DEAR, MR. HUNTINGTON, I AINT’ LEARNED SHIT

I think my mother thought I was an idiot.

In fact, I’m pretty sure of it.

I was a terrible student in High School. I was failing pretty much everything except art (including gym) and despite my mother’s constant attempts to set me on the straight and narrow, when it came to my schoolwork, things didn’t seem to be improving.

The problem wasn’t that I was dumb.

The problem was that I didn’t give a shit.

I didn’t care how bad my grades were or how much worse they would eventually get. It didn’t bother me one bit that my mother thought I was a lazy doofus and my teachers cringed every time they saw me in the hall. It didn’t matter that the letter “F” had become synonymous with my name and it unfortunately had nothing to do with how much I was getting laid because the ladies weren’t into me and I wasn’t getting laid.

Unless you count the magic marker face I drew on my hand as a “lady.”

If that’s the case, I got laid a lot.

I also couldn’t have cared less about college, or my future, or any of the things people who eventually find success in life and have more than sixteen dollars in the bank and some old comic books in their closets think about.

I honestly just wanted to be left alone. I wanted to silently brood in my bedroom with my Nine Inch Nails albums, the stack of porn hidden underneath my bed, and my mostly predictable teenage angst.

Unfortunately, my mother wasn’t a Nine Inch Nails fan.

“Steven, I signed you up for some tutoring sessions at the Huntington Learning Center.”

Gulp.

In case you hadn’t figured it out already, that was her, my mom. You see, she didn’t want me living in her house and still slogging around in my Spider-Man boxers well into my thirties. She wasn’t quite as ready as I was to give up on my grades and/or my future.

Jerk.

If you’ve never heard of The Huntington Learning Center, let take a moment to explain what it is. Basically the fine people at Huntington are overly expensive tutors.  The probably have degrees and they probably know what they’re doing for the most part. Their various degrees undoubtedly state that very fact.

Too bad their degrees didn’t mean shit to me. Their degrees might as well have been scribbled on soiled toilet paper as far as I was concerned. I didn’t want to learn. Unless they were teaching me fifteen dollars (which doesn’t make any sense) for the newly released Nirvana’s Greatest Hits album, or how to get the football team to stop kicking my ass next to the dumpster in the school parking lot, I didn’t have any interest in learning.

Learning was stupid. It was annoying too. I had Marilyn Manson lyrics to angrily listen to and marker-lady fists to screw.

Learning could kiss my ass.

I considered telling my mother that I wouldn’t go, but she tossed her “your dumb ass is going no matter what” look my way.

There was no getting out of it.

Keep in mind that I was a freshman in High School at the time. I didn’t have a car, or the prospect of a car, or a bike, or even a decent public transportation system, or legs long enough to carry the weight of my pudgy torso more than fifty feet before collapsing. Since Huntington was in the next town over, I had to order myself a short bus to take drive me there, drop me off and pick me up twice a week.

I’d get home from school, call myself a bus and arrive at Huntington a mere forty-five minutes later.

It wasn’t all bad though.

“Hi, Steven! How’s everything going today?”

That was my main tutor-lady. She was young-ish, and she was overly perky, (I’m not referring to her personality) and she was always wearing low cut blouses.

See? There’s always a silver lining.

As much as I appreciated her attire, I actually sort of hated the fact that she was assigned to me. I wanted someone old – maybe someone with four or five big-ass warts on her face, and glasses, and boobs so droopy she could tuck them into her bloomers. I wanted someone who might have went for an orgasm ride on Lincoln’s beard.

Embarrassed, I mumbled something vaguely resembling the word “fine.”

I bothered me that my Huntington lady thought I was a dummy. Not that I ever had a chance of getting into her tutor-britches or anything. And it certainly didn’t bother me enough to buckle down and focus on my studies to impress her.

It still bothered me, though.

Math was first on the agenda during my visits. My boober-or, um, I mean tutor, would get out her little workbook, spend fifteen or twenty minutes going over some problems with me, and eventually slide a test in my direction.

At least, I think that’s what happened.

My eyeballs were busy rolling around in the heft of her cleavage like a pig in shit the entire time.

It’s possible I’m not remembering things exactly right.

After I inevitably bombed the test, we’d discuss what I did wrong and when that was over I’d grab my climbing gear and repel down the curvature of her oh so creamy left breast like a beard-toting Swiss climber scaling the alps.

Actually no. That was a lie.

Truthfully we just moved onto writing.

The writing section of my Huntington adventure was basically more of the same. BouncyTutor McJiggleChest would get out a workbook, we’d go over some stuff, and she’d leave me to take a test.

In this case, however, the term “take a test” actually means “watch her hips sway as she walked away while living the drool from my lips.”

If you’re thinking that I sound like the worlds biggest pervert, lay off. I was barely fifteen at the time. Like most fifteen year-old boys, I had been cursed with an erection that wouldn’t die. There wasn’t any blood going to my brain. The blood had bought a condo on the beach down south. It adopted dog from the local pound and it made some friends, and it had already changed the billing address on its credit cards. It wasn’t going anywhere.

At least not until I hit my thirties.

ButterCheeks McNippleShirt returned fifteen minutes later. “Okey dokey, let’s have a look, shall we?” She bounced when she sat down. My heat fluttered.

Did I say heart?

I meant wiener.

As she started to scan my answers she shook her head, sighed a sigh of absolute defeat and began making checkmarks.

Halfway through, she stopped.

The hypnotic ripples in her chest meat disappeared.

Her head lifted. Her jaw locked and her eyes narrowed. She bared her teeth and coiled her fingers into a fist. “Really?”

She looked pissed. I’d never seen her look pissed before, but she looked pissed.

I wasn’t sure why. “What?”

MassiveOrbs McSilkyUdders spun my answers around and slid them across the table with a frustrated growl. At first, I didn’t notice anything wrong. Everything looked normal. My answers were brief, and they were wrong, and she had put a checkmark by every one of them.

Then I got to question eight.

My answer to question eight was “Boobs.”

Damn it.

May answer to question nine was “Tits.”

Double damn it.

My answer to question ten was “Nips.”

Fuck my life.

I didn’t even know I was writing it. I swear I didn’t! It was my penis blood! It was that damn penis blood I tell you! My penis blood had hopped in a Winnebago and taken a surprise vacation north to visit some family, where it threw a party, got everyone drunk and trashed my brain.

AngryTutor McPissedOff called my mother and sent me home.

It was decided by both parties that maybe The Huntington Learning Center wasn’t exactly the place I needed to be.

I didn’t learn a damn thing during my brief stint at Mr. Huntington’s House of Plentiful Knockers and Tiny Shirts - unless you count the new masturbation fodder.

You probably don’t, though.