StraitEight: We wore uniforms in my parochial jr high -- light blue shirts, navy blue pants... this one kid next to me in History class -- older (held back a grade), wrong side of the tracks, a tough lanky punk with green eyes and a shock of black hair -- always wore the same pair of skintight tricot slacks. Very worn, sheer in places. He was slumped way down in his desk one day, not paying attention as usual, and with a furtive glance or two I could see he was definitely tumescing. God, this kid was gifted! He wore it down and to the side facing me, so I could see every detail as it stretched that tricot mesh tight and snaked down his pantleg. He was doodling absent-mindedly, so I could stare pretty much unnoticed -- or so I thought. "What're you looking at, <last name>?!" he finally shouted in the middle of the teacher's sentence. I was mortified, but nobody knew what was going on and class resumed without any elaboration on his part (thank god). (He was considered naturally surly and a bit nuts, so a surprised shrug from me was all it took.) After that, though, hardly a day went by at recess he didn't chase me down to a corner of the playground, throw me flat on my back, straddle my chest and drool in my face, telling me how much I liked it "...you f'in' fairy" -- and many an afternoon in the locker room he would repeat his outburst if I so much as glanced at him... the other boys knew we had a "beef" of some kind, but no-one suspected the truth. There's more to the story, but I've gone on too long as it is... | 
