Pop

Joseph sank into the couch with his jocks around his ankles and the blood spurting from his groin. He watched the blurry images of Dora the Explorer on the muted tv and both hoped for and dreaded his older brother skipping geography for a joint.
Shit, Joe thought to himself, the soundtrack of my death is my girlfriend puking my blood into the can.
He could just see Sammy’s scrawny legs across the bathroom tiles through the open doorway of the bathroom that lead from the renovated basement. There was a hole in one of her knee-high socks, right at the heel. Dirty, cracked skin showed through the hole. The other had slid down and was bunched around her ankle.
Her teeth were the first thing he noticed that first night Sammy came skittering over the back fence. Her fragile limbs and frizzy sandy-blonde hair were just a blur sweeping through the darkness. But when she turned around her teeth almost glowed
“What are you looking at?” she said.
Joe took in the sharp points, the perfectly straight little white spears moving in the shadows. He thought she was a demon.
“You’re trespassing,” he said.
They had been something ever since.
The orthodontist had recommended to Sammy’s parents that she have her canines filed down when she was 8 years old. But Sammy had kicked and screamed until her parents exhaustedly dragged her from the dental chair and took her for three scoops at Ben and Jerry’s.
The pain wasn’t excruciating, his first feeling was confusion.
“Fuck, Sammy.”
That had been what he was expecting not an hour ago. In the five minutes between bells Joe had to run from gym, over in the West Common, to his locker in 3G, then back to South before Old Mac marked him late for being 10 seconds after the bell. He was late already. But Joe was already four doors down and there was a chance he could sneak in and grab a desk near the door while Mac laid out some poor bastard who was ten seconds too late, and ten seconds too soon.
Joe didn’t see her arm shoot out from the door to the boiler room but he felt the tug of her hand on his collar. She pulled him into the darkness. The air was cold. Joe always thought this was strange – considering it was a boiler room. He expected it to be hot and wet as soon as he hit the stairs, but it took two flights down to start to feel it.
Her fingers were cold – how long had she been waiting for him? She pressed her icy hands up his shirt and pushed him against the wall. His head bounced against the concrete.
“Let’s go to yours,” she hissed in his ear.
They crept slowly through the house and sniffed the air for any sign of organic scent before descending the stairs. They creaked loudly but by now the confidence and blood were boiling in Joe’s body. His breath was fast, but not from fear.
Sammy pushed him to the couch and frowned at his enthusiasm.
“Hang on” she said, and grabbed the remote. She turned on the Nic Jr channel and told him to “Focus on Dora.”
The sounds of a music box came on the tv. It was Pop Goes the Weasel. There is something tense about that song, the slow build-up, the strange mixture of wood and metal clanking in the stunted notes. The song played over and over, it kept getting faster. Joe stiffened up. He let out a moan.
Sammy looked up at him and displayed her displeasure with glaring eyes.
Joe could barely move. He fumbled around the couch, looking for the remote. He couldn’t see the buttons – where the fuck was the off button?
He felt her teeth clamp down just as he hit the mute button, right before the last 2 bars of the song. Sure, Sammy’s teeth were sharp but the bite was still somewhat dull, and barely broke his skin.
When he yelled at her she bit down again, more determined. The soft white flesh on the upper inside of his thigh separated and the blood began to seep through. Joe didn’t know whether to scream or moan as the blood splurted onto Sammy’s lips and he climaxed on her cheek.
This is it, he thought, the proof. He had thought she was a demon those three years ago but now he knew it. Sammy was a demon. He could barely move, he was exhausted, spent, in pain.
But something wasn’t right.
He’d seen the movie; a person can swallow a pint of blood before they get sick. He had no idea how much a pint was, though. Joe tried to think about how many litres would be in a pint. He tried to think about what time his mum might be home from book club. He tried to think about the lyrics to I’m Not the Only One by the Nine Inch Nails. He wanted to think about anything except the fact that he was going to die with his pants around his ankles in his parents’ basement without even making a home run.
Third base sucked.