This story is fiction.� Actually, the year being 2063 should have been enough to clue you in about that.
I don't care how old are.� I don't care how young you are.� However, the law does care, so if you are too young, go away (or at least try not to get caught).
If this story is against the law where you live, then like the young folk, go away.� Or at least...
7:32 P.M. Wednesday,
Halloween, October 31, 2063
Of the forty-five girls I taught that year (three classes a day,
remember?), thirty-eight showed up. George, one of the other coaches, had
forty-one, and Sam thirty-two, for a grand total of one hundred eleven
girls. Only fourteen of them actually showed up at six and stayed �till
nine, but most did stay for an hour or more. I knew that there were other
parties, and that some of the girls would be trick-or-treating (some did this
until they had children of their own, and then took *them* trick-or-treating).
At any time, two coaches had to supervise the hall, and one had to
watch the door.
Now, the rules for this party had been read out loud, by me, on Friday
of last week, and then again on Monday. The
rules, explanations of the rules, the reasons for the rules, and the fact that
the rules could not be set aside just because one didn�t feel like following
them, had been e-mailed to each girl, and to her parents. And on Monday,
each girl had been given the same thing as the e-mail, only clearly printed on
paper. AND each had been given another copy for her parents. So why
was I here, on All Hallows Eve, explaining the rules *yet again* for various
students and parents? And why did this happen every year?
�No, Irene, you can�t bring a date. Yes, I understand that you
don�t mind your boyfriend seeing you in skimpy stuff, but some of the girls
here don�t want him to see them. Well, you might not mind, but they
might. There will be a party later in the year that you can bring a date
to. It was in the rules.�
What made Irene think that the rules didn�t apply to her just because
she �didn�t mind� I don�t know, but she wasn�t the only one who tried to bring
a date. Four boys, on three occasions, tried to sneak in on their own.
Two girls from George�s second class asked about smoking, as did
Gloria.
�Not in the hall, you can�t. Everybody else would have to breathe
your smoke. There is a room at the other end, if you must smoke. It
is labeled. But really, it�s a filthy habit; are you sure that you want
to maintain it?�
�I�m thinking about quitting, but not tonight.� The same answer,
word for word, from each one. But Gloria had another something to
ask. �I suppose marijuana is out of the question?�
I was a bit taken aback by this. Not since my first year
teaching, three years ago, had a girl asked if it would be OK to smoke pot at
my party. This was unexpected, but I didn�t have to agonize over my
answer, because I knew what to say.
�Absolutely out of the question. Twenty-two states have decriminalized
marijuana, but this isn�t one of them.�
�Ah, come on, Coach,� she tried, �this isn�t school.�
�Which is why I�m looking the other way on smoking,� I told her, �but
you get caught smoking pot at my party, *I* could go to jail. You do what
you like when it�s your own ass on the line, but not when it�s mine.�
�Yeah, OK, um, sure,� she agreed, apparently shocked to hear her coach
use the word �ass� outside of a sexual context.
I�d smoked myself in my teens, and in fact had until I joined the
army. Actually, I started smoking more in the army, but quit after a
year. I hated it that any of my girls did it, but I could understand how
they got started.
�No, Mr. Smith, you can�t go into the hall. Yes, I know she�s
your daughter, and if you want to check on her I can have her sent to this
room. Well, Mr. Smith, if you go into the hall, not only will you see
Amethyst, but you will see seventy-eight other girls in various states of
undress, and most of them don�t want Amethyst�s dad to see them. Besides,
if I let you do it, then I have to let all the other parents do it. How
many dads do you want going in there and seeing your little girl? Well,
there you go. Boys? There aren�t any boys
allowed here. Well, there�s no sex going on here tonight, but Mr. Smith,
you *did* enroll your daughter in a participatory Sex Ed course. You do
realize that eventually she�s going to be doing a lot more than just
dancing. Yes, sir. Wait here and I�ll have her sent to you.�
I was careful not to roll my eyes or sigh. It was painfully
obvious that Smith hadn�t bothered to read the rules far enough to see that
boys were not going to be at this party, and that he couldn�t just waltz in to
check up on his daughter, any more than he could attend a basketball game and
just waltz into the girls� locker room. I rather suspected that he wanted
to check up on *all* the girls, for prurient reasons. Not that I could
blame him (they were delightful to look at), but damn it, the rules were there
for a reason!
As my turn at door-watching was over, I headed back to the dance floor
as George arrived for his shift. After winding my way through mostly
half-nude or totally nude (except for paint) girls aged fourteen to nineteen,
and asking several where Amethyst was, I finally reached her and tapped her on
the shoulder. �Amethyst! Your��
She whirled about and jumped at me, wrapping her arms about my neck and
wriggling like an eel having a fit.
�Your dad is here. He wants to see you.�
�Oh, Hell,� she snorted, �what does *he* want?� She headed for
the ante-room where Mr. Smith waited, grabbing a wrap as she went. All
day, she�d been showing her paint off to anyone who wanted to see it, and had
apparently spent a good fraction of the day slipping into closets, bathrooms,
locker rooms, and, on one daring occasion, behind a tree. Each time she�d
had one or more people with her, and then she would strip down and pose,
turning this way and that so that her audience could see the colors and
patterns on her fourteen year old body. Three boys had been promised
pics.
Even Mary had showed her Martian landscape off to a couple of other
girls. She�d also given her permission for the pic Dubois had wanted.
Saffron Pakeim then asked me to dance, and we did. She asked if I
would be able to make it to Friday�s game against East Hillman. I told
her yes, I tried to make as many basketball games as I could. Our team
was really going to miss her when she graduated next year. Saffron was
one of three star players our school had in girls� basketball, and one of the
others was graduating this year. Seventeen year old Saffron had a sexy,
firm muscularity that was not at all masculine, but deliciously sensual.
Most of the girls from my classes wore nothing but paint, but a few had
on the costumes they�d worn before the painting. Lisa was wearing her
metal headband with its �smartgun� and cord, but had abandoned the catsuit for
her painted �circuit board,� covering her entire body from the neck down.
Francine, from my third class, was a �jungle girl,� with a loincloth that
someone seemed to forget to finish in back, and a leathern bikini top that had
been so ripped to shreds that both nipples (and nearly everything around them)
were clearly visible. She had washed her paint off. Both Amethyst
and Mary were proudly showing off their paint, to the envy of some of George�s
and Sam's students, who had not had Dubois or her apprentices available.
I soon found myself dancing with Veronica Costello, a lovely fifteen year old Black girl with silver glitter over her body and in her hair. I sang in her ear along with Rxtrx Blipfarts, who sang �You�re Sixteen, You�re Beautiful, & You�re Mine� (of course, I changed it to �You�re Fifteen��). I danced with most of the girls in my classes, and a few in George�s, and one of Sam's, but then the whole party only lasted for three hours. George and Sam danced with a couple of my students, too.
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