The Electric Guy by Mykola Dementiuk--Paramour Vol 4 Issue 4 1997 Cambridge, MA

 

The Electric Guy 

by Mykola Dementiuk

Paramour Vol 4 Issue 4, 1997 Cambridge, MA

Amelia Copeland, Publisher

I'd been too long at my job, and under a lot of stress and frustration, but since I'd been doing it for almost five years, what would been the sense in looking for another? 

I actually did like my job. As an electrician's helper there really wasn't all that much to do: replace burn out fuses, change old light bulbs, set up wiring for projectors.

But being a guy working in an all-girls' high school, I knew it wasn't the job itself was causing the stress, it was the circumstances -- all those young girls I couldn't get at. 

Nonetheless, each morning as they arrived for class, I would put aside the want ads and set off on my rounds, checking fuses and bulbs, breakers and wire, but mostly faces and breasts, legs and asses.

Electric problems? Hell, the way some of those girls looked, they should have carried Warning: High Voltage! placards around their necks.

My favorites were the older girls, the junior and the seniors. I had witnessed most of them maturing from insecure, fearful, baby-faced freshmen into the brazen slut/flirts they mimicked from the TV soaps. 

It was as if they were gradually taking on their proper intended female roles in a culture rule by men with money, power, and sex (that is, for the men, money got you power, and both got you sex; for the women, of course, the path was reversed). 

I had neither power nor money, but I had the frustrating thrill of seeing schoolgirls parading past me, clicking their heels, their padded bosoms thrust out, their uniformed skirts as short on their thighs as Catholic propriety and outraged nuns would allow.

When they crossed the line, the nuns would send them home to put on longer skirts, to tame their teased hair, or to remove the makeup and lipstick slathered on their faces like 10th Avenue transvestite hookers....

Look for another job? Was I crazy? Why drop from purgatory into hell, when there was a remote possibility of getting into heaven?

But those occasional glimpses of heaven were a torment indeed. The girl's room was redolent of hairspray and perfume, with mirages of shimmering bras and panties, bobby sox and nylons. 

Girls, girls, and more girls would arrive during class breaks bringing their longings and heartbreaks, frustrations, insults and bickering's. They'd share overheated and over puffed cigarettes as they'd spit out insults and jealousies, complaints, gossip and lies.

But never mind all that (or the hair-clogged sinks or tampon-plugged toilet bowls - that was the janitor's problem, ha ha!), my greatest thrill in the girls' room was the graffiti-covered walls and doors of the toilet stalls.

Here was intrigue and innuendo that would take not only a Sherlock Holmes to unravel, but also a Sigmund Freud to discern what was true and what was a delusion of thwarted adolescent lust.

Cindy wears falsies! read one suck marking. Someone added, She's also a lezzie! And someone else added, Yeah, you should know!

Karen fucks Father O'Malley! reads another. No she doesn't she fucks Sister Olga! 

Susie fucks her father! read a third. Followed by an eager boast, So do I! 

Then I read a marking at the bottom on one stall door (it wasn't there yesterday); I was flung against the stall wall as if backhanded by the powerful arm of sudden possibility, of hope, of expectation so close at hand

Donna gives the electric guy handjobs! it read, and underneath that, a mere shrug, So what! I give him blowjobs!

My first thought was to rip out the stall door and take it home as proof that the girls liked me; my second was to pull out my dick cream on Donna's name and whoever wrote that she did me better; my third was to seek out Donna and the other girl for a real handjob and blowjob (one could jerk me off as I shot in the other's mouth); and my fourth was to get some paint and cover up the writing before a nun saw it and told the priests that I was the gleeful, unrepentant recipient of glorious, unbridled, feral sexual ministrations from the teenage Catholic schoolgirls they sought so hard to protect.

The following day the graffiti was even more explicit and detailed. 

I can't get the electric guy's dick in my mouth it's so! wrote someone who signed her name Connie, with someone else complaining, I haven't been able to sit ass week from his dick up my ass!

And underneath that, as if a missive sigh of regret, I wish I could fuck the electric guy, but the Spanish teacher says I'm only allowed to fuck him or else I'll fail ... followed by the outrage, Puta! He says that to all the freshmen!

The next few mornings the graffiti conversation continued wherever there was space on the walls and door and focused on the merits and abuses of the other teachers, male and female, nuns and priests, who either fucked or fingered or felt up and were blown or licked by the students who then failed and had to repeat the class. 

Was it true the girls weren't passing because the teachers wanted to hold onto and use them for another year? How had I missed out on a racket of free and available sex? Was the graffiti all true?

Or had I blinded myself with the girl-scribbled handwriting, the varicolored markers, the gushing about too-big dicks into too-tight teenage cunts and believing it all, about the girls, about the teachers, about myself? But I knew I was certainly not getting any, why did I believe the others were?

One early morning, before the girls arrived for classes, I went to the bathroom, hesitated, then wrote on a stall door, The electric guy fucks here at 10:15 am! I stepped back and looked at my offer, then bent down and wrote, Don't miss it!

The next few hours were a frenzy of fear, anticipation, dread, and hope, yet did I really expect a line of cock-hungry teenage sluts outside the girls' room at the designated time? What did I envision, a frenzy of name-calling and face-scratching cat-fighters desperate to get their cunts around my cock? 

I had chosen a time when the girls would be in their second period class, yet only a few minutes after the 10:12 class had begun, when late stragglers wouldn't be too conspicuous lingering in the halls or in the girls' room before they bustled off to class. 

I propped up my ladder around the corner at the end of the hall where I could tinker with a circuit breaker box high on the wall but remain out of ground view of any girl rushing to get to me in the bathroom.

Who would it be? 

Was there really a Donna who pretended to have given my handjobs, or some anonymous angel who was pretending she couldn't sit down after sitting on my dick; or some sex-starved bimbette who only wanted her fellow students were getting?

A few times I almost fell off the ladder trying to peer around the corner at the imagined sound of a heel clicking toward the girls' room, but 10:15 came and went and I remained the only one in the hall, without a girl in sight.

Maybe they were taking a test, I thought. Maybe they were being lectured on the dangers of unprotected sex and the proper us of condoms. Yeah, sure, in a Catholic school. 

Then I heard it...the faint squeak of an opening door...was it a hot and horny girl coming out of class for what she knew would be awaiting her in the bathroom?

But when I looked around the corner, the girl (I didn't see her face) was coming out of the bathroom and not going in! 

My God! What an idiot!

I cursed myself. Had she been in there all along, waiting for me to come in?

Idiot! Idiot!

I had missed the opportunity of a lifetime, every man's secret lust and dream, to fuck a teenage girl, and when would that chance ever arise again?

There had been a girl, willing and wanting to fuck me, and I wasn't there.... What loser graffiti would now follow me from stall to stall, from school to school, from little girls' room to grown ladies' room?

The electric guy is a faggot! The electric guy is a pussy! The electric guy can't get it up!

I wanted to leap off the ladder, run after the girl, explain I'd been delayed, feel up her tits, pull down her panties, and fuck her right there in the hall, but she turned to the stairway next to the girls' room and I heard her heels skip down the stairs. 

My God! 

She had cut class just to fuck me and we could've been fucking 'till class period ended!

I wanted to cry. I didn't know what I wanted; I didn't want to be there. 

But then again, I heard the squeak of the bathroom door and My God! Was someone showing up after all? 

Was it a girl, her panties wet with pussy juice in anticipation of how I'd fuck her? 

Had she waited in class, staring at the clock and dreaming of my cock inside her cunt, my hands on her bumpy little tits, her curious tongue in my mouth?

Had she decided she couldn't wait any longer?

It was 10:30. I snapped my head around the corner, thinking I'd catch a glimpse of a skirt and legs entering the girls' room, but instead I saw a head peering from the bathroom out into the hall: a man's head, a bald head, my boss's bald head. 

Was I surprised, enraged, disgusted?

Not at all, it was the electric guy, wasn't it? The real electric guy, the head electrician, I was but a mere helper, changing fuses, dragging wire, standing on ladders, and helping him get lair!

The electric guy fucks here at 10:15! His helper stands on a ladder in the hallway!

He skulked out of the girls' room and entered the stairway. I heard his heavy boots skipping merrily down the stairs. Hell, wouldn't I be skipping merrily after having fucked a teenage girl?

I sighed, came down the ladder, and made my way to the girls' room. 

What was the point of going in there now? What would I be checking on, burnt out, wasted fuses? The spent cum of a burnt-out cock?

I entered. 

Perhaps it was my own frustrated longing or over-exaggerated imagination, but I was certain the place smelled of sex: pussy and cock, sweat and scum, gasping breaths and shrieking orgasms. 

I stepped into the graffiti-marked stall where I had set up my boss's appointment for a morning quickie. A new addition marked the door, and I instantly recognized my boss's chicken-scratch handwriting. 

Donna fucks like a pig! it read.

I sighed and took out my own magic marker.

The electric guy sucks, I wrote.

That afternoon, I quit without even handing in a written resignation.

I tell you; the stress and frustration of that job were killing me.

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