While grown-ups worry themselves to death about preventing adult ways from corrupting the youth, in reality it is the young who threaten the spiritual welfare of the mature. The age group most likely to commit violent crimes is 15 - 24, a fact well illustrated by the book and movie A Clockwork Orange. If a teenager overhears two grown adults discussing their weekend, what will they hear? "Well, I watched a Netflix movie on Friday, did some yardwork and prepared my taxes on Saturday, and called up the family on Sunday." Cover your ears, children.
I wish I could recall all of the hair-raising things I overheard my tutorees say to each other. "Hey X, you wanna come over to my house tonight and hit Y?" "Hit" meaning fuck. Or "At least I'm a happy drunk -- you're such an angry drunk," coming from 15 year-olds. While the media exaggerate the degree of adolescent debauchery, it's clear that it still swamps the non-existent libertinage of the average adult.
[cover of "Teenage Kicks," Nouvelle Vague]
I just got back from the dance club I described here that caters mostly to ages 16 - 18. I know that I should have stayed away, but when those two teens "backed it up" into me at the same time, something catalyzed in my brain, and I was ruined. Just a few minutes later when one of them returned for a third time, my hands began to grip her exposed pelvis. The next Friday, a different pair ambushed me, one grinding me from in front and the other from behind, my hands of course going right for the front one's hips. And tonight a tall, fit Black girl approached me to dance for a little bit, which has never happened before.
But what has irrevocably adulterated my being happened at the end of the night tonight. I've been keeping to myself at the club mostly because I'm paranoid that if I am too pro-active, I will come off as the creepy old guy (relatively speaking). Maybe it was too cautious, but now I have all the evidence I need that these girls want to press their bodies against mine, and I will be back for more.
I can't help making eye contact, though, and this time one of the girls made a final move as the club was about to close, abandoning all pretense of subtlety in her signals. She marched straight up to me, violating my space, turned around, bent over, and began working her ass around in my lap like an eyeball during deep sleep wiggling wildly around in its socket. Unlike almost every girl below the age of 22, she was well endowed back there, and she had a delightful hourglass figure. Tawny flesh covered her pelvis as melted caramel over an apple, and like a kid at a carnival I let my hands stick right to it, not caring about how I would wash off the residue later.
And unlike the previous incidents, this was not an impulsive drive-by grind; for an entire song our bodies moved to wear away the worthless layers of clothing that separated us. (Three solid minutes is a long time for ADD high schoolers.) Afterwards, I wandered home in a daze, my hands shaking for half an hour. No girl my age could have left me so willing to give up what I have, to bury myself in her world.