Whatever you do, don't mention the titties!

I knew exactly what I wanted to say to Marisa, but I sensed that complimenting her boobs right then would be a disaster on a level somewhere between plane crash and nuclear holocaust. I tried to appear caring by sitting down on the edge of her bed and patting her feet, clad in soft white socks. In the meanwhile, my mind was working frantically to figure out the right thing to say to this distraught girl--I really did want to cheer her up, and I felt a certain moral obligation to convince her that not all guys were sleazy.

This mission was slightly complicated by the fact that even as I tried to persuade her that she wasn’t just a sex object to guys, my eyes--as if they had a mind of their own!--were traveling up and down her smooth, lightly freckled legs, displayed so well by the short-shorts she was wearing, Marisa wasn’t an athlete like Jessie was, and as a result there was just a bit of plumpness to her calves and thighs. But I thought her long legs looked so perfect, I wanted nothing more than to sink my teeth into them, run my hands all over them, dive headfirst between them…

Instead, I let my better instincts prevail. “I know you’re feeling trapped in your body right now and unable to control it, Mari,” I told her slowly and sincerely, “and maybe you even feel like your body is controlling you because you don’t have much say in how people react to it.” Something in this reached her and she stopped sobbing, though the occasional sniffle still broke through. Encouraged, I kept going.

“And don’t forget we’re in high school--what could be a worse place than among horny high school guys? Once you get into the real world, people will respect you for who you are, not how your body looks. Well, except for old man professors who’ll look down your blouse when they think you don’t see them, or bosses who subtly encourage you to wear short skirts to the office, or a dating scene that rewards women who dress slutty, or….” I came to a confused halt, sensing that I was heading in the wrong direction. Marisa wasn’t crying anymore, which was good, but instead looked like she was about to kick me out of her room, which was definitely not.

I’ve got just one most chance, I remember thinking to myself. What could I tell her that would really work?