Author: Tommy Riley
I was face down on my basement floor. I could not move. Little Frankie was on top of me. He had me locked in a fierce nelson. The situation was bewildering. I’d been pushing Little Frankie around our entire lives. I’d chased him around the block, sat on his chest pulling his nose. I’d held him in holds until he pleaded and begged. He was the neighborhood pushover. Now he was grinding my face into the carpet. Beyond the pain and pressure ofhis clamp on the back of my neck, beyond the humiliation, there was the explanation. How had he pulled this off? Well, He’d come into my basement where I often hung out with friends. For some reason I found his attitude annoying. Remembering the days when I’d dominated him, I gave him a shove. Suddenly I was in a headlock. Using some clever footwork I’d never experienced he took me quickly to the floor. I couldn’t budge him. Taking complete control, he my head to the floor with a violent half-nelson. Before I new it he was on top of me, I was moaning and he was calling me Mary and Sally.
Eventually he said, “Are you gonna just lay there? Do something!” I tried. I wiggled and squirmed. I actually managed to work my way to one side so that I was only partially covered by his body. This, however, was what he wanted. He suddenly wrenched me around like I was a rag doll. Now he was behind and beneath me, the ever-tight full-nelson was accompanied by a punishing body scissors. I was helpless. The pressure against my neck, the crushing of my ribs, was scaring me. To make him happy I made foolish and aimless movements to myself. With his lips alongside my ear he said, “Sally, you don’t look so comfy. Is it tight enough? No? Here, have some more.” And he cranked the pressure brutally. I let out a desperate moan and he said, “See Mary? I knew you’d like it!” With no strength left I lay limp in his iron clutches while he teased me with whispered insults. It was just a matter of waiting for it to end.
It went on for much too . When It was over it took a long time before I could stand on my own. Little Frankie had thoroughly humiliated me but I felt grateful for being released. There was not a shred of self-worth left in my being. I said, “Thank you for letting me go.” With a little triumphant grin he puffed out his chest and said, “I could’ve snapped you in two.”
“I know that,” I said. “Thank you.”
I’d always been on the lower end of the pecking order among the guys. Now, without question, I’d hit rock bottom. And knowing Frankie, he’d waste little time telling everyone on the block that he’d mopped the floor with me. But I was still puzzled as to how he’d done it to me. He was four or five inches shorter. He’d always been a weakling. But looking down at him I thought he looked different. His neck was thicker, with blue veins pushing out of it. His tooth-pick arms were no longer skinny. It struck me that he was going through a process that I’d noticed in my friends. It was what happened to boys our age. Pads of suddenly appeared in arms, on chests and backs. Little Frankie was developing while I remained the same. Simply put, I’d been left behind. I took hold of his upper arm with my fingers and probed the hard snakes of muscle coiling beneath his moist skin. He widened his smile and expanded his chest even more. When he flexed the arm, and hard against my fingertips, a thrill shot through my body, a wonderful wave of pleasure that settled between my and blossomed there. Years later, when I think of that entire episode, those lovely sensations of pleasure re-visit me. I think of it all the time. Oh Little Frankie.