Wilfred Henry Ian Petterson III was, as his name suggests, the third to possess the definitive and diminutive name. And as comes with such steep tradition, steep expectation was impressed by Wilfred Henry Ian Petterson II in a similar manner that Wilfred Henry Ian Petterson I impressed upon his junior. An athletic specimen, young Wilfred spent his formative years under the watchful eyes of his father and his housekeeper Salma Salchicha Sanchez.
His mother too often frequented the liquor cabinet and wine cellar as she organised the next social gathering and less often – never in fact – cared to care for her child. Her favourite pastime was to drink until she was loose tongued enough to insult her perfect husband and force him to contain her. This was usually done with a swift punch to the abdomen, the accuracy impeccable as it almost always caused her to keel over and spew out even amounts of Vodka, Baileys, Schnapps, and if it were a special occasion – that is if Wilfred Sr. used his preferred left hand – he could extract some Vintage 1990 Penfolds Grange.
It isn’t easy for any child to witness this, but Wilfred was always loved by Salma who took it upon herself to act as his mother. His father too, loves his son and displays that by encouraging him in every endeavour. So it was little surprise that when Wilfred became state champion in the high school Open Poetry Competition, Wilfred Sr. embraced the new talent. Visions of the Petterson name branded over scrawls of literature, immortalised for generations past, present and for the future flooded his preoccupance and blinded him from some serious events taking place in his son’s life.
You may question why Wilfred, a son of a rich tycoon who values above all else class and stature, wound up at a public school. In primary school he attended the most private of private schools and despite proffering the finest education and physical development facilities, the school couldn’t guarantee the experience on the playground. Wilfred, or ‘Whip’ as the other children would quip, was neither athletic enough nor scholarly enough to impress cool upon his fellow students. He had no friends and was always on the receiving end of scarring insults. These often referenced the song “Whip it” or the simple but always effective: “Oi Whip! You’re a faggot!”
One day at the mall, however, Wilfred encountered some public school students.
“Your pretty hansum,” a raggedy blonde girl said with shy ambition, the grammatical errors somehow prevalent even in her speech.
“Why thank you my dear” replied the young Wilfred, his voice smooth and resolute. The girl and her friends giggled like, well, schoolgirls; the alpha male counterparts next to them grunted an air of disgust and inaction, unable to maintain a second’s eye contact with someone who wore a tie with the top button done up. The girl looked up from her laughing fit; Wilfred, standing confidently, casually erect, smiled at her. She blushed and regressed into her befitting laughter.
From that moment Wilfred realised he simply must attend a public high school. He would be the fittest, smartest and most distinctly proper personage in all the school. The children wouldn’t even be capable of associating the acronymic nature of his name to the word whip. They would call him Wilfred, like his father did, like Salma did. Yes! He simply must attend a public school. It took months to convince his father but with Salma’s assistance he achieved his goal and set about preparing for being the coolest student at Wakefield Flats High.
Things went according to plan for Wilfred. He was the smartest and most athletic of his year and perhaps even of the year ahead of him. Everyone was enchanted by his grace and presence and he was constantly asked on dates by girls who grew impatient of trying to attract his gaze with undeveloped breasts and freshly shaved legs that never had any hair to begin with.
The keenest of all the girls, however, was the one who never asked Wilfred out. She had quickly learned the art of cool. Cindy Winchester had come along way since the sight of a hansum boy made her giggle uncontrollably. Her chest already visibly impressive and her legs long and slender and glistening after a fresh shave; smart and witty, she was the perfect XX to Wilfred’s XY. Everyone knew they were meant to be, but they both played a game of patience for the first three years of school.
In this time Wilfred had become somewhat of a living legend for more than his natural attractive qualities. Three times Open Poetry Champion, Wilfred was a sensation. But despite everything going so swell for the Wakefield Wordsmith, he had a hidden pain. An emptiness he felt whenever asked out on a date or whenever he succumbed to the will of one of the plethora of dumped girlfriends who begged him for just one kiss. He tried to blame it on his father, or on his mother, or on his escape to easy street of the public school system; he even tried to blame it on Salma.
It was Salma he first confessed these troubles to, and though she suspected she knew the problem, she suggested he try to channel his pain into something positive or creative. And so Wilfred found that his poems gave him a fortress of solitude. He also found that like anything else he did, he was great at it; the best in school; the best in the state. No student from Wakefield Flats High had ever won anything and suddenly with the success of Wilfred, the whole school was experiencing the power of poetry.
The qualification for the participants to represent Wakefield Flats had become a grand affair. All over the school pockets of students were eager to display their latest sonnet but none could compare to the ever prolific Wilfred. After finally making the move everyone had always expected, he and Cindy were together holding hands to the dismay of the countless girls and boys who had their hearts set on one of these two. He had written a limerick for her and was now to follow it up with a second poem. This would surely win her over.
As I design mine
To spite thy ensign
I might try divine
My right to thy shrine
Cindy’s eyes began to water.
Oh to cry thy reply
You bring respite
When in the dark, I’m
You ignite sunshine
“Amazing!” they heralded.
“So romantic!” they proclaimed.
“Pure Genius!!!” cheered the masses.
“That doesn’t even make sense,” Darren scoffed under his breath.
Cindy’s parents weren’t home that night and for the first time in his high schooling life Wilfred felt scared. She knelt at his feet, her face opposite his naked nether regions and she went to work as his grimacing expression just escaped her upward line of sight. He played part in the charade for a few unbearable moments before pulling away, barely even hard.
“What’s the matter?” Cindy asked, trying to remain sweet and mask her annoyance, she had obtained quite a taste for cock in the last few years and the ‘hard to get/tease’ routine was just making her hungrier. The problem that both of them were about to realise was that Wilfred had similar taste buds. This perfect XY turned out to be XgaY.
She climbed on top of him whetter than ever. After being denied her entrée the main course was going to have to be exquisite. Forcing Wilfred down by sheer eagerness she positioned her crotch above his face and sat. Wilfred was trapped. All his might couldn’t dethrone the Venus strength of this horny teen. “Just stick your tongue out and move you face around,” she demanded as she squirmed and wriggled her hips for some purchase.
Wilfred, struggling for breath but afraid to inhale for the threat of the sour stench of this foreign contraption, locked his mouth shut with all his will - his virgin lips were not going to be penetrated by this evil reflection. He reached upwards in an effort to weaken the will of the sex starved slut above him. He grabbed at thin air until finally latching onto her tits. He pulled hard and squeezed and scratched and slapped at the jiggling set.
“Oh Yeah!!!” she screamed, “Yes! Keep going!”
Unwittingly he had further enticed the beast. The stench grew. Did this bitch fuck a skunk or something? She clutched at his hair with inhuman strength and rode his face like a saddle coming loose from a galloping mare. Overcome with horror and short on options Wilfred’s inner homosexual had had enough. His belly rumbled and the acid and bile and breakfast bagels began to bubble, called to action by an uncontrollable impulse. With his head throbbing from a lack of oxygen and stagnate blood flow, he shut his eyes and released the creature’s breasts, trying one last time to free his mouth. He had no strength left, the reflex kicked like a tectonic tremor in his stomach, a tidal wave soared up his throat and, as his lips finally gave way to the acidic eruption, he swore to himself that this would be the last mutant cavern he ever encountered.
“What the fuck! You a faggot or something?” Cindy yelled.
“What?!” Wilfred gagged. He was struggling to take in oxygen while on hands and knees on Cindy’s bedroom floor. “It probably smells better now,” he retorted before feeling the first of a string of aftershocks.