[The Debutante Ball, 670 words, Genre: Realistic Fiction]

* Image courtesy of Dirk de Bruyn

The highschool girls all dreamt of the event. The big day. The ball. The day when they would wear their fancy frocks, which they had bought or rented from the local fashion house. Frocks, dresses of a custom design that would extenuate the hips, giving weight and bulge to their still developing features. The girls went into the shops that sold these dresses in groups. Giving each other feedback and propping up their friend’s confidence in themselves, while berating and destroying the confidence of the girls that they didn’t like.

A running commentary of the dialogue would go something like this; “You look great!”

“Thanks darling!” Amongst friends.

“You look like a mole!”

“Fuck you bitch!”

“Shut up mole!” Amongst rivals.

The highschool boys all dreamt of the event. The big day. The ball. The day when they would tear off the fancy frocks of their dates, and deliver a load of semen to various orifices of vestibule. They had selected their dates and inside their minds had developed a fantasy of how the night would go. First, there would be the dance, the feast and then there would be the after party. The after party where they would shove various intoxicants down the gullet of their dates, liquoring them up not to the point of inebriation, but to the point where their decision making skills were lessened. As they organized the after party, obtaining the liquor and drugs required, they made various jibes towards each other’s sexuality.

“You know what that thing dangling between your legs is for, right?”

“Sure do! It’s for rootin’!” And friends would laugh amongst one another as they gyrated their hips, pushing forth their groins.

“So what are you going to do when you get her alone?”

“Well, I think that’s really up to her. We’re just taking things slow.”

“Farkin’ hell mate! I guess we know who wears the pants in your relationship.” The hopeless romantics would be mocked and ridiculed.

The big day finally arrived. The day of the debutante ball. The girls lined up and on stage presented themselves in a show of fashion and class. The boys sat and watched. With the tableware they all grabbed a knife and fork. The cutlery was there for the meal that would later be delivered to them. But as the boys looked on; rolling their tongues inside their mouths in teenage lust, heads filled with the torrent of pornography that had been accessed through the internet, they began calling out little vile remarks, fantasizing about the real meal of the night. The girls looked back, hoping that their own dates were not partaking in the obscenity. They banged the cutlery down on the table, like a marching band. There was an uproar from the fathers of the daughters at the action, to which the elements of percussion ceased.

Afterwards the couples enjoined in a meal. The dining event was gracious as the attendees dined upon exquisitely crafted delicacies that had been prepared especially for the event. The conversation was polite and filled with irrelevant quibble.

Afterwards the dance. To which couples glided across the floor, in grace and revue.

Then the evening concluded. The couples made their way to the designated area for the after party. As the couples entered the area, arms entwined, they were welcomed by the local drug dealer in the area. The one who had helped the boys arrange the evening. When the hopeless romantic entered with his date, the boy’s drug dealer and his clientele all grouped together. Together they stood and declared that he was not welcome there. His date was, but he wasn’t. The boy was dissuaded and with back hunched, walked off into the night. The drug dealer took his date by the arm and ventured into the after party.

The boy, the hopeless romantic, sat in the gutter beneath a streetlight. He pulled off his corsage that he had been told to wear by the other boys, and watched the flower slowly wilt away.