The no-scratch rule m/f
Posted: Sat Apr 09, 2022 12:31 am
The no-scratch rule
I was playing skelly with my friends Brendan and Kevin. We were about nine years old, kneeling around a chalk circle on the sidewalk, flicking bottle caps weighted with chewing gum with our forefingers, to knock out the other guys' caps to win. It was midday in July, and I was pouring sweat.
“Hey, Brendan, can I get a drink of water at your place?”
“Yeah, sure.” He reached into his pocket and handed me a key. “My Ma's prob'ly passed out in her bedroom, so let yourself in.”
I ran up the stairs to the second floor, and unlocked his door. I heard Bugs Bunny's voice, and was walking past the living room when I saw Brendan's older sister, Kaitlyn, sitting on the sofa watching TV. Ordinarily, I would have just passed by, but she had her arms positioned awkwardly behind her, which caught my attention.
“Hi, Kaitlyn.”
She looked up. “Oh, hi, Terry.”
I went into the kitchen, pushed a stool under the cabinet so I could reach up for a glass, filled it from the tap, and drank three glasses. As I walked past Kaitlyn, I was thinking of some excuse to talk to her, when she said, “Hey, Terry. Can you do somethin' for me?”
“Yeah, sure.”
She struggled forward on the couch, stood, and turned. “I gotta pee. Need my hands.”
I stared in surprise. Her hands were tied behind her back with clothesline rope. “Okay.” I fumbled with the knot, then concentrated so I could calm myself. I untied her and she walked quickly to the bathroom.
Katilyn was about eleven, with wavy, strawberry blonde hair, freckles, and perky Irish nose. I was just beginning to notice girls, how pretty they were, how they shared jokes together instead of mocking each other. They seemed nicer then boys; we constantly had to one-up each other. Back then, in my working class Irish neighborhood, boys didn't talk to girls. Boys played stickball and stoopball and girls played hopscotch and jumped rope. Even in school or catechism class, where we were in the same room with them, we didn't have a conversation with a girl.
When Kaitlyn returned, she picked up the rope, handed it to me, and said, “You better do me up again.” She turned and crossed her wrists behind her.
I wrapped the rope a couple times around her wrists. It was a pretty long rope, so I wrapped it around and up and down in a cross, gaining confidence as I went. I pulled the rope tighter and tied a knot.
She wriggled, testing the knot. “Thanks.” She sat on the couch and turned her attention back to the TV.
“Hey, why yuh tied up?” I asked.
“I keep scratchin' my poison ivy. My father says I'm just makin' it worse. [In our Brooklynese--“My fadduh sez Ah'm jus' maginit woise.” So he tied me up before he went to work. My Ma's supposed to untie me. She ever wakes up.”
She was in a white t-shirt and blue shorts, barefoot. Her legs were scraped and scabby up to the knee. “Yeah? How did yuh get poison ivy?”
“I went to Bear Mountain with my cousins last Saturday. I was runnin' through the woods, climbin' on the rocks. I didn't know nothin' 'bout no poison ivy. It was just on my ankles, but I scratched it bloody and spread it up my legs. My father says, 'Yeah, keep it up. Give it to Brendan and the whole family.”
Her legs were smeared with something dry and pink. She saw me looking and said, “Calamine lotion. Supposed to make it better, but it don't.”
“Still itches?”
“Hell, yeah.” She squirmed and scraped one leg with the heel of her foot, then stopped. “I get it on my foot, that's gonna drive me nuts in school.”
She pulled her foot up on her lap and tried with her bound hands to wipe her heel off, but couldn't reach.
I asked, “Yuh wan' me to scratch it for yuh?”
She looked up at me and thought for a moment. “Nah, it's catchy.”
“I don' care,” I said.
“Yeah?” She said, “Okay.”
I sat beside her. “Where it itches?”
“All over. Where the calamine is.”
Starting at her ankles and working upward, I scratched her left leg, then her right. She moved her leg so I reached the right spots. Other than bumping into a girl on the school playground, I'd never touched a girl before. When I finished, I looked to her for approval.
“Yeah, feels better,” she said. “But my father gonna say I scratched it and get mad.”
The calamine lotion was scraped and streaky. I didn't want her getting a beating. “I can fix it.”
“Calamine's in the medicine cabinet in the bathroom.”
I went to the bathroom, opened the mirror, and found the pink bottle of calamine. I brought it and sat beside her.
“Shake it up first,” she said.
I shook it, poured some on my hand, and began to spread it on her legs. Though there were poison ivy rash and scratches, to me her skin was so soft and smooth. Her legs were covered in fine blonde hairs. I lifted her leg and rubbed the lotion onto her calf, around her ankles. The old lotion only reached her shins, but I rubbed her knee and up her thigh to the edge of her shorts. Talking with Kaitlyn, rubbing her legs, and helping her out since her hands were tied behind her was like going on a secret adventure. She wore a small smile, like she knew I was really enjoying this, and she probably liked all the attention I was giving her.
“Yuh want me to do your feet?” I asked.
“Nah.” Then she cocked her head and grinned. “Why not.”
I rubbed the lotion on her feet, between her toes. I was sorry to finish, but proud of my handiwork. Just then I heard Brendan's voice through the window. “Hey, Terry, we're goin' to Larry's building, play ringolevio. Yuh holdin' us up.”
“See yuh,” I took one last look at Kaitlyn, long pink legs, slumped back on her tied hands, smiling. As I ran out of the building I rubbed my hands together and on my shorts to get rid of the calamine. A few days later I itched all over from poison ivy, but it was worth it.
I was playing skelly with my friends Brendan and Kevin. We were about nine years old, kneeling around a chalk circle on the sidewalk, flicking bottle caps weighted with chewing gum with our forefingers, to knock out the other guys' caps to win. It was midday in July, and I was pouring sweat.
“Hey, Brendan, can I get a drink of water at your place?”
“Yeah, sure.” He reached into his pocket and handed me a key. “My Ma's prob'ly passed out in her bedroom, so let yourself in.”
I ran up the stairs to the second floor, and unlocked his door. I heard Bugs Bunny's voice, and was walking past the living room when I saw Brendan's older sister, Kaitlyn, sitting on the sofa watching TV. Ordinarily, I would have just passed by, but she had her arms positioned awkwardly behind her, which caught my attention.
“Hi, Kaitlyn.”
She looked up. “Oh, hi, Terry.”
I went into the kitchen, pushed a stool under the cabinet so I could reach up for a glass, filled it from the tap, and drank three glasses. As I walked past Kaitlyn, I was thinking of some excuse to talk to her, when she said, “Hey, Terry. Can you do somethin' for me?”
“Yeah, sure.”
She struggled forward on the couch, stood, and turned. “I gotta pee. Need my hands.”
I stared in surprise. Her hands were tied behind her back with clothesline rope. “Okay.” I fumbled with the knot, then concentrated so I could calm myself. I untied her and she walked quickly to the bathroom.
Katilyn was about eleven, with wavy, strawberry blonde hair, freckles, and perky Irish nose. I was just beginning to notice girls, how pretty they were, how they shared jokes together instead of mocking each other. They seemed nicer then boys; we constantly had to one-up each other. Back then, in my working class Irish neighborhood, boys didn't talk to girls. Boys played stickball and stoopball and girls played hopscotch and jumped rope. Even in school or catechism class, where we were in the same room with them, we didn't have a conversation with a girl.
When Kaitlyn returned, she picked up the rope, handed it to me, and said, “You better do me up again.” She turned and crossed her wrists behind her.
I wrapped the rope a couple times around her wrists. It was a pretty long rope, so I wrapped it around and up and down in a cross, gaining confidence as I went. I pulled the rope tighter and tied a knot.
She wriggled, testing the knot. “Thanks.” She sat on the couch and turned her attention back to the TV.
“Hey, why yuh tied up?” I asked.
“I keep scratchin' my poison ivy. My father says I'm just makin' it worse. [In our Brooklynese--“My fadduh sez Ah'm jus' maginit woise.” So he tied me up before he went to work. My Ma's supposed to untie me. She ever wakes up.”
She was in a white t-shirt and blue shorts, barefoot. Her legs were scraped and scabby up to the knee. “Yeah? How did yuh get poison ivy?”
“I went to Bear Mountain with my cousins last Saturday. I was runnin' through the woods, climbin' on the rocks. I didn't know nothin' 'bout no poison ivy. It was just on my ankles, but I scratched it bloody and spread it up my legs. My father says, 'Yeah, keep it up. Give it to Brendan and the whole family.”
Her legs were smeared with something dry and pink. She saw me looking and said, “Calamine lotion. Supposed to make it better, but it don't.”
“Still itches?”
“Hell, yeah.” She squirmed and scraped one leg with the heel of her foot, then stopped. “I get it on my foot, that's gonna drive me nuts in school.”
She pulled her foot up on her lap and tried with her bound hands to wipe her heel off, but couldn't reach.
I asked, “Yuh wan' me to scratch it for yuh?”
She looked up at me and thought for a moment. “Nah, it's catchy.”
“I don' care,” I said.
“Yeah?” She said, “Okay.”
I sat beside her. “Where it itches?”
“All over. Where the calamine is.”
Starting at her ankles and working upward, I scratched her left leg, then her right. She moved her leg so I reached the right spots. Other than bumping into a girl on the school playground, I'd never touched a girl before. When I finished, I looked to her for approval.
“Yeah, feels better,” she said. “But my father gonna say I scratched it and get mad.”
The calamine lotion was scraped and streaky. I didn't want her getting a beating. “I can fix it.”
“Calamine's in the medicine cabinet in the bathroom.”
I went to the bathroom, opened the mirror, and found the pink bottle of calamine. I brought it and sat beside her.
“Shake it up first,” she said.
I shook it, poured some on my hand, and began to spread it on her legs. Though there were poison ivy rash and scratches, to me her skin was so soft and smooth. Her legs were covered in fine blonde hairs. I lifted her leg and rubbed the lotion onto her calf, around her ankles. The old lotion only reached her shins, but I rubbed her knee and up her thigh to the edge of her shorts. Talking with Kaitlyn, rubbing her legs, and helping her out since her hands were tied behind her was like going on a secret adventure. She wore a small smile, like she knew I was really enjoying this, and she probably liked all the attention I was giving her.
“Yuh want me to do your feet?” I asked.
“Nah.” Then she cocked her head and grinned. “Why not.”
I rubbed the lotion on her feet, between her toes. I was sorry to finish, but proud of my handiwork. Just then I heard Brendan's voice through the window. “Hey, Terry, we're goin' to Larry's building, play ringolevio. Yuh holdin' us up.”
“See yuh,” I took one last look at Kaitlyn, long pink legs, slumped back on her tied hands, smiling. As I ran out of the building I rubbed my hands together and on my shorts to get rid of the calamine. A few days later I itched all over from poison ivy, but it was worth it.
And itchy poison is awful...