Lydia Biswell Has It in for Me Read online

  LYDIA BISWELL HAS IT IN FOR ME

  by

  Rhyd Flynn

  TORRID BOOKS

  www.torridbooks.com

  Published by

  TORRID BOOKS

  www.torridbooks.com

  An Imprint of Whiskey Creek Press LLC

  Copyright Ó 2016 by Rhyd Flynn

  Warning: The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 (five) years in federal prison and a fine of $250,000.

  Names, characters and incidents depicted in this book are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of the author or the publisher.

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  ISBN 978-1-68299-209-8

  Credits

  Cover Artist: Kelly Martin

  Editor: Fern Valentine

  Printed in the United States of America

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  Title

  Copyright

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  About the Author

  Torrid

  Prologue

  Five boys with dirty minds peered anxiously up the stairs leading to the second floor of Capitol Hill Junior High. It was October. The fifth game of the 1962 World Series was underway. New York and San Francisco were tied at two games apiece. Boys everywhere were focused on the series, listening to transistor radios, snatching any news they could about the game. But not these boys. These boys were focused on the girls’ locker room at the end of the hall. Inside the locker room, the girls in eighth grade P.E. were finishing their showers, drying off, and returning to their lockers to dress. The five boys imagined those eighth grade girls pushing tiny white towels all over their wet, glistening bodies. They imagined firm bottoms and hard, erect nipples like the ones they’d seen in the pages of Cavalier on the magazine rack at Veazey Drug. They tried to imagine delicate, curly wisps of pubic hair, only that was harder to imagine. The girls in Cavalier didn’t have pubic hair. It was always airbrushed away. They imagined all of those girls wet and naked—well, almost all of them. There was one girl they couldn’t imagine naked, one girl they didn’t want to imagine naked. Her name was Lydia Biswell. She was the girl the boys were waiting for.

  Barely able to contain their excitement, the boys shushed each other to be quiet, each shoving the other for the best position to see up the stairs. The boy who came up with the plan, the one wearing a dark blue shirt, started to count do+wn. “One…two…three…four….”

  Perfect timing. The door at the far end of the hall blasted open. An ear-piercing scream echoed along the corridor and down the stairs. The boys knew what was coming and burst into hysterics. Seconds later across the top of the freshly buffed landing, a short, fat girl skidded in and out of view. She tried to brake in time, but she couldn’t stop herself and smacked into the wall. The collision knocked her backwards onto the floor. Immediately she popped up, her short, pudgy body wobbling as she found her feet. She bounced up and down trying to see out of the windows a few inches above her head. After several attempts, she mustered all the strength she could, hooked her elbows over the wooden windowsill and hoisted herself from the floor. Her flailing legs sent the boys at the bottom of stairs into a roaring frenzy. From their position below the landing, they could see right up the girl’s dress, and what was making them laugh so hard was the very thing the girl was now crying about uncontrollably. She wasn’t wearing any underpants; they were flying from the top of the flagpole in the courtyard. The sight of the girl’s big red bottom beaming down at them like a great October moon made the boys helpless with laughter. This was better than all of the other times they’d gotten her. Better than the time they set fire to a sack of cat shit and threw it on her porch. It was even better than the time they mailed a rubber to the principal in an envelope with her return address on it.

  Devastated, the girl slipped back to the floor and ran to the edge of the steps. “I hate you, I hate you!” she screamed down at the boys. “Leave me alone!” But the horrible boys standing below her only laughed harder. The fat girl hurled herself down the steps. By the time she reached the bottom, the boys were gone. Her fat, puffy cheeks turned scarlet. Breathlessly she fell back on the steps and began to cry harder. Lydia Biswell hated those boys more than anyone could hate anything. They teased her all the time and did terrible things to her because she was fat and ugly. “One day,” she cried into the empty hall. “I’ll get even, you’ll see.”

  The moment was touching, almost poignant. Had she been anyone else, I might have felt sorry for her, but she was Lydia Biswell, and no one felt sorry for her. No one was her friend. Kids teased her and played tricks on her all the time. She deserved it. An hour later Lydia was suspended from school for disrupting classes and exposing her bare buttocks when the vice-principal asked her why she was out of class without a hall pass.

  A week later the Cuban Missile Crisis gripped the world and everybody got worried about World War III and Khrushchev and things like that. With the end of the world looming, interest in Lydia faded. No one felt bad about what happened to Lydia or the trouble she got in, but for reasons no one understood, she never told on the boys, not even me, the kid in the dark blue shirt.

  Summer arrived, Russia did not bomb us out of existence, and my dad got a promotion and a pay raise. We were now an upwardly mobile family. We would be moving across town to a new housing tract in south Oklahoma City where other nice, upwardly mobile people like us lived and valued the same things we did. That meant new schools for my sister and me, which wasn’t really a big deal, since none of my school friends lived in our old neighborhood anyway. It wasn’t as if I was that attached to C.H.J.H. The best part was I wouldn’t have to see or think about Lydia Biswell ever again.

  Changing neighborhoods coincided with a change in my hormones. In the fall of 1963 I entered the ninth grade, and my interest in the opposite sex was off the chart. My hormones were raging at full boil. No longer was I thinking about harassing girls and stealing their underpants. Now all I wanted was to get my hands inside their underpants while they were still wearing them. The problem was my desire was way ahead of my grasp. My libido knew what it wanted, I just didn’t know how to go about gett
ing it.

  Enter Betty Balboa.

  Betty was a tiny little thing who spent a lot of time rubbing that forbidden place between her legs when she didn’t think anyone was looking. Of course, I was always looking. I practically elevated shooting beaver to an art form. I knew the exact moment to look when girls got in and out of their desks, the best moment to look down their blouses for a nipple shot as they bent over and where to stand when they went up and down stairs. Sex was all I thought about. If I wasn’t thinking about it, then I was dreaming about it. At night some part of my mind took control and in the morning I’d be praying my mother wouldn’t ask me why my underwear was sticking to the side of the laundry hamper.

  From the moment I first deliberately dropped my pencil on the floor so I could look up Betty’s skirt, I had a hard on for her. No matter how often I dropped my pencil, I couldn’t work up the nerve to ask her out. Betty must have figured out what I was doing because she called me before I found the courage to call her. She asked me to take her to the fair. My mother pointed out that it wasn’t very ladylike for a girl to ask a boy out. Yeah, well, screw Miss Manners, I took my advice from Mr. Meat.

  Betty and I spent our date at the fair holding hands and riding rides, savoring the noise, the stench, and the low-life carnies trying to get our money. Being so close to Betty gave me a nonstop boner. I wondered if she could feel it pressing against her back when we rode the hammer. Mostly we squeezed hands, smiled a lot, and exchanged glances that neither of us understood because we didn’t know each other very well. On the drive home Betty snuggled up to me in the back seat of my dad’s station wagon, pressed her hot lips against my ear and whispered so my dad couldn’t hear, “Are you a virgin?” I shook my head. I told her I was a Sagittarian. Betty was too worldly for me. She said she couldn’t see me anymore. Monday morning she switched homerooms.

  Two months later, just long enough for Betty to almost be out of my wet dreams, she reappeared, looking much chestier than I remembered. She cornered me at lunch and told me she needed to see me right away. “It’s urgent,” she said, taking me by the hand and leading me to the band room. The band room was empty because everyone was in the cafeteria. Betty pulled me into a practice room and shut the door behind us. I knew she played the flute, but something told me this wasn’t going to be a recital. She pressed herself against me. “Alan?” Her hot breath tickled my ear. “Do you know what happens when a girl gets her period?”

  I didn’t know. I had heard about periods, but I didn’t know the details. Like most guys my age, we didn’t get to see I am Mary’s Menstrual Cycle. The last time Betty put me on the spot was still fresh in my memory. So I lied. “Sure, I know. Everyone knows.”

  “Good, then you know I’m a woman now, and I want you.”

  “You are? You do?”

  Betty took my clammy hands and pressed them over her new and improved breasts. They were huge. I couldn’t get over the size of Betty’s new boobs in just two short months. I was getting big just holding onto them. The glass in the tiny practice room fogged over. Betty moaned and kept repeating, “Oh, Alan, Alan.” Her knobs were full and firm. I wanted her to slide her hand down my pants and grab me like I was grabbing her. Betty’s hand down there, and I would have gone off like a rocket. I squeezed and squeezed and then something horrible happened. Her tits blew out. Betty’s chest sighed and collapsed beneath my fingers. Her proud mounds were no longer proud. I was stunned, but if Betty noticed, she didn’t seem to care. Her breathing was heavy and her eyes rolled loose in her head. She ripped open her cardigan and pulled up her deflated bra. Instead of two firm grapefruits, all that was there were two tiny nipples on a flat, boyish chest. I was dumbfounded.

  “Do something,” Betty demanded. “Aren’t you going to do something?” I pulled open the door. The tiny practice room decompressed. “Where are you going?” Betty cried.

  I stepped over the wreckage of Betty’s falsies. “To get a pump.”

  Betty pressed herself against the steamy glass. “I never want to see you again.” This time she meant it.

  Betty’s rejection pushed me into a fulltime relationship with my right hand. Those occasional wet dreams quickly became daily wet daydreams. Oh, the insanity. After Betty, all I remember doing is going home, locking myself in my room, grabbing my engorged penis, and when I looked up, it was a year later.

  Beating off is that unspoken secret among high school boys. No one admits to it, but everyone is doing it. If you believed How to Raise a Happy and Well-Adjusted Son, parents who expected to have well-balanced and sexually healthy sons shouldn’t consider masturbation unusual or abnormal. Of course it wasn’t to be encouraged, either. Oh, really? I could imagine my parents coming to my room to suggest that I might want to consider jerking off. Even if it wasn’t abnormal, it didn’t make me feel better, because I knew guys who really were losing their virginity. Some were liars, but membership in the Hand Job Club was getting smaller by the day. When would I be able to cancel my membership?

  One evening near the end of the dinner, as I was about to excuse myself for yet another episode of pulling the pudding, my parents began discussing their latest visit to the Moose Club. They made friends with a new couple and their daughter. The daughter, Gillian, was my age. That got my attention. Would I like to meet her? My mother gave me one of those motherly winks, as if we were sharing a secret. Of course I wanted to meet Gillian, because I wanted to fuck her. Immediately I recognized the potential to stop dating my hand. Before setting eyes on Gillian, I was imagining pumping her in the back seat of my car. Goodbye nudie magazines, hello the real thing. Yeah, well. My expectations were wildly misplaced. Common sense should have told me that a sixteen-year-old girl who went to the Moose Club with her parents was not my kind of girl. Who was I kidding? I didn’t have a kind of girl. I was in the tenth grade and my hormones were positively incendiary. My reason was hanging between my legs.

  “We’ll invite Gillian and her parents for dinner, we’ll introduce the two of you, and then maybe you can go to a movie,” my mother beamed. “Her nickname is Gilly. Everyone thinks you’ll make such a cute couple.”

  Abbott and Costello were a cute couple. Gilly and I were neither cute together, nor were we a couple. By our third date I accepted the reality of what I knew on the first date: Gilly was everything I didn’t want in a girlfriend—a boyfriend.

  “She’s just a little tomboyish,” my mother said protectively, as if Gilly was getting ready to become a member of the family. “It can be an attractive quality in a girl.” There’s tomboy and then there’s East German women who compete in the Olympics.

  “Alan, some girls are a little awkward. It’s something she’ll grow out of in a couple of years,” Dad felt obliged to add.

  A couple of years? I’m already less than three years from my sexual peak and the closest I have come to sex is glimpsing Betty Balboa’s nipples. I didn’t have time to wait for a girl who put slugs in her penny loafers and whose idea of a romantic evening was going to the stock car races. It was over with Gilly as soon as it began. She and everyone else needed to know it wasn’t going to work out. I was looking for a relationship in which I could become a man, instead of a relationship in which my girlfriend becomes the man.

  Despite my obvious disinterest in her, Gilly took to me like a fly to shit, which made ending our—association—very tricky. I decided to break the news at Wedgewood Amusement Park. Ending things with a few laughs might make it easier on both of us, I thought. We spent the afternoon on the rides, stuffing our faces with hot dogs and ice cream. Several times I tried to pull Gilly aside to explain what was on my mind. I wanted to tell her that I never wanted to see her again because she was manly, that she embarrassed me, and that for a while I might be willing to overlook those shortcomings if she’d let me have sex with her, but all Gilly wanted to do was eat and ride.

  “Gillian, I really need to talk to you.” It was hot and I was feeling irritable.

  “Oh, God.” Gillia
n looked at me, and for a moment I thought she might have actually heard something I said. She hadn’t. She was looking over my shoulder. “Oh, God, Alan, it’s my favorite.”

  I turned around. Gillian was looking past me at the Tilt-A-Whirl. “Gilly, I don’t like rides like that. I don’t like anything that makes me dizzy.”

  “Don’t be silly.” Gilly dragged me up the entry ramp and shoved me into a shell with wheels. “This is going to be so much fun,” she honked, jerking the safety bar into the locked position. I was trapped.

  “Gilly, listen to me, I have something very important to tell you.” Before I could say more, the Tilt-A-Whirl lurched and my head snapped back. I wanted to tell Gilly that what I needed to say wasn’t easy to say, but the ride was up to speed and the G-force was wrapping my lips around my head. I sounded like a record playing at half speed. Still, I was determined to tell Gilly like the man she was. Around me everything melted into a hot, whirling, sickening blur.

  “Say it, Alan. Say it quickly.” Gilly screamed deliriously, throwing her hands above her head. “Just let it all out, Baby!”

  It came out all right, but not what was on my mind. Gilly looked at me quizzically. I had puked all over her.

  I was pretty sure Gilly understood why she never heard from me again. At the time I couldn’t tell her we were through. How do you tell someone you never want to see them again when they’re wearing your lunch on their face?

  My parents took my breakup with Gilly pretty hard, especially my mother. “She’s so sweet, Alan. I just don’t understand.” Yeah, well, instead of arousing me, Gilly gave me goose bumps. The girls in Cavalier never did that.

  From the day I upchucked on Gilly nothing meaningful happened until two days before my senior prom. I skipped the prom my junior year because I couldn’t find a date. You could skip the prom once, but not two years in a row. If you did, everyone knew you were a loser. The thing is the people who knew and cared about stuff like that never wanted to be your date. They just wanted you to know they knew who you were and what you were. So I took the advice of my best friend Ken and did what I promised myself I would never do, no matter how desperate I got. I called one of the science girls. I telephoned Bobbi Bean.