Ass-Slap Extraordinaire
When I was in high school, I went through a phase where I was obsessed with slapping peoples’ asses. I don’t know why, I just loved the feeling of giving someone a good hit on the rear. To me, it was a sign that our friendship had reached a level of great comfort and familiarity. Or maybe I just loved the feeling of a fresh sting tingling in my palm. Who’s to say?
I’m sure everyone has gone through different phases in their lifetime; some invigorating, others on the more regrettable side of the spectrum. For me, I have had quite a colorful array of awkward phases. The one time I begged my grandfather to cut my hair so I could have the “Audrey Hepburn Pixie” my mum refused to give me; resulting in the hairstyle my dad likes to refer to as my “German-Nanny-Cut.” Or the awkward period when my boobs were growing at a considerable rate, rendering my Zoey 101 training bra useless and leading to a very nipple-y portrait of a twelve-year-old me sitting on Santa’s lap; a decoration that continues to adorn our tree every Christmas.
Fast forward to my last year of high school. I developed an infatuation with slapping asses. It started with my family. A pat on the butt to congratulate mum on a great pork roast. An ass-tap for my sister while she walked ahead of me up the stairs. One solitary slap for my dad which resulted in an awkward conversation about hemorrhoids. This escalated to enthusiastic slaps to grace the arses of my closest friends. Eventually, it got to the point where any semi-familiar tush that shimmied by me became fair slap game. I would walk the halls of my high school, right hand cocked, in a ready position for whenever the urge hit.
Now, I went to a relatively small, catholic high school so I knew most of my classmates quite well. At this point in the ass-slap phase, my need to slap surpassed the level of familiarity required to receive said slap. It was a cold winter’s day; the holidays were coming up and I was feeling more buoyant than usual. As I ran the halls with my three best friends in tow, I was slapping asses left and right. One for the boy who carried my barrettes for me in the sixth grade while I tried to tame my dreaded pixie cut into something adorable for picture day. One for the girl who refused to be my partner in gym because, according to her, I possessed less athletic ability than Stephen Hawking. Offensive right? My feelings exactly. A thoughtless bitch like that was just begging for a good ass-slap. Left and right I gave out slaps. I was slapping so much that I began to forget to screen the bodies of the people on the other end of my flying hand.
So, as I continued to haphazardly sprint down the science wing, I didn’t realize that I had made a terrible mistake that would haunt me for years to come. A mistake that would come up at every party for the rest of my high school career. You see, when I approached the greyish-green pleated slacks with the suspenders sprouting from the waistband, my hand made contact before my brain even realized that I was about to slap the ass of my grade twelve physics teacher: Mister Donald Dickie. And that’s why, boys and girls, my request to drop physics one month before my diploma, was granted no questions asked.