Deringer was a Former Fat-Kid. This was his main neurosis.

            Going from being the short kid in grade school to being the not-so-short Fat Kid upon his first year in high school had been traumatic for him. It wasn’t his fault that his hormones had begun to fluctuate and that with the beginnings of sweet, blessčd height came body-hair, random erections, acne and bitch-tits.

            By the end of the first semester, Deringer had received his fair share of beatings, teasings and had learned that crying was for sissy-boys. Unfortunately, he was one of them.

            Deringer’s father wasn’t very happy with his son. After all, he had named his him after one of the best damn guns to ever be fabricated, and a man with that name should be the Master of his Destiny, Tough, Strong, and should be going on dates on a Friday night, rather than staying home with no friends to call and no friends calling him. He tried teaching Deringer how to defend himself, of course, but he had been no Golden Gloves champion back in the day, and his own beer-belly certainly out-rivaled his son’s. Besides, Deringer didn’t have an aggressive bone in his fleshy body. Learning how to throw a halfway decent punch didn’t help things. In fact, it just made things worse.

            Bullies may be a scared and cowardly lot, but they only got pissed when the victims fought back, and fought back horribly.

            Things did change, though during the summer between Freshman and Sophomore year. Deringer had gained six more inches and twenty more pounds.

            He’d also spent the summer learning Wing Chun Kung Fu. While he was no Bruce Lee, by the end of the first week and two fights, word got out:

            The Fat Kid wasn’t to be fucked with anymore.

            Deringer certainly did enjoy the respite his new skills bought him, but he never was able to get over the jeering, the teasing. While he was able to deal with the bullies, he was never able to handle the rejection.

            Well, then again… it wasn’t like Deringer ever got rejected. His fear of rejection did the job just fine for him. He never admitted to any of the crushes he had to anyone, not to his small group of friends, not to the girls, not to the bedroom walls. His weight was what kept him back, he always felt, and no amount of personality or charm or compliments could ever change that.

            Well, money could, but his parents weren’t rich, and he’d never worked a day in his life. So, he’d just have to deal.

            And, deal he did, as best as he could. He kept to himself, didn’t say much and treasured the few friends he did manage to make.

            Things changed once again during the summer he found himself a high-school graduate and Freshman at college:

            Deringer was no longer The Fat Kid.

            Some thought that his Kung-Fu practice had finally paid off and he was now looking as strong and as fast as he was.

            Some thought he’d finally committed himself to a diet that worked, and worked well, and damn, guy, could you share your secrets, because I’ve been really wanting to lose those last five pounds, and you are looking good!

The truth of the matter was that catching a severe case of pneumonia, being bed-ridden for almost a month and almost fuckin’ dying did the job just as well as Atkins.

So, here he was now, his first year in a brand new school, in a brand new borough, with a brand new body.

Deringer was a Former Fat Kid. It showed.

Deringer was prone to carrying himself as he used to, with his back straight, his shoulders a bit too square and his stomach sucked in – well, as much as could go in, anyway. He still picked and pulled at his clothes when he was around other people, trying to look as shapeless as possible. Hell, he was still paranoid about the way he ate and how much he did eat – though, that certainly didn’t stop him from being able to scarf down a whole medium pie by himself on occasion.

And girls.

God, girls.

Deringer was as heterosexual as James Brown was Black, but being The Fat Kid and having watched Baywatch and Soap Operas during his formative years, his views on how men and women, boys and girls interacted with each other were just a bit skewed. It just didn’t fit in his paradigm of the world that attractive members of the opposite sex could ever like him for, say… his personality and look past the stomach that hung well over his belt.

Besides, he was The Fat Kid during high school. Like teenagers are known for their ability to look past physical appearances for the nice person one really is.

What changed things for Deringer, though, came in the form of Joanna’s tits.

Joanna’s Tits were the kind that one suspected God had created as a very, very mean joke on the blind. Perky, soft, perfectly shaped tits they were that defied gravity and  defied reason – the reason being that there was no way in hell that a woman could have breasts that perfect.

Joanna’s Tits were often displayed - and displayed well - in tight fitting black shirts, silk blouses with the most provocative, V-shaped cuts displaying mouth-watering cleavage, corsets that pushed them up in soft, bouncing handfuls.

Joanna’s Tits had been on Deringer’s mind despite himself whenever he saw her in his 2:30 Astronomy class, passing, floating, jiggling on by as they and Joanna ascended the stairs of the lecture hall coming towards him and past him as they went to the back. Deringer tried very, very hard not to notice just how perky her nipples usually were, especially pushing through the thin-material of her black t-shirts, through the satin bras that peeked out from underneath, through the blouses that conformed perfectly to the tear-drop shape of her bra-less breasts.

Joanna’s Tits had been all but thrust into Deringer’s face one afternoon. Deringer tried very hard not to stare at her nipples – which he was quite certain were staring right back at him, and it would only be fair if he stared back, right? – as their owner introduced herself to him and asked him out.

Just to a club she frequented, Deringer heard, as he nodded and tried to keep his eyes from dipping back down to that pale, silky skin just begging to be looked at. Deringer took down her number focusing extra hard on the buttons of his cell phone rather than look outright as Joanna’s Tits were readjusted with a jiggle and an unashamed push-up with hands, he noticed, that barely covered them.

Joanna’s Tits soon bounced away as he was asked to wear something…Goth.

Goth.

While Deringer had certainly not been the most popular kid in school – The Fat Kid never really was, unless he was The Funny Fat Kid – even he was aware of the social distinctions between himself and the Goths. From his recollection, they were the mopey kids sitting by themselves in the lunchroom, writing depressing poetry while dressed in black clothes, with crucifixes and the occasional, memorable pentagram that got someone suspended for a week.

So, with that in mind, Deringer had raided his closet and came up with a black, Cartman T-shirt – Screw You, Hippie!!! - and a pair of baggy cargo pants that dragged at the heels of his Doc Marten’s. As he stared at himself in the mirror for a full ten minutes, readjusting his thin-framed black glasses, his t-shirt, the pants, his short-cropped hair, even he had to admit he looked less like a Creature of the Night and more like a Mopey Emo-Kid.

            But, that was the way it went sometimes.

            His night didn’t get any better.

            Deringer realized that things weren’t going to go that well with Joanna’s Tits when he met her in front of the nightclub. The bass of the sound system was the only thing that got through the thick walls of the building, making it almost impossible for him to place the song – besides, like he listened to Goth/Industrial/Dance? To his eternal shame, Deringer had never returned a friend’s copy of an N*SYNC album because he just liked it so much.

            Joanna’s Tits came into view, coming through the veil of smoke from a corner where a few other girls stood, smoking something that hung, sweet and thick around Joanna’s Tits still.

            Joanna’s Tits were pressed against Deringer’s chest as arms were flung around his neck and a kiss given to his cheek.

Deringer sent a quick mental message to his penis: don’t even think about it.

            “Oh, I’m ever so glad you came,” Deringer was told as he awkwardly returned the embrace, trying to keep his hips from meeting her’s. “Where’s your car? Did you have a problem finding parking?”

            “Car?” he asked as he was released at arm’s length, kohl-lined eyes giving him a once-over.

            “Yes, silly,” came the reply from small, pouty lips shaded in black lipstick. “You do have a car, right?”

            Deringer released a quiet chuckle as he took a step back. “Uh… yeah, sure. It’s called the 1. Or, the 9, if I’m desperate.” The New York City Public Transportation System: savior of the Those Deprived of Automobiles. 

            The corner of those small, pouty lips quirked in one corner as Joanna’s Tits were drawn further away from his body, her hands slipping away from his shoulders.

            “Oh. Right,” Deringer was told, before a motion was made towards the club entrance. “We should go inside, then.” Deringer found one arm grabbed as he was all but pulled towards the door. He glanced over his shoulder at the other girls who were still in the corner where Joanna’s Tits had come from.

            “Umm,” said he as he stumbled after. “What about your friends? Aren’t we going to meet them?”

            “Oh, Derrick,” came the reply. “We can do that later.”