d seen in action. She’d never been so close to a fornicating couple or group of people before. She could already hear and imagine the reprimanding she’d receive from her catechists, if they could see the gay sex, oral sex, rimming, anal sex, and filthy home porn images in her mind now. She had to attend catechism classes and Church masses, week after week. They’d finally be over this year, the increasingly irrelevant catechism classes. Chantal wondered how successful the indoctrinations had been over the years: that sex was bad, sex was sinful—confess and repent, or burn in Hell forevermore!

For the rest of the early Sunday morning, she thought about sex and gays and Hell. Personally, she couldn’t give a good reason why the two males she’d seen would go to Hell, even though she knew several people who would say that they’d be condemned. Her mother would’ve made the sign of the cross and started praying for their souls, that they’d be “set on the right path” ASAP.

But that was Chantal’s pious, religious mum, not Chantal herself. It’d taken Chantal years to form her own opinions, separate from her mother’s homophobic influences. The right path seemed terribly straight and narrow, in the religious context.

Heathen,
she’d be called. She questioned too much; those who were truly strong in Faith did not Question.

Then how could “holy wars” be waged, when a religion preached kindness and peace to one’s fellowmen? Or were peace and kindness only to be extended to those that were “exactly like” one’s community?

And was sexual repression the reason the Church had such a lengthy history involving sexual predator priests? Would it have been better if they were allowed to be married and have children, like the normal parishioners they were in charge of leading and guiding?

Chantal was at her wit’s end—she’d been “incarcerated” in an all-girls school for slightly more than a decade. It wasn’t an official prison sentence, but it sure felt like one. She’d never had sex before, even though she was highly sexual from a very young age, masturbating against the legs of wooden chairs, against cold hard floors, anything that gave her that tripped out high of pleasurable sensation.

She didn’t want her Catholic guilt and shame to be a third leg she carried around for the rest of her life.

She’d only kissed one girl so far—Aisyah—way back when they were both eleven years old. It was a more playful than romantic kiss—they’d role-played a wedding at the back of the chapel in their primary school. She’d been the blushing bride.

Shortly after that role-playing episode, Chantal moved into an “anti-male” phase, for a couple of years. She referred to it as her “once upon a time, Chantal really hated the male species” episode.

It could have had something to do with an absent father. She didn’t exactly come from a broken home—but she was emotionally distant from any male figures in her life. Throughout the ages of eleven and twelve, Chantal thought all males were only interested in sex. She started hating males less when she saw how petty, tacky, loud-mouthed, and mean-spirited some of the popular girls from her church could be. The popular girls were born with silver spoons in their mouths, but still bitched about whoever it was they’d decided to gang up on for the week or month, if only because it fed their need for entertainment and/or constant gossip.

Why couldn’t she be like some of the other girls at her school, who’d spread their legs for all the good-looking boys from neighboring schools, inviting them to ‘enter’? Sure, she’d shoplifted, vandalized public walls, smoked, cheated during tests and exams, pulled pranks like placing a dead cockroach under a tyrannical teacher’s seat in class. But she had a long way to go in the sex department, which was where everything really mattered.

She’d had several missed opportunities already. Everyone seemed to be getting in on some action, wherever she looked. Girl-on-girl action, girls with their boyfriends from other schools, girls with their adult and very “mature” sugar daddies, teachers and students. One student even married one of the teachers a few years ago, when they discovered she was pregnant with his kid.

Chantal is a boi…

It was one of her Facebook status updates, some time ago.

Because she did feel like a boy, at times, despite her feminine long locks and trim hourglass figure, on the outside.

But if she did feel like a boy, then why did she still find males attractive? Which included borderline-butch-types like Aisyah? Aisyah—with the spunky attitude to go along with the strength of her lithe and supple body. Aisyah always put some effort into her look, even when she identified herself as a butch lesbian. She actually had a very pretty face.

Few people could carry off a soft pixie cut better than Aisyah. She let it lie flat on some days, and spiked it up when she was in the mood for the messy, tousled look. She had captivating features—big, widely spaced eyes, warm, light brown skin, high cheekbones, and a sharp chin and nose. When she tucked her hair back behind her ears, Aisyah would always be complimented on how “
chio
” (the local slang word used to describe a pretty girl) she looked—even by random, complete strangers, on the street.

The first time Chantal had been attracted to Aisyah was during a school fashion show, about two years ago. Chantal and another girl, Bernadette, had been chosen as the representatives for their class. Aisyah had been part of the team behind-the-scenes, helping with the design of the outfits made from recycled materials.

The entire class got to their feet and cheered when Chantal and Bernadette sashayed down the makeshift catwalk. The cheers were loud and pierced Chantal’s ears, but she didn’t care. In the midst of all the commotion, Chantal had seen that Aisyah had been the first to stand and cheer them on. Aisyah was beaming with pride—partly because she’d had a hand with the actual designing of the outfits—but mostly because Chantal and Bernadette looked so damn good. All Chantal saw and remembered of that moment was Aisyah, and her jubilant face—Chantal felt a slight thrill go through her. She hadn’t realized how much it mattered to her that Aisyah found her worthy of a standing ovation.

Later that day, Chantal was chatting online, when the following message came in from a private conversation she was having with Angeline, a fellow classmate: