You are 16. Sitting in class.
Your name gets called out to come up and do your Afrikaans mondeling. All good. You are up next.
Feeling confident.
Feeling, feeling, oh-oh. Suddenly. Shitsake. Where did that come from.
A boner from hell.
Think sad thoughts, think sad thoughts, think sad thoughts.
It’s not working.
C'mon, piss off boner. Begone.
The clock is ticking, the other oke is winding down.
You are about to enter shitsake street.
Almost worse. The TF (the travelling fat)
This just needs a car trip to get going.
Even a very short car trip.
With your mother.
To school.
Where you have to get out and walk away as if nothing is up.
When it most very definitely is up.
Or the train. Click-clack, click-clack.
Its your stop. All the Rustenberg and Westerford girls are watching you.
You can’t not get off. You also sure as shitsake can’t stand up though.
You clutch your satchel to your stomach.
Sure, nobody noticed.
Or the girlfriend fat.
Holding hands will do it.
It will happen on your first date.
“Come on, the movie’s over, lets go.”
“Let’s not.”
“Let’s wait a bit, I like to watch the credits.”
To the end. The very end.
You are sitting on a rock on the beach with her next to you.
You are in a very thin swimming costume.
“Lets play beach bats” she says.
“Lets not!” screams your brain, “Oh please lets not.”
Why are you doubled over she asks.
You have developed a very profound interest in your toes.
Remember school speedo’s. Needing to get out the pool. Wondering how.
Shitsake. Enough already.
Anything with the risk of being bust by a family member was bad.
Life used to be like a sitcom. Mom, Dad and us kids on the couch watching Magnum PI.
TC is talking to Magnum.
In the background boobs are bouncing and flouncing. Oh oh.
Please take this through to the kitchen my boy.
Jislike. Not now. Not in my PJ’s. Not looking like a tent.
Your only option is to pretend to sulk and complain that your sister can take it.
All you are really doing is playing for time.
Your toes are curling up in your stokkies.
Imagine if your sister saw.
Standard nine and you have just finished a wet and muddy hockey practice. It is getting quite late but the school rules are that you have to go home in blazer and tie. You are covered in mud and sweat so you shoot though for a quick shower before the long walk to the train station.
Your mate Steven is in the shower, his back is facing you.
Howzit man.
He jumps, his body shocked.
Skaam. Very, very skaam.
You can check he was just showering. Poor oke.
He is dying and blushing and looks like he wishes it was all a dream.
You don’t know where to look.
You pretend you haven’t seen any thing and you duck.
Fast.
The most unthinkable. The credibility killer. The school gym shower fat.
Never had one. Still get a dry mouth thinking about it.
Aparently never ever wrestle.
Ever.
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