CHAPTER 6 #2
Going through puberty something as simple as a breeze would make my cock hard. Unfortunately, it always seemed to happen at the worst time, like when Melody Kinkaid asked to borrow a pencil. We were in the hallway about to go into class. Why couldn’t she have asked after I was sitting down?
Anyway, probably because I was only twelve and more clueless than most boys my age, I just stood there frozen while staring at her cute face with that Ariana Grande ponytail.
I was so taken with her I couldn’t speak.
Then it happened. I stood there helplessly paralyzed while my dick turned into a flagpole that you could hang a magazine on.
When Melody looked down at my massive bulge, her mouth gaped open while her eyes went as wide as saucers.
Then, with a snicker, she did what any girl her age would have done and pulled out her phone, pointed it at my crotch and snapped a photo.
While I tried to process what just happened, she went to class and texted the photo to every girl she knew.
And it wasn’t just a photo. Turned out little Melody was quite the tabloid journalist as she included a full account of what happened with surprising detail.
It took about a millisecond for her salacious text to make it around the whole school.
As word of my lack of control, not to mention my size, was traveling through the halls in the most humiliating way possible, my two best friends, Shane and Todd, had a man-to-man talk with me at lunch.
“Happens all the time,” Todd confessed. “Only, it’s usually not that noticeable. That’s something to be proud of.”
I remember wondering why being bigger was something to be proud of. What difference did the size of your pee hose make to anyone?”
“Next time,” Shane admonished, “think of dead kittens. That’s what my dad told me.”
That sounded brilliant, and I wondered why my dad hadn’t imparted such words of wisdom to me. “Does it work?” I asked.
He shook his head. “Not really.”
Oh, maybe that’s why. Maybe my dad was smarter than his dad.
Regardless, over the next few years I tried imagining dead kittens, rotting fish, all sorts of disgusting roadkill, and nothing ever worked.
But as I got older, around seventeen, I got to where I could talk to a girl while getting only slightly chubby.
Simply putting my hands in my pockets hid my embarrassment then.
And by the time I was twenty and well-established in college, I could talk to girls just fine.
So, at thirty-two, why do I have a twelve-year-old dick all of a sudden?
I do the only thing I can and shift uncomfortably in my seat trying to create more room in my pants while she retrieves the first-aid kit and sets it on her lap. Thank goodness she doesn’t notice.
As she opens the first-aid kit, I’m struck with a new problem.
Just when I thought I couldn’t get any harder, she smells like heaven.
What the fuck is the matter with me? I’m not usually like this.
Hell, I’m never like this. Maybe it’s because I haven’t been this close to a woman in months.
How long has it been? I have to think back.
It was when I said goodbye to Veronica right before Ash and I left for the .
Can that be right? That was months ago. I think the only female I’ve talked to since then has been my sister.
Shifting once more on my log, desperate for some relief, I’m sure that’s the cause of my suffering.
My balls hate me for neglecting them for so long and this is their revenge. Damn.
I thought I’d have to tell her what to do, but before I can get a word out, she pulls out a packet of iodine and a small tube of superglue. Maybe I shouldn’t be, but I’m surprised. Those are the two things I was going to have her look for.
Her gaze flicks up to mine with a reassuring confidence like she’s done this a thousand times. “Let me know when you’re ready.”
No, definitely not squeamish. “Ready when you are.”
She gives me a nod, then tears the top off the iodine packet and pulls out the brown-soaked gauze.
As soon as I let go of my thumb, blood starts flowing in a heavy stream over my hand and past my wrist where it paints the snow a dark crimson.
It looks bad, but Blondie doesn’t flinch.
I’m impressed. Calmly, she swabs the cut, then pinches the skin together and starts applying the glue.
“I know it stings. My mom used to do this when I got bad cuts. It’s the alcohol in the glue, but it only lasts a minute.”
“This isn’t my first rodeo,” I say through clenched teeth.
She’s right, it does sting, and I’ve never been more grateful for pain.
Finally, my cock has had enough, and like the Hulk after he’s done smashing things, the big guy is returning to normal.
Taking the pressure off my zipper is a relief all on its own, and with that problem solved, I can think clearly again.
I consider asking for her name, but do I really want to know? Since this isn’t going anywhere, it’s kind of nice not knowing.
“No, I guess it wouldn’t be your first time,” she says, momentarily distracted.
I know what she’s looking at, and I’m used to this reaction.
Spending most of my time in the outdoors has its moments.
I’ve bled more times than I can count so there are plenty of scars, but they pale in comparison to the four gruesome lines that run the length of my forearm.
They always catch people’s attention. Actually, it’s the first thing fans always want to see, and from the way her eyes follow them like train tracks from my wrist to my elbow, I’m sure she’s wondering.
She probably thinks they’re from a car accident. I wish.
We were in the Boreal Forest in northern Canada when I rounded a heavily wooded ravine only to run headfirst into a momma grizzly with her two cubs.
Before I realized what had happened, she shot up to her hind legs and took a swipe with her wicked-sharp claws.
Instinctively I ducked out of the way, but she caught my left arm, ripping it open.
You can’t outrun a bear, so without thinking I barreled my shoulder into her chest and pushed off with both legs giving it everything I had.
It knocked her back a bit, but instead of falling over she twisted in midair and dropped to all fours with me tumbling over her back and somehow landing on my feet.
We were so close I knew I didn’t have a chance.
I remember thinking it was so fitting to meet my end this way. The famous Riggs being killed by a grizzly? It almost felt legendary, like a Viking dying in battle knowing he was going to Valhalla.
But her roar, only inches from my face, sent a rush of adrenaline through me.
That’s probably how I was able to move so fast. Ash said what I did next looked like a gunslinger in an old Western.
In a blink I had reached down to retrieve the bear spray at my belt and was releasing its contents in a steady stream at her open mouth.