(# 7 in a series of
Skeeter Kitefly’s Titular
by P. S. Ehrlich
High on a hill in an Eldorado, late one summer in the
Derelict Days of ’74, little Kelly Rebecca awaited her passage
into conjugal womanhood. Her heart was filled with
romance, her lungs with demonweed, her stomach with
partly-digested popcorn (she and Frid having gone to see Their
Movie, Blazing Saddles, for the third time)—her ears
with Roberta Flack on the Caddy stereo, and her haltertop with
nothing at all as it dangled from the Caddy gearshift knob.
There being more Lovers Leaps than Lanes in Demortuis, they
were parked atop a secluded knoll above a subdivided field at
the end of a gravel path dubbed “Chancery Court” (by an
unlettered realtor who thought it sounded upscale).
Honest-to-God moonlight streamed into the aged Cadillac,
against whose vast leather backseat the stretched-out Kelly
Rebecca looked very small and very rosy. Not that she
ever appeared any other size or shade, not at 4’11” and 98
pounds, with a disposition that if anything was
oversanguine. In short, she was the Compleat
Peach: trimly curvaceous, altogether edible, hardly
needing the Revlon and Cover Girl applied to her facial
bloom—or having her ripe round yabbos squashed out of
recognition by basketbrawler Frid’s dribblehardened hands.
Not that this impeded Kelly Rebecca’s singing along
with Karen Carpenter, reinterpreting “Superstar”:
and oh so FAR away
you felt me up ‘n’ through
my silky pantyhose;
and YOUR cigars
they smelled so sweet ‘n’ clear
‘cause they weren’t Dutch Masteeers—
Actually what smelled was a half-spent joint in the Caddy
ashtray. Nor had Kelly Rebecca put on pantyhose
tonight: merely a pair of denim cutoffs that Frid was
easing down her pretty little angel thighs, revealing bikini
briefs that were demurely white except for the word
Saturday embroidered upon them in suggestive crimson.
These followed the cutoffs by gradual degrees, Frid
trying to prolong the moment and mutual anticipation to the
uttermost possible length—
—a point already reached by Frid’s dingdong, straining its
leash to such an extent that he expected it to rip his face
off his skull when Kelly Rebecca at last lay fully exposed
before him, with only tan lines, hoop earrings, and a macramé
choker offsetting her radiant moonlit nudity.
“Ohhhhhhh, Skeeter,” groaned Frid.
“Ohhhhhhh, Punchy,” she giggled up at him.
Frid’s mother was as Icelandic as they come in the Great
American Middle West; but in her farmer’s daughter’s heart she
had always longed for a genteel British uppercrusting—high tea
served in veddy refined drawing rooms—instead of being raised
cornhuskily by calloused hand.
At least she was able to give her own children proper
names: Wendy and Peter and Alice and last of all
Christopher Robin. But all four grew up thick and blunt
and dour, none of them inclined to pop by Buckingham Palace or
the Second Star on the Right—least of all Christopher Robin,
who started using his fists while still in his veddy refined
All the Frid kids were truculent when they weren’t being
belligerent; but by the age of 16, Christopher Robin’s
attitude was to treat ‘em all rough—parents,
siblings, teachers, classmates, guys on basketball courts, and
girls on leather backseats—because even if they didn’t like
it, he sure did. Offcourt as well as on, he
tended to foul out, though not before scoring first.
That is, until he encountered Skeeter Kitefly.
He’d been wrestling profanely with his sumbitching
combination lock at the close of another sumbitching
schoolday, when he realized he was being laughed at
by some wimpy little pissant Q-ball nearby. SUMBITCH!
He pivoted, ready to spit out the tried-and-true
What’s so funny?? followed by Whudda YOU looking
at?? directly into the wimpy little pissant Q-ball’s
But in fact the only words Frid got out of his mouth were
“Uhhhh…” and “Wha’?”—provoking a fresh burst of laughter from
the itsy-bitsy hotstuff babe beside him: the top of
whose cute blonde clownlike head barely came up to Frid’s
armpits. Which burst forth with coarse hot sweat to
accompany his tying of tongue.
Thus she always affected him, Frid the Enforcer, who’d been
cutting a heedless swath through the girls of Bonum High
School for years (well, months) already. But in Kelly
Rebecca’s cartoon-chipmunk presence, both his ‘pits and tongue
went haywire repeatedly—right up to the fraught point when she
at last allowed herself to be unhaltered, uplifted, and
depantsed for the very first time by anybody. With Frid
all the while sweltering and mumbling, staring as she called
Some trace of the Proper English Lad his mother dreamt he
might be kept Frid in painful check, held him back from savage
ravishment punchinello-style—even with Skeeter’s most
appetizing yummies on moonlit display. This in spite of
all his ferocity, his aggressiveness, his skill at setting
picks and grabbing rebounds, his lethal Icelandic elbows that
intimidated opponents near and far and made C. R. Frid the
star varsity power forward he was—
—or ought to be, if his violent bristling temper didn’t
relegate him to the JV squad again this season.
“Hey c’mon!” Skeeter was enthusing beneath him, “I wanna
watch you put it on!”
Frid hadn’t known what she was talking about, at first,
when she’d insisted he had to wear a thingee.
“What, you’re not on the Pill?”
“I’m 15! Where’m I gonna get any Pill?”
“Well, don’t you got an older sister?”
“Sadie’s off backpacking through Portugal!
What’s she supposed to do, AIRMAIL me one?”
So Frid got as many thingees as he could afford from a
vending machine at the truckstop and spent yesterday
rehearsing what to do with them. Were you supposed to
inflate each one balloonlike before it could be wearable?
“I have done this before, y’know!” he informed the
eagerly-beaming Skeeter. “Just not so much with … one
o’ these. (Goddam! how’s it supposed to fit … oh.)”
Doing this under Skeeter’s bright blue gaze—or rather
over it, Frid’s 6’3” jackknifed above her 4’11” on
the Eldorado backseat, while the Eldorado radio kept reminding
Rikki not to lose that number. Don’t lose it:
good advice for the nobler fraction of Frid’s brutish
nature, not wanting to hurt Kelly Rebecca, she being so tiny
and trusting and Compleatly Peachlike and all—
—Frid holding back so much for so long
that the impatient Peach finally took him in hand and put him
in place, scoring an immediate bull’s eye.
On then to the Doing of the Deed, with Skeeter’s demonweedy
giggles escalating to guffaws and then to fullbellied shouts
of joy that assaulted Frid’s left eardrum and made him dimly
wonder just how far beyond Chancery Court she could be heard.
But even as they heaved and throbbed and plunged and
squirmed together, Frid’s right eardrum kept hearing Don’t
lose that number! Frantically he turned his
thoughts to basketball, himself at the freethrow line, a
roaring adoring crowd on every side: making this one point
will put Frid on the Bonum varsity squad—no, in the starting
lineup for Marquette or UCLA—no, for the Bucks or the
Lakers!—hence Skeeter’s blissful shouts of praise and
affirmation—yet don’t lose it! Keep cool calm
and dry (despite the armpits) till it all feels just right and
then he shoots! he scores! the crowd goes wild! and
through the celebratory enveloping din they feel more than
hear a distinct single fateful
as of latex losing its grip.
Skeeter hooked convulsive little feet into Frid’s matted
‘pits and vaulted him aloft. “Oh JEEZ oh JEEZ oh JEEZ—”
she went, capping this with the eternally pre-answered woman’s
cry: “What did you DO??”
A question already answered as a vast legacy of protoFrids
made their presence felt below.
“The SEAT!” yelled Frid, swabbing away at both the
Cadillac’s and Skeeter’s with the handiest scrap of fabric.
“Noooo!” Skeeter wailed, “I’ve gotta wear those
“Well I’m not gonna put ‘em on now! Why did
you DO that?”
“This is my dad’s car! He’s gonna kill me!”
“NO-ew! I mean why—I mean, what’re we gonna DO?”
“Uhhhh … wha’?...”
Hysterics knocking at her door: “What’ll we name it, then?
“Shut UP! Just shut UP!”
She resorted to tears then, partly from woe but also
outrage at having been yelled at.
“I dunno! I dunno what we’re gonna do! Don’t
“Oh just take me home,” cried Skeeter, bleakly rehammocking
her mammets in their Peter Max-colored haltertop. “If
you can managed to do that—Christopher Robin!!”
Frid did not make the varsity that season or any other, but
labored on as a JV. Far from boasting of his conquest
to friends and teammates, he described Kelly Rebecca to one
and all as a frigid lutefisk, belying all appearances and
indications. Word of this slander reaching Skeeter’s
ears, she vowed to avenge her hotstuff honor.
Her apprehensions about Punchy Jr. were relieved naturally
in a couple of weeks; but Skeeter spent the entire basketball
season in Bonum’s home bleachers, wearing increasingly bulky
sweatshirts, stroking and soothing and occasionally doubling
gaspily over her padded midriff: as though bunny-in-the-oven
had already developed a set of lethal elbows. And with
his thoughts and prayers too often elsewhere, Frid just as
often sent his jump shots and hook shots and foul shots
sailing clear over the backboard.
Hush! hush! whisper who dares—