Acid for the Children: A Memoir

by Flea

Age nine. PE class. Jumping on the school trampoline. All the other kids standing around it, watching and waiting their turn, leaning forward, their arms and elbows splayed out on its gray matted edges. I was a natural at gymnastics, and god how I loved springing up airborne, getting the most joy out of my few allotted minutes. Ready to do all my tricks; seat drops, back drops, and my showstopper, the front flip. I jumped as high as I could, pulled a funny face, and flung my legs out at a strange angle, and all the kids started laughing. Egged on by their amusement, the entertainer in me came out. I jumped higher and higher, making loud high-pitched OOH OOH OOH OOH monkey sounds and itching my armpits. The kids were in absolute red-faced hysterics, happily pointing at me. I was hilarious! A huge hit! Confident that I would no longer feel like the new kid, my now burgeoning popularity a certainty, I prepared for my flip, the grand finale. I focused and jumped hard, but as I looked down to make sure my feet were squared I saw it. My little cock hanging out of my open zipper, flopping up and down and doing its own crazy little gymnastic routine. Oops.