The Kid in the Front Row asked me to write this post and since he's one of my favorites, I agreed. It's late, but that's typical. Read this shiz, check out his blog, and have a fantastic weekend.
Words are my passion – reading them, writing them, speaking them. Our love affair began early.
Movies came later. I was never a big watcher of television when I was young. I much preferred creating pictures in my head, putting together the pieces from a novel’s description and adding my own bits here and there.
Gradually I began to see more films. Still a book worm at heart, my first movie that wasn’t a Disney classic or silly comedy, was ‘Gone with the Wind’. It was beautiful. I wanted to be Scarlet O’Hara, I wanted to make out with Rhett Butler, I wanted to see it on the big screen the way it was meant to be seen. I realized I loved watching while words and action made a scene into something almost tangible. The feeling wasn’t so different from reading – you’re still sad when you finish because that’s it, there isn’t any more.
I did eventually see Gone with the Wind in a theatre. Like many other old movies, they brought it back for a short time. It was as beautiful as I thought it would be.
Since then I’ve become a movie junkie. I’ll watch anything and everything. If it’s a new release and it’s not a slasher film, you can bet I’ll be seeing it.
As a teenager, of course I went to the movies a lot. It was THE thing to do on dates and group outings. The only problem was that on these dates, no one ever wanted to watch the film. There were times when I wished I’d gone alone rather than have someone’s sweaty hand groping for mine, or something else if they thought they could get away with it, distracting me from the more important on-screen action. It’s still a pet peeve of mine to be bothered while I’m watching a movie.
When I was seventeen I had a bit of a crush on Vin Diesel. Muscles, luscious lips, and tattoos – what’s not to love? His new movie xXx had just come out and after seeing a trailer with him wearing nothing but low hanging long john pants; I knew I had to go.
The first weekend of its release I was broke, having spent all my hard earned money on a mediocre bag of pot, a pack of Marlboros, Pepsi, and a tank of gas. I was bummed that I’d have to wait to see the movie.
It was a Saturday afternoon and I was sitting on the floor of my room cleaning out my desk drawers when the phone rang. It was Ty, a guy I’d been occasionally seeing. He asked me what I was doing that night and when I replied I was broke and stuck at home, he offered to take me to dinner and a movie. Of course I immediately suggested xXx and he agreed, a bit reluctantly.
He was a bit of an asshole so of course I had a huge crush on him. He was a friend of my cousin’s and was always around, so he met my mother quite by accident. She hated him and only referred to him as “Spoonhead”.
When I asked her if I could go with him she was less than thrilled. I believe her exact words were, “If you must, but I don’t want Spoonhead in my house. Make sure you go outside when he pulls up.”
He picked me up in his family’s Suburban SUV. My mom needn’t have worried. He lay on the horn until I shouted out the front door, “Hold the fuck on!” We were so cute together. Like a young, white George and Weezie, but hornier and less funny.
I don’t remember what clothes I wore, but I remember forgoing underwear just in case. Not for during the movie, of course, for after. I’d be too busy watching Vin’s muscles undulate across the screen to care about Ty.
I assumed that he’d brought the Suburban for its extra backseat lovin’ room, but when I climbed in the front I saw that the back was slammed full of furniture.
“What that hell is all that?”
“We’re in the middle of moving.”
On the 45 minute drive to the city we smoked cigarettes and rapped together about bitches, baby mamas, and crunk juice. Ah, young love.
Taking me to dinner turned out to be an “Italian” buffet.
Let me just interrupt this program a moment and tell ya’ll how I feel about buffets. I HATE them HATE them HATE them. Have you ever watched people at a buffet? They stick their dirty, bare hands all over everything. They could have just rubbed one out in the car or scratched their sweaty ball sack. If I have no choice but to eat from a buffet, I take antibiotics when I get home and brush my tongue with bleach and water. Well, I take the antibiotics. Anyway...
So I watched him eat a huge plate of pasta while I nibbled on a breadstick. He hadn’t checked the movie times before we left for the city and we had over an hour wait. I couldn’t really tell you much about the conversation, but knowing Ty, it was less than stimulating. Of course, back then what the fuck did I care about stimulating conversation. The only stimulation I was interested in was below the neck.
We finally made it to the movie. It was so full that we had to sit on one of the sides with only two seats to a row, which I hated.
As soon as it started I was engrossed. I pay attention to nothing or no one around me when I’m watching a movie, and that night was no different. Ty thrived on attention.
“Scratch my arm”, he said.
I ignored him.
“Hey”, he said nudging me with his elbow, “scratch my arm.” He lay his arm, palm up, on the armrest.
(We had a few classes together and he would always sit either behind me or beside me and sleep while I ran my nails lightly up and down his forearm.)
I sighed and relented, hoping it would be the last time he bothered me. No such luck.
Not too long after that he started complaining about how stupid the movie was or, more accurately, how stupid Vin Diesel was. Because obviously, since I was drooling over Vin, there was no way he was going to get laid. Idiot.
About thirty or forty five minutes before the movie ended he wanted to leave.
“This is stupid, let’s go.”
“I don’t want to stay.”
I crossed my arms and wiggled further into the seat while he pouted and fumed. I wasn’t disappointed in the movie at all – plenty of action, a tiny bit of abbage, and great music. Several of the songs used are still favorites of mine.
When it was over he slouched out, hands shoved in his pockets, and I followed. I was thinking that I’d probably be making it up to him for the next hour and that didn’t bother me at all.
He was driving, weaving through the downtown traffic, when he turned to me and said, “So, wanna have sex?”
I shrugged and said, “Ok.”
I obviously wasn’t too thrilled about the way he asked.
“Where can we go?”
I looked out the window. “I don’t know. Why can’t we just do it in the car?”
“Because it’s full of stuff.”
“There’s still the front seat.”
“Not big enough for what I have in mind.”
“What? You inviting an audience?”
“You shut up, asshole.”
The meaner we were, the hotter it was. We were always bitching at each other and calling each other names. It worked.
He pulled up at a gas station, went in and bought condoms. I made a quip about not getting Magnums that earned me the finger.
Then we spent the next thirty minutes driving around and looking for a secluded spot. I refused to break into a house that was empty and almost finished being built, but I reluctantly agreed to the grassy hill behind a bank.
Yeah, that’s what I said. A grassy hill behind a bank. It was a First Citizens.
I followed him around the darkened corner, shrinking away from the lights in the parking lot. Behind the bank the hill was big and sloped sharply down where a very sparse copse of trees lined a busy road. There were several other businesses scattered around. It gave the illusion of being private, but it was no where near.
“Well”, he said.
I glared at him. “Well.”
He took off his jacket and spread it out on the ground. “Lay down.”
We bickered back and forth a bit, but the end result was the same: me lying on my back, on the ground, pants off, shirt on, and legs in the air. Who says romance is dead?
It should have been good. Everything else we did together was good and with the added elements of our fighting and doing it in public, I’d expected it to rock. It didn’t.
There was a rock digging into my back and I could hear people talking nearby and cars whizzing past. I tried to make things more exciting, but he seemed content to lackadaisically pump away, like he was filling his fucking car up with unleaded.
When it was over he had the nerve to ask me if it was good. Knowing I had almost an hour ride left, I gave a noncommittal answer.
The ride back was all cigarettes, rap music, and complaints again. When we pulled in my driveway he parked and looked at me expectantly. I’m not sure what he was expecting exactly...a blow job, a thank you, high praise for his cocksmanship. But what he got was:
“You ruined the movie!” SLAM!
I went back and saw it a week later with my girlfriends.
You live, you learn, you take the right people with you to the movies, and you switch banks.
And when the bank asks you why you’re leaving, you don’t say, “Because every time I step foot in here I think about the horrible sex I had in your backyard. Not your personal backyard...the bank’s backya....ok, um, bye.”
Yer So Bad
1 week ago