Twelve and Human

                Flogging the dolphin…

                                  Polishing the bishop…

                                                  Scratching Yoda behind the ears…

                   Twelve-year-old Thomas sat at the foot of his bed, disgusted with himself.  Perspiration formed on his brow, presumably from his efforts that afternoon in his bedroom.  Or was it from the sprint home from the bus stop?  The lack of air-conditioning on the steamy Florida afternoon didn’t help, but it was necessary.  Otherwise, he wouldn’t hear her coming, with the loud central cooling unit humming outside his window.  Pathetic, he thought. 
             He suddenly cut his gaze to the bedside alarm clock.  4:02 p.m.  Probably got about ten minutes, fifteen tops, he calculated.  Yet, he couldn’t move.  What was wrong with him?  There certainly couldn’t be others.  If there are, they reside in an institution somewhere.  Not a prison, in the classical sense, but a sort of hospital – an asylum; that’s what it’s called.  That’s where they’d put him, if he ever got caught. 
                No, he thought.  They will NEVER find out.  No one can ever know what a sick weirdo I am.  Maybe it’ll stop.  It will get boring and I will stop, just like with everything else.
                He looked down at the catalog lying beside him.  A Fall 1991 Fingerhut catalog.  A magazine for old women, he concluded.  Page after page of novelty garbage and supposedly ingenious inventions meant to make everyday life easier.  His object of lust today was a thirty-something-year-old woman modeling padded undergarments, including an enhanced bra that looked as if it may actually stop a small-caliber bullet, thanks to its “lightweight space-age polymers that provide lasting support.”  This is my inspiration, he thought.
                He briefly daydreamed about getting his hands on one of his father’s Playboys.  All those beautiful subjects.  Their perfect breasts, enormous and firm, with nipples beckoning him to take in their majestic texture. 
                He shook his head.  Too risky.  That’s how he could be caught.  If only he could-
                The sound of the tires on the dirt and seashell driveway brought him back.  Got to take care of this now!  He scrambled around, dropped the wad of tissue, clumsily fumbling for it as he lifted it from the floor.  Quickly, he flushed the evidence, hurried back to his room to smooth out the bedspread and stash the Fingerhut in his hopelessly disorganized closet.  Heavy footsteps trekked up the stairs to the stilt-house.  He plopped himself down in a lounger in the living room, turned on the television and tuned to Fox.  Star Trek: The Next Generation faded in from commercial as his mother came through the door.
                “Hi, mom,” Thomas smiled.
                “Hey, Tommy,” she replied wearily.  “Jesus, why’s it so hot in here?”
                Oh, fuck!  I forgot to turn the A/C back on.
                His mother examined the wall-mounted thermostat.  “Why is the air-conditioner turned to off?”
                Thomas frantically groped for a valid excuse.  “I don’t feel so good.  I’m really cold.  I couldn’t get warm, no matter what, but I think I’m starting to feel better.”  Not bad.
                “You should put some extra clothes on now,” she said.  “I have to turn this back on.  Maybe it will be cool again by the time your father gets home.”
                Hmm, he thought.  No ‘When did you start feeling sick?’ but, ‘I have to turn this back on.’  She must know I’m full of it.
                “That’s fine,” he said, staring at the television.  “I should take a shower anyway.  I’m really sweaty.”
                “You’re not going to watch Star Trek?” she asked.  “You love this show.  You run like crazy to get home and watch it.  When I come home early, you’re so excited to watch it that you’re dripping with sweat when you come through the door.”
                Thomas shut his eyes and clenched his teeth, humiliated.  “Yeah…I know.  I do like this show, but this is a rerun.”  He stood up and headed for the bathroom.  “I’m going to take a shower.”
                “Okay,” she nodded slowly.  “Is everything alright?  I mean, besides you not feeling very well?”
                “Sure,” he replied from the bathroom. 
                “You got a girlfriend or something?” she smiled.
                The question caught him off-guard.  Maybe she was on to him.  No way, she wouldn’t be nice about it at all.  “Heh-heh, no…”
                “You know, that’s going to come up soon, and-“
                “I’m really not interested.”
                “In girls?”
                “Um, uh, yes.  I mean, uh, none around here.”
                “Oh, I bet there’s someone.  I bet there are all sorts of girls that you like,” she laughed as he shut the door and turned on the water.

                Thomas stood in the cold water, letting it run down his back.  He rolled the soap over and over in this hand, then over and over in that hand, switching back and forth, looking at it, and thinking.
                She doesn’t know.  If she did, she’d be taking me to see doctors and all kinds of experts.  They’d stick needles in me and hook me up to all sorts of machines.  They’d put me in a straight-jacket type thing, so I couldn’t do it anymore.  Maybe give me some kind of medicine so it wouldn’t work, or to make me sleep a lot.
                He stared at nothing, soaping himself now.  He stopped, closed his eyes, taken away to some other place in his mind. 

                A big, thick, veiled, white bed…

                                   Soft skin…

                                                     Playboy girls…