College Sex Stories

Party Jokes

SybaRight was occasionally a voice of conscience. Therefore, as I've already mentioned, my friends increasingly excluded me from plans. I'd learn of the pogrom, the lynching, the practical joke after it was accomplished: until finally we were no longer friends, didn't even greet each other in the bar. I disapproved of almost everything that my ex-friends planned, though there was one gag they pulled that I found myself laughing at despite my horror.

This story involves a girl already mentioned by her real name in other stories, but since this one is an embarrassment, she's be "Bonnie," SybaRight's generic girl, for this one.

It's a New Year's party in, I don't know, maybe junior year of high school: far enough along that we were mixing hard liquor with the beer and also mixing girls with the boys, actually had dates. I'm blotto way early in the evening. I've made the mistake of telling a drop-out drunk fellow worker at the supermarket about the party. He's shown up in his Mercury hot rod, poured rye down my throat, driven up onto the neighbor's lawn and into their rose bushes. My date has given up on me and gone off with my best friend: a lost New Years for SybaRight except for the couple of memories getting mentioned here. The joke my sober intellect reconstructs from what I was told later, later after my girl was wearing my friend's ring.

Bonnie was petite, blond, cute. Bonnie hadn't gone to my grammar school, but she had gone to my Sunday School, also to some church camp sessions where I was in attendance: so I'd know her a good while. Bonnie must have been, unknown to me, an object of some degree of lust among my friends, or they wouldn't have targeted her for this gag.

My friends keep their eye on Bonnie, ply her with drinks. Once they notice that she's starting to fidget, they make sure that there's a long line at the one bathroom. Roger makes sure that he's the guy directly in front of her: the last to use the john before it's her turn. Roger pisses, flushes, zips: lowers the toilet's lower seat, keeps the seat cover raised, stretches Saran Wrap over the seat. Makes it neat, tight, invisible. Lowers the seat cover and exits.

Bonnie rushes to the toilet. My friends crowd outside the bathroom door, listening: imagining (correctly) that she'll be too anxious to look too carefully. Then listen for odd sounds.

They get them: including the squishing her wet shoes make as she exits the bathroom in tears, her legs, stockings, dress, all soaked with her ricocheted pee.

---

As I say, I knew Bonnie forever, but beyond her being the girl in the other couple at a two couple SybaRight necking party once, I had little contact with her: till one night as a high school sock hop I asked her to dance. Suddenly, she felt very nice. I held her close. Her blond hair was so beautiful, so soft, so clean, so shinny, I held my cheek against her soft blond hair.

And for days later I had to pour Jergens lotion onto my face. She must have shampooed just before the dance, dried her hair in an oven, dried it till it was dry as a sponge. Or maybe she had some weird chemicals on it. All I know is that her hair was sucking the oil out of my face like a pump. I was left scorched, like burned.

I have one other enduring memory of Bonnie, but it involves only a friend. I wasn't there. I heard about it.

Charlie was in my clique. Charlie had also been, together with his brother, in my Sunday School: though it was always the brother, older brother, that I was closer to. Bonnie apparently was a member of some girls' sex club and that club invited Charlie to be their guinea pig.

(Why Charlie? Why not me?)

I don't think much happened. I think they just asked him to beat off for them. He did. The girls just watched.

Why are kids so visual? so exclusively visual? It's only as you get at least a little bit older that you want touch and taste to mix with seeing.