Saturday it's sports class. From 9am to 12am. In the gymnasium. I really don't like it, changing clothes in the cloakrooms of the gymnasium, with the other boys. It's strange, some of them think only about hurrying to change in order to go in front of the girls' door. They want to spy them, to try see through the porthole if they can see a knicker's rustle or a piece of a tit. It looks vital for them.
Balezo took the piss out of me when he saw that my shirt was tucked into my underpants. He said “hey guys, look at that! Brad-Pitt tucks his shirt in his undies like the old!” I said “Ah ah, not at all…” but I couldn't argue more than that. I was looking idiot. My father is the one who tucks in his shirt like that, so that it doesn't come out of his trousers so that it remains in position. He is the one who told me that it's the way it has to be done.
Boris Balezo - large BB is his nickname - is the head of the guys who only think about spying girls' panties. Balezo is all along talking about his girlfriends. He says that he touches their tits, that he touches their thighs, that he even touches other things. I'm not the one whom he tells that, but at times I can hear him anyway.
I don't know why. It's because of yesterday evening's stuffed tomatoes, but in any case I had a goddamned stomach ache before going to sports class. I didn't dare going to the toilets during sports class. I couldn't imagine myself saying “'xcuse me sir, may I go make poo?”
Afterwards, back in the cloakrooms. Balezo and his buddies hurry, they wanna go spy the girls. I thought I was saved but Balezo doesn't miss me: “Waaaah SHAME ON YOU!! Brad-Pitt has some shit on his underpants!!”
And worst case scenario, he was right. A small brown stain. While jumping, my sphincter couldn't hold on any more, my legs deviated above the pommel horse, and there happened a jet of poo. Stuffed tomatoes. It's neither very chic, nor very exciting, I know. But it's my life. I do invent nothing. I removed my sweatpants as quick as possible, I pulled on my jeans as quick as possible, while turning my bottom towards the wall and doing as if I didn't hear Balezo. Stupid-looking.
Sometimes life is really a sequence of lousy happenings.
I've been told that most lingering memories are humiliation memories. I believe I will be remembering this day for a long time.
Back home. It's 12:30pm. As usual I'm arriving at the same time as my parents. Dad parks the car in front of the house. He gets out of the car. He has his sweatpants. They've been to Carrefour (equiv. to e.g. "Safeway", a hypermarket). Mom empties the boot; there are lots of plastic bags filled with grub. Crocheton comes out of the house to help mom. Dad unrolls the garden hose, he's gonna wash the car. It's the beginning of the weekend. Groovy. We're gonna be bored stiff again. We will certainly stick in front of the telly this evening to listen to Patrick Sebastien's neighs.
Good news: mom bought me some underpants.
When I think that some people have a fascinating life.
Sphincter, translated by Valentina. Every correction, improvement, proofreading or subtleties are more than welcome. That's what the comments are for…If you're bilingual, a translator, an English teacher or simply very gifted in English, and if you wish to participate more actively to the translation of my texts, you can contact me by email (in French please!)