Shag Carpet


By Matthew Firth

She had hair on her tits. I was drunk but there was no mistaking it. Three or four thick hairs on the areola of each nipple. She was not shy. She was also drunk. Caroline Walters. I barely knew her. I had never spoken to her before that night. I was a grade ahead of her at school. She was in the same grade as the party’s host.

I went with three other guys from grade eleven. Our intentions were simple: make out with girls younger than us, using our seniority to our advantage. It worked. I was there an hour and was going at it with Marilyn Karpeki, a pudgy girl who wore her hair in blond ringlets. I had her outside in the backyard. She balked when I tried to put a hand down her pants. She wouldn’t touch my cock. I lied and said I had to go inside to pee. I lied again when I told her I’d be right back. I left Marilyn sitting on the lip of a child’s sandbox.

Caroline was different. Twenty minutes after abandoning Marilyn, I hooked up with Caroline in the kitchen. We drank vodka and orange juice. We laughed and touched each other. Then I took her upstairs into someone’s bedroom. Jackets were piled on the bed, so we stood in the middle of the room, our hands all over each other’s clothed bodies. She helped me into her pants, opened her shirt and undid her bra. She directed my hands to her strangely hairy tits. I looked at them, touched the coarse hair. Caroline moaned, then took out my cock and pulled on it, jerked me off. It didn’t take long. I ejaculated on the orange shag carpet. She looked down and smiled, pleased with herself, then tucked her tits away and zipped up her pants.

“What do you think of me now?” Caroline asked.

I knew why she asked. She thought herself something of a geek, a square girl. She had a dull exterior, but obviously—when plied—was capable of more. I had no answer for her, not then. Instead, I put my face in her hair that hung down to her shoulders, pulled her close for a few seconds, then turned and went back to the party.

In my head, later, stumbling home, I came up with an answer. It was the sort of thought that came to me too late to be useful. Although, in this case, I doubted I would have had the heart to tell her. I thought: “Caroline Walters, you definitely have a future, but you really need to lose the hair on your tits first.”

From Shag Carpet Action, Stories by Matthew Firth (Anvil Press, 2011). Used with permission of the publisher.

One Comment

  1. Posted January 20, 2012 at 10:19 pm | Permalink

    This is bloody brilliant!!! Thanks for this bit. I’ll look for the whole thing.

Post a Comment

Your email address is never published nor shared. Required fields are marked *


You may use these HTML tags and attributes: <a href="" title=""> <abbr title=""> <acronym title=""> <b> <blockquote cite=""> <cite> <code> <del datetime=""> <em> <i> <q cite=""> <s> <strike> <strong>


Matthew Firth

Matthew Firth lives in Ottawa. He's published three collections of short fiction, most recently Suburban Pornography and Other Stories (Anvil Press, 2006). Paris' 13e Note Editions will publish a collection of his fiction in French translation titled Sur Le Cul in 2012. He co-edits and publishes the litmag Front&Centre and has run the micro-press Black Bile Press since 1993.