Dance of the Nymphets

The guests are disappointed that there isn't a stripper. More than disappointed, for the party was talked about and built up all week at school. Heart rates rose in a crescendo of erotic anticipation on entering Marco's house. Only to be let down by reality. I know that's how everyone felt on entering because that's how I felt. At least the males must have felt it that way. They're all around thirteen like me.

I think the whole stripper thing was just a trick to lure people to Marco's birthday party, and it worked: there is a crowd here, the right crowd. It is a typical teen birthday party: cheap alcohol and no parents. There are at least as many girls here as boys. I'm glad I spent so much time and gel on my hair in preparation. Who knew that girls could be tempted by the promise of a stripper?

Oh, they're pretty girls, made-up and squeezed into tight clothes, looking more adult than in their school uniforms, but still young and fresh, all succulent flesh (my thoughts rhyme - surely I'll be a poet when I grow up?). I look on as my friend Kyle speaks to the three best of the lot: Candice, Kirstie, Crystal - beautiful things with beautiful names.

Candice wants to be a model. Her looks are too perfect to be interesting, so it won't happen, which is a pity because it would be an ideal job for someone of her intelligence. But look at her! How can I mock such long blond hair, such blue eyes, such full breasts, such smooth, smooth milky skin? Does she bath in milk? She's unattainable to thirteen-year-old boys, but I can look.

Kirstie is more attainable; she is attained at a rate that would surely make her father kill himself if he knew. She isn't as beautiful as Candice, but pretty enough with her straight brown hair and big brown eyes. She has a loud, brash voice and says a lot of very stupid things. But when I look at her, I want.

Crystal is a special case. Masses of unkempt wavy hair in various shades of gold match her tanned skin. Sea-blue eyes shine out of that gold in fatal smiles. Her parents are rich and she is wild. She chain smokes and drinks herself stupid and claims to fuck every day. She uses the word fuck a lot - such a harsh sound coming from such a soft, dreamy face. It drives me to despair.

My looks and Kyle's words are interrupted by someone I don't know. He confidently introduces himself as Matt.
"I must say, the three of you look stunning tonight!"
What an idiot! I admit that he's a rather good-looking idiot, with a big white smile. He continues for a while to make utterly stupid and meaningless conversation while I wonder what his smile would look like if I cut off his lips. And removed his teeth. Then he gets to the point:
"I don't know about you, but I'm really disappointed that there isn't a stripper tonight. What do you think?"
"Very disappointing," says Kirstie.
"But you know what, I've got a good idea: why don't you girls give us a little show? The three of you are hotter than any stripper."
"I'd make a good stripper," says Crystal.
"Well, let's see then!"
Yawn. Just like Marco's intial broken promise, this isn't going to lead anywhere. And instead of observing these girls, I now have to listen to Matt's annoying attempts to get their clothes off. Here comes Marco of false promises to join in the conversation.
"How are things?"
"Great! These girls were just telling me they'd like to put on a little show for us."
"Count me out - I'm not stripping for anyone," says Candice. Of course she isn't. The others aren't either, you fools. The discussion is useless.
"I'll strip if you strip," says Kirstie to Crystal.
I feel a twitch.
"Well, I'll strip if you strip, so we'll have to do it together," answers Crystal.
No. Surely this isn't going to happen? Why am I now so suddenly aware of the hot blood being pumped around my body in throbs? Was I dead before?

Time slows. Kirstie and Crystal are at the stereo system choosing a song with Marco and Matt. Kristie wears a look of stupid determination; Crystal has a nervous smile. Now Marco dims the light. The girls are standing in the middle of the room when the song starts.

Two thirteen-year-old girls in jeans awkwardly swing their hips; their stiff bodies move neither in time to the music nor to each other. All eyes are on them; nobody speaks. The one on the left, Kirstie, starts moving more aggressively now in an entirely uncoordinated way. On the right, Crystal keeps her nervous movements small.

The hip movements of the girl on the left stop. She pulls her white top off over her to reveal a lacy white bra. A few whistles are heard. She looks over to her partner. Her partner follows; she pulls her black top over her big head of hair. Her bra is red. More whistles are heard and I'm ready to snap.

Oh God, why is it so painful to want? Crystal, the nymphet, dances her small dance in the dimmed light; her top lies behind her in a little heap on the floor. Does she know the power she holds over us?

It continues: Kirstie is in her zone - if there were ever any questioning, halting voices in her head, they're gone now. I read her mind and this is what she thinks: I should have done this alone, then everyone would be looking at me. The whistles rise in number an intensity until she puts a hand behind her back. In the loaded silence she undoes her bra and takes it off, replacing it with an arm like a bar across her breasts. I can no longer allow myself to blink.

Crystal, having also unblinkingly watched, now has her turn. She fidgets her lacy red bra off and covers each of her small breasts with a hand. Both girls dance on; Kirstie waving her free arm around as the other sqeezes back against her breasts, Crystal tightly holding hers as she sways.

"Take your hands away!" shouts a voice.
They dance on as before, ignoring the plea. Then the song comes to an abrupt end and Kirstie announces:
"Okay, that's all. You've had enough now."
She is mistaken.