PULP IT LIKE IT’S HOT: We Took Biology Class Seriously

On handjobs, classrooms, and earthquakes

January 2, 2019

Ajay Aravind
eruptions
Illustration by Katie Tandy

eachers never paid caution to us, we were the smartest kids in school you see (with glinting trophies to prove it).

In Biology we always sat together, all the way back — back in the last bench, obscured in a nebula of chalk-dust and flickering tubelight —waiting for the opening bell.

My hand goes under the desk, index and middle straddling his trouser-zipper — drag, drag, dragging down — in discrete motions, of course, because each scrape is louder than my heart in his ribcage, each has to be timed with a serendipitous sneeze, or cough, or some other bodily ejection — but success is not yet to be had.

He refuses to come commando: (what if I get a boner in front of everyone?) so now: past the arduous tasks: the undoing of his trouser button, and the unshackling of his belt,

it’s on to the next bastion — briefs, and only an aerial attack can breach the circular elastic.

I rush my hand within, no need for decorum here: pubic rustling melds with white noise, and past the curly crops I find it, just what I want, what I need, what I’ve been thinking about since the last time we were in class together; it’s right there woven around my hand or vice-versa I cannot tell anymore.

My eyes fade out, my ears, nose, tongue, all sensory utilities are cut off and redirected to my fingertips

I am his chapped foreskin, layers and layers of slimy epithelia screeching out their pleasure

I am his frothy head, his pulse beating through at least twice the normal

I am his molten scrotum, twin diamonds baking in their volcanic heat

I rub, I squeeze, I press — I do what I always do, I know exactly how he likes it, until: I excuse myself to the washroom to get his syrupy half-babies off me (hankies are no match for that phenolic aroma) while he marinates in his disgust.

That’s probably why he never returns the favour (yo, you know that I’m straight, bro) but I never complain (boys are dicks, but their dicks tho ❤).

Can you even. imagine. this going on — for six fucking months?! Sure you can, many among you have had identical divinations, some have even brought them to life, and even fewer have been caught at it —

But none, not one of you, have been impeached by a goddamn earthquake (29/01/2001; Bangalore, India; Richter 4.3) right after he zippers up, and suddenly the whole school is in evacuatory turmoil — and me — adrenaline blaring over testosterone, upright but unwiped, the vulgar lines of opal gliding down my arm now visible to half the room (but thank GOD, not teacher).

I was called cum-hand (they thought I did it myself!) for about three lifetimes, but hey, teenagers forget everything eventually, right?

Similar Posts

Interested in partnering with us?

PULP is always on the prowl for stories, art, class proposals, comics, and more!

Submit to PULP