Dumpster Fetish

Ch. 1: Morning Trash,

of 3 Chapters

I mentally prepared myself for it before it happened, as I always did. The smirks grew wider and wider, and some snickers were let loose. A strange, pimply ogre was lifting me up, up, up, and I could see across the entire parking lot for a quick second. And then… trash.

Let me tell you something, O sympathizing audience that resides only within my brilliant mind: being tossed into a dumpster is no fun. You're surrounded by disgusting, smelly things: old cafeteria-grade goulash seeps down to the roots of your hair; a Hershey bar wrapper will somehow manage to crawl up your pant leg; the Prada shoes you're wearing will positively reek of spoilt milk. It's not easy on the soul.

I remember my first dumpster toss, as if it happened just this morning. Puckerman, at the time a new recruit to the team, had snatched me as I was walking to school, tugging me towards the parking lot with a weird expression on his face.

You know how people look, just before they're about to steal from their father's alcohol stash for the first time? Well, that's how Puck looked just then. Guilt seemed permanently etched in his furrowed brow, and his mouth was twisted in a disgusted scowl. I was yakking and rambling on in nervousness, because what would you do if your middle school crush was suddenly manhandling you, dragging you towards someplace sure to be secluded? Sure, it was a bit naïve on my part for thinking Mr. Homophobe was taking me out for a quick smooch, but give me a break: I was an adolescent, complete with high hopes and a dangerous curiosity.

Imagine my surprise when Puck tugs me over to a waiting group of tall, ominous football monkeys. All seemed to wear their letterman jackets like a king would haul around a crown, and I had the passing desire to scoff. Thank God I'm not that stupid, or else I would have probably gotten a punch to the face then, too.

One of the seniors, a mean, big-boned and broad-shouldered black man named Ashley (seriously, Ashley), was at the head of the congregation, sporting a frightening smirk. "Well, lookit this, you guys," He crowed to his posse, "Looks like Puckerman does have a pair."

I turned to Noah then, my eyes widened in no small amount of fear. I remember my whole body shivering, like Barney, my neighbor's Chihuahua does whenever he's scared. He resolutely looked over my head, staring out at something in the distance.

I gave a small peep of surprise when I was hauled off the ground, flailing about in an attempt to break free of whomever had grabbed me. But it was no use: the oaf was just too strong and I was just too slight.

My body was hauled, head-first, into the dumpster, and I cried out, mostly in surprise, when I plopped into something horrendously sticky and smelly. Before I could react, the lid was shut and I was in the dark.

I hollered and cried and begged and pleaded with them, to please let me out, but someone had to have been sitting on the top of the dumpster, because I couldn't get out for a long time.

When I was reduced to tears, huddled in one corner of the bin, the lid finally creaked back open. I snapped my neck upwards, only to have my nose nudge against an outstretched hand. My eyes quickly traveled up that slightly toned arm, to the face it belonged to. "Puckerman," I spat with as much venom as I could evoke at the time. "What the hell do you want from me now? Don't you think I've been humiliated enough for one day?"

He opened his mouth and it seemed like he was about to apologize. But the moment quickly passed, and he frowned down at me. "Whatever." Was all he said as he walked off, but at least he'd left the dumpster open.

I won't go into detail, but let's just say that I spent fifth period not in Ms. Appleby's algebra class, but in my bed, sobbing my eyes out and bitching about the complete unfairness of life to Gucci, my childhood toy. (What can I say? Fashion sense came to me before I could properly walk.) Of course, my little blue stegosaurus didn't offer me much support, but something to hug is something to hug.

As the years passed, so did my angst over being the new plaything for McKinley's elite. After all, there are only so many variants of "your kind belongs in the trash" until you've heard them all, and once you've heard most of them twice, they lose their effect.

But even as time has flown by, I still always feel that reliable tangle of fear, sitting in the pit of my stomach, as the metal lid is slammed down forcefully enough to rattle the entire dumpster. My eyes always widen in the dark, struggling to see anything, and my breath quickens as the feeling of claustrophobia overcomes me.

But it's just a moment, and then it passes like the stench of knockoff perfumes in the halls.

And every time, when I finally hear the weight lift off of the top of the trash bin, a minute later the lid opens, seemingly on its own. And every time, there's an outstretched hand.

That arm has grown more and more muscled since my first Dumpster Day, but the look on Puck's face has never changed. Guilt meshes with sympathy, anger with disappointment. And I always ask "why", but after a moment of floundering, I never get an answer, just a "whatever" and a conveniently opened dumpster to escape from.

I wonder, what would Noah Puckerman think if I said I didn't mind it anymore? What would he do if I told him that I've come to not really mind the foul odor of garbage, the disgusting feeling of having my hand sink into a blob of mystery meat, because it's worth it to see his face and the small amount of care it shows every time?

Author's Commentary: YAY for my first fan fiction in forever! (And YAY for alliterations! Seriously.) I have to thank Glee, which I do not own in any shape or form, for the kick-in-the-arse to my muse. I appreciate it, while s/he may not.
So this is the first chapter of a three-chaptered story, though the "three chapters" bit is still up for debate, depending on where everything goes when I actually get to writing the rest of this. I wanted to shoot this out to the masses of Gleeks out there, because I think there aren't enough Puck/Kurt stories out there. At last, not for a fangirl like me who always has hundreds of pages of Harry/Draco slash to look forward to in the Harry Potter category of FF.
Anyway! I hope you all enjoyed this chapter, and I look forward to reviews, Story Alerts, whatever. It's all a huge honor to a flailing writer such as myself. Now, off to eat Halloween candy and search for more inspiration within my Civics text.