She wants to paint my toe nails pink,
I say, “No fucking way,”
“No one will see It with your shoes on,” she says, though I will
know its there.
I’m high, but not that high. But I am in love.
I’m 17 and in love with this 19 year old girl I met at the
print factory.
She squeezes my toes and says, “please!”
I agreed to give her a foot rub in exchange for her giving
me one, but it’s clear she doesn’t want to stop there.
“It’s not like I’m asking to make you wear lipstick” she
says, “Although you would look good in matching pink.”
“Someone would see that,” I tell her and try to yank back my
foot, but she holds on to it.
“You could wear matching pink panties,” she says, “No one
will see those.”
“The next thing you’ll want if for me to a bra,” I say,
struggling to make sense of something that seems senseless to me.
“I’d love to,” she admits. “I could dress you up like a doll,
a stockings, skirt and sexy blouse and all.”
My head buzzes.
“Stop,” I tell her, too confused.
“We could do it here,” she says. “My older sister’s clothes
might fit you. I’m pretty sure I have a wig, and I’d be thrilled to make you
up, eye shadows, lipstick. I’m sure you’d look beautiful.”
“I’d look like a sissy and people would mock me.”
“You wouldn’t go anywhere,” she says. “You could do it and
we’ll stay here.”
My high is getting worse as my hormones kick in.
“No more of this,” I tell her.
“Please!!!!!”
“No!”
“Oh, all right,” she says with a pout. “But let’s not waste
the pot my brother got is.”
She hands me the joint, I suck on it, feeling relief.
“Take it all the way in,” she scolds me. “Don’t you know how
to smoke pot.”
I comply, feeling the world grow even hazier.
“Won’t you think about it,” she says, meaning her plan to
decorate me like a Christmas Tree.”
“I don’t want to do it,” I say, although the pot is working
its way into my brain.
“Just think about it,” she says, handing me the joint again.
“I’ll be fun.”
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