Alan liked to poke me while we were in class together. Sometimes it was pretty hard, so it actually hurt, and I would want to say something or fall over onto my desk, but I was in class, and I had to stay still at my desk. If I thought the teacher wasn’t looking, I sometimes let myself squirm.

Sometimes he would slide his shoes off and tickle me with his feet. I could always smell his socks on me afterwards.

Once, he brought a pen to school with a smooth metal cap. He sat behind me in class that day and pulled his desk extra close to mine. I could hear him breathing behind me. He slid the pen slowly, gently across my arm. I shivered a little. Without lifting the pen, he traced my arm to my shoulder, up and down my spine and around my neck, long soft messages in cursive. I didn’t make any sound, hoping I could discourage him, but I felt like shivering, felt like squirming, felt like letting my voice out. I faced forward, as still as I could make myself, and pretended I wasn’t there while he traced circles around my nipples with the cold metal cap.

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