When I saw the ubiquitous silhouette of the Trojan soldier bust on the purple box, the sonorous “Trojan Man!” jingle played in my head. Yes, I’m a Trojan, a mighty warrior of the Ancient World—and to the victor go the spoils. I looked at Diana, my spoil of war, whose nose ring glittered in the dark bedroom like she was one of Hector’s concubines.
She grabbed me by the hand and led me to Carina’s room, where an extra bed had sat near the window waiting for Diana, for me, for us, for what I would assume its entire existence—I pictured it surrounded by flowing waters and cornucopias of fruits, nuts, and oils, but alas, no such revelry awaited us across the hall, merely a twin bed in plain white sheets.
We crashed onto the mattress and tugged and gnawed and kissed. She still tasted like cigarettes. It was like a cartoon whirlwind of smacking hips and lips with clothing flying out from the fray. Boom! I was naked, hard, and still humming, but unsure of what to do next.
Diana grabbed me by the dick and ripped open the condom with her teeth—I almost came instantly. She slid it on and rolled it down—crimp, crimp, crimp—like trying to push a rubber band down a rolled-up poster. She pulled me on top of her and I fell between her legs.
Outside, my paisanos sucked in the summer night in a bacchanalian gaiety. I checked out my own budding biceps and forearm muscles, accentuated by the shadows of the moonlight beaming through the sliding glass door, and pictured myself in filthy golden gauntlets, covered in blood, my sword wedged in the corner of the room where my Mafia bat rested.
“Are you ready?” she asked, snapping me back from my campaign in the Aegean.
Am I ready? Am I ready to lose my virginity? I’ve been ready for that since I realized I wasn’t, in fact, sick during that magical episode of Three’s Company.
I pulled back my hips and entered manhood with a thrust like I was reading from the Torah. I could feel all of the…
“You’re not in.”
“Oh…” I realigned my hips, like I was taking the second free throw after a botched first attempt. Again, I thrusted, missed, and hit butt cheek. Thrust—miss—thigh. Thrust—miss—taint. I felt beads of sweat start to form around my brow, mocking me like a crown of thorns. With each failed attempt, I could hear a squeaky little voice whisper in my ear: “Still a virgin. Still a virgin. Still a virgin.” The humming adrenaline began to fade as I remembered that Hector, and the Trojans, in fact lost the war.
“Hey, you okay? Want me to get on…”
But before she could finish her sweet offer, I made one last thrust—a spiteful, maniacal thrust like I was punching in the dark—and hit bull’s-eye.
“Ohhh, there ya go!”
I saw stars, perhaps a crackling celebration of my ascension into manhood. Orange and yellow meteors zoomed and popped past the sliding glass door, and I continued to thrust into Diana as my paisanos engaged in a Roman candle fight on the front lawn.
I found a table in the corner and texted Tank and Carmine to meet me. The waves of dejected freshman boys came pouring into the cafeteria, personifying the old adage “misery loves company.” Until Paxton, whose voice was at a constant full volume, came roaring up to my table waving a crumpled piece of paper, sporting his devilish grin.
“What ya got there, Paxton?”
“Oh baby, Vic. I’ve got the list.”
Was he still carrying around the hot list from sixth grade? I figured that perhaps Paxton’s coping mechanism for the sudden fall down the social totem pole upon entering freshman year was digging up that old list to relive a happier, simpler, gentler time.
“What list?”
“I knew he had it!” Pierce Stone joined us; Silas soon followed. “Let me see it again.” He snatched the paper from Paxton’s hands and smoothed it on the table.
I checked my phone for a text from Carmine or Tank—nothing. Those two were habitually late, usually caused by a last-second shirt switch or a hair touch-up, but I had seen them in the hall between second and third periods, so I knew they had actually come to school.
“Oh my God,” Pierce Stone laughed. “This shit… this is brutal.”
Little Slut Bitches ’05 was written at the top of the wrinkled paper, followed by what I assumed was the list comprising the “little slut bitches” and their transgressions.
I remembered Tony and George talking about the “slut list” when they were in high school, and how it was this annual thing the seniors did to the freshman. I didn’t know much else, but I could tell by the way Pierce Stone licked his lips and smiled that he was about to tell me.
“I still think Julie’s is the funniest,” he started. “Number one, Julie Fischer: ‘I love cum on my pretty face. My eyes are so big they make great targets. Ready! Aim! Fire, boys!’” Pierce Stone and Paxton laughed.
“Who’s two again?” asked Paxton.
“Jenna. Jenna Tisch: ‘I have a small mouth, but don’t worry, I still like BIG cocks. I need you to come on my teeth because they’re too brown.’”
“Not bad,” said Paxton.
“Guys, I think this is pretty fucked up,” said Silas.
“Don’t be a bitch,” said Pierce Stone. “It’s a tradition. The seniors have been doin’ this since the ’90s.”
“Jessie’s isn’t bad,” said Paxton. “Jessie Levinson: ‘I like dick without a condom. Don’t worry about getting me pregnant, it will save me from going to Syracuse!’”
“I think we should just throw it out,” said Silas.
“Dude, listen. The girls want to be on this list,” started Pierce Stone. “It’s like some ass-backwards rite of passage. The seniors do this as a preemptive strike for when their boyfriends start ‘scumming.’”
“What?”
“Scumming, it’s like… when the seniors get drunk and hook up with the freshman. My brother used to do it. It’s cool, okay? We just gotta wait our
