Wednesday, October 28, 2009

Peter Pan syndrome and Penis Week

This morning when I left my house at 6:30am my mother stopped me at the door and said, “You do know there’s a towel on your head, right?”

I think that’s a pretty good indication of how today will go. I have my absent minded hat on and it’s blue and white striped terry cloth.

Anyway, isn’t my best friend lovely? I was worried that she might tell an embarrassing story or make fun of my crush on her brother, but there wasn’t one snide remark. I didn’t edit her entry at all...except to put spaces in because I’m anal like that. (No butt jokes please children.) AND not once did she call me a lesbian! Bravo, Rachel. (Haven't read it yet? Do.)

We’ve both been moaning lately about how boring our lives have become. Just the other day I called her on my way home from work and our conversation was a little disheartening.

“What did you do today?”

“Well...” She launched into a list of household duties and internet rubbish. Then came the kicker...

“Oh! There’s this pan that had eggs stuck on it for days. No one has been able to get them off, not even my mom when she came to visit. But today, I scrubbed and scrubbed that bitch and I FINALLY GOT THEM ALL OFF! I was standing there, grinning over my accomplishment, and then...I wasn’t. Because all of a sudden I realized this is the most excited I’ve gotten in a long time, and it’s all over scraping a fucking pan of eggs!”

I howled with laughter. Then I told her about my own excitement.

“We borrowed this really kick ass carpet shampooer. I was tired when I got home from work and I didn’t want to do it, but we had to return it the next day. So, I filled the bastard up with the soap stuff and water, threw all my shit on my bed and started shampooing. And for some reason, I got all hyped up. I was all “OUT DAMN SPOT!” and “HAHA!” and “HEY YOU GUYS! LOOK AT THIS SHIT! LOOK HOW WHITE THIS IS!” Dear gawd...what’s happened to us?”

She was laughing. “I don’t know.”

“I have nothing else pertinent to talk about. I’ll call you later if I have an interesting run in with the laundry.”

“Ok, later.”

And that was that.

Honestly! What have we become? Is that what adults do – get excited about cleaning? Am I doomed to discuss things like politics and the weather? Would it be cliché of me to go all Peter Pan and declare war on adulthood? Sigh. Probably.

We used to do crazy things!

Like climb into parked vehicles that weren’t ours and talk our way out of getting arrested for it, dance in the fountain downtown, yell belligerently at cars driving by with their windows rolled down, dance with hot foreigners and maybe sleep with them and maybe laugh at each other through the walls because things are a little too vocal on one side and not vocal enough on the other, wear ridiculous outfits on St. Patty’s Day and get so drunk by noon that when they vacate the area for a tornado you wonder where everyone has gone while you were in the bathroom, pull over the car every 10 yards so one of you can puke but on the 3rd stop come back to the car and declare you must go another 5 yards because a couple is sitting on a bench right in the puking area and you’re positive they are getting engaged, get tattooed together, have ridiculous contests that no one else can ever know about, attempt to attack a flock of geese, do the worm and tell the guy that said you can’t dance that he has a receding hair line and sucks at life then do the Pee Wee Herman off the dance floor and hit on his friend, make out with each other and find pictures of it the next day and destroy the evidence, trick a fireman into believing he’s getting a threesome then drug him and crawl around on hands and knees looking for pictures that were probably deleted ages ago but leave laughing because one of you had to dress up like a dominatrix for no apparent reason, teach the kid to tell her grandma she wants to go to the liquor store and get wasted, put I’m Bringing Sexy Back on repeat for 45 minutes and refuse to change it when people complain and instead make them line up and slap your ass.

Yeah, we were cool once.

If I’m going by the conversation from last night, maybe things will get...better. Ok, maybe not.

We talked about the Halloween party (unfortunately she has to work and can’t be there), the costume I chose, what she was going to dress up as for work, my conquest plans for Nate, and her recent drunken night with her boyfriend.

Apparently they ran into a group of his friends and she regaled them with stories of how enormous his cock is.

About the time she was telling me this; I was attempting to put on my robe and holding the phone with my shoulder. My face hit the speaker button and out into the living room came, “...HIS HUGE COCK! IT’S MY HUGE COCK AND YOU BITCHES CAN’T HAVE IT. THE COCK...”

Giggling like an idiot, I finally managed to take it off speaker. My mom sat on the couch gawking at me, which made me laugh even harder.

“What in the hell is that girl talking about”, she asked.

“Her boyfriend’s cock, obviously”, I said.

She rolled her eyes and from the next room the kid yelled, “GOOO COCKS!”

Mom glared at me. I shrugged and went outside to finish talking. At least the kid was associating it with football...

Anyway, maybe one day when we aren’t both broke and tired from work...we’ll got out and get into trouble again. I do so love trouble.

In other news:

I’ll be taking next week off from blogging. I’ll still read and comment where I can, but I need a break...and possibly I need to get some work done. Eh, whatever.

Fear not! Next week I’ve asked some of my favorite male bloggers to take over. It’s sure to be interesting. Just...don’t let a week of yummy men make you forget what’s important around here: Me.

I’ll announce the line up and the topic by the end of the week. (Fellas, remember the deadline is Sunday.)

Oh! AND I just reached 100 followers! WOOT! That's exciting business. Maybe I should do something to mark the occasion? Suggestions? Other than sexual favors please...I'm far too busy. Anyway, welcome to you new folks who have yet to comment. Have a look around and feel free to give me money.

Oh, and one more thing. Those of you that don't have a blog, no picture, and just one letter for your name....say, my mom's initial....who are you? Seriously. Creepy....

Thank you. Come again.

Friday, October 23, 2009

We've only just begun: The end. I win.

His mother told me she found my work number in the court papers. She wanted to see her grandchild.

I was floored. I honestly couldn’t ask her any pertinent questions. Mainly, “Where the fuck have YOU been the past year and a half?”

I agreed to take the kid to their house so they could see her. At that point, I was imagining Chris covering up her existence...or something. I thought that I would see what it was all about, see if they were good people, and if they were...they should be in her life. It was the right thing to do.

It was hands down one of the top three most awkward moments of my life. Poor Hannah had no idea what the fuck was going on. They didn’t even remember who I was, but I remembered every little detail about them.

Chris was there, in close proximity again. He sat in a chair across from mine, barely moving or saying a word. I was so deeply embarrassed by my still there raging sexual attraction for him, I rambled. They asked one or two nonchalant questions about the kid, and I went off on a tangent. Yatta yatta yatta. I know they were thinking, “This chick is on speed.”

I think I only made it about two hours. I couldn’t stand it. I made up an excuse and bolted.

The next few times were a little easier. I asked Chris’s mom to meet me, without the kid, to talk some things out. I was irritated and angry that they never once offered me any kind of explanation for their absence. They just stepped in like, “Hi. What’s for dinner? Oh, hey kid!”

We met at the mall and sat in the food court. I wanted a public area where I would be less likely to show my ass and she would, hopefully, be less likely to show hers. I didn’t know how it would go.

Basically, I tanked. I never ended up getting the answers I came for or saying all of the things I wanted. She twisted around what I was trying to nervously get out and made it sound like I was being ridiculous. I felt like the little teenager that was trying to wear her mom's shoes and play with a real live baby. This woman had delt with three other women before me...what the fuck did I think I was doing?

At one point, when she said something about me not contacting them I said something along the lines of this, “Talk to Chris about that. I called him over and over again, for months, and he never had the time.”

“I didn’t know you’d asked him”, she said.

“Oh, yes. I asked him.”

“Well, I’m sure he feels kind of awkward...since you two don’t really know each other. But Hannah shouldn’t have to suffer for a one night stand.”

Bitch say WHAT?

I know my mouth was hanging open. I was appalled, embarrassed, angry, many things. Maybe we didn’t know each other well, but it wasn’t a goddamn one night stand. I was having more sex in your house than you were, lady. He met my parents...even if it wasn’t intentional. I met you guys several times and you don’t even fucking remember me. My head nearly exploded.

I stayed calm though. I don’t remember what I said, but I’m sure it was borderline civil.

I rarely spoke to Chris in the months that followed. The kid continued to go over for day visits without me. I was weary of overnighters, but his mother and I were getting along better. She and Chris’s father are truly good people, just misguided and ignorant when it comes to their youngest son.

I took Hannah to their house for Christmas Day present opening. Chris and I exchanged tentative smiles and conversation. We sat next to each other while we put the kid’s toys together. Another one of those moments of feeling loss....

He was never far from my mind now that I was seeing him more often again. I still wanted him and I never once let him see me looking anything less than completely put together. I raged about his lackadaisical involvement out loud to everyone and dreamed about his hands on my body at night. It was mental torture. Had he said “come”, I would have...on the spot. That’s embarrassing to admit, but completely true.

Then the accident happened.

His mom called to tell me that he’d lost control of his motorcycle and wasn’t wearing a helmet.

I was terrified he would die and the kid wouldn’t know her dad. I was terrified he would die period...but I felt like I wasn’t allowed to feel that way. What was he to me other than Hannah’s dad?

I found out he had a girlfriend then. His mom called to give me an update about him waking up. He was confused, she said, and asked for me.

Me? He asked for me?

Yes. Instead of his girlfriend, his mom said. She had to remind him of her.

I was a mental case. What did that mean? I went off into fantasy land and didn’t come around for a very long time. I became obsessed with his recovery process and hearing about this girlfriend I knew nothing of. What did she have that I didn’t? Not his child. She was older. I was younger. Surely I was the better choice?

Along with those feelings, I had others.

He was having trouble with his memory and not thinking clearly. It took him longer to speak a sentence. He was physically banged up too...deep gashes on his head that required surgery.

Once it was established that he wasn’t going to die...I felt a sort of grim satisfaction. His girlfriend wasn’t likely to stay and help him recover (and she didn’t). Who knew what else he’d lost? He was already having trouble with his mind. I had as many cruel and smugly righteous thoughts as I did worries for his health. In a way, I thought of it as his payback for everything I’d been put through...for all of his nonchalance and disregard for our daughter and.....well, my fucking uterus, ok.

I got over that relatively quickly, only lapsing into calling him a retard when I was really angry or frustrated. He’s not, by the way.

A year after the accident, he was still home and still struggling with his recovery. He still moved slowly and felt like he was in a fog sometimes. Whatever that meant...

He seemed lonely and depressed. I felt sorry for him, but after the accident...there was one very noticeable difference.

The way he looked at me.

I could be completely off base, but I could have sworn he was checking me out. His smile, the old look in his eye...they were there. He seemed shy instead of indifferent when we spoke.

I seized that idea and ran with it.

The kid was spending the night there one or two weekends a month. Instead of making his mom meet me, I drove the LONG drive to their house, just so he could see me in one getup or another. I wore going out outfits when I wasn’t going out. Shoes that were...ridiculous. A lot of the time, I was going out...and I let it be known just how much fun I was getting ready to have while he sat at home with his parents.

It was ridiculous and petty. I wanted him not only to want me, but to know that other men were having feel alone and disabled.

But he never changed. He stayed home, he didn’t seem to be progressing, and he didn’t seem to be taking any more interest in my antics. I stopped.

But don’t think that I was some desperate psycho baby’s mama, fawning all over him and blowing up his phone, crying on his doorstep. All of those issues...stayed internal. I never made a scene; I never professed any kind of feelings for or to him at all (except the original irritation with his lack of parenting).

I haven’t seen him out of sweat pants or jogging shorts in two years. I asked him if he’d like to go to dinner with me get him out of the house and to see if I could finally have the conversation I never had with him. To just ask him...why? He agreed then backed out due to not feeling well.

My best friend went with me to pick up the kid once and observed his odd behavior with me. She thinks he’s embarrassed about his issues and doesn’t want me to see him this way. Who really knows?

He avoids me most days now. Stays upstairs. He and the kid have gotten a little closer. I can tell on those days when I don’t call ahead and he’s still in the living room...she cares about him and he looks like he cares about her. They hug each other and kiss each other and she squeals and laughs with him. I know that doesn’t sound like much to you, but for her it’s massive. She’s lived in a house with three women and she’s always been wary of men. She doesn’t let them close to her and she isn’t easily persuaded.

I go over there with yesterday’s makeup on and pj pants now, my hair in a messy bun and with a carefree attitude. More often than not I have his mom meet me somewhere. He still gives me those looks from time to time that make my face burn and my heart skip a beat. I still have this place inside me that compels me to care about him, to still want him sometimes. But I don’t let it make me crazy anymore. I ignore it and I go on about my business.

I’m no longer that 18 year old girl that went after trouble and got it. I’m a 24 year old woman. And now I’m the trouble.

Oh...and so is she:

Thursday, October 22, 2009

We've only just begun: Part three....but we've definitely passed the boner whispering parts. Sorry.

I was surprised to discover that this story is taking a toll on me. Every day this week I’ve been replaying our time together in my head. Sometimes I’ve been amused, sometimes sad, and sometimes angry. The majority of the time I’ve just been really turned on.

You thought I was going to say something profound, right? Ah, ye of little faith in my filthy mind.

In all seriousness, I’ve been feeling very nostalgic and have toyed with the idea of talking to him about things. However, I decided long ago that the past is the past, and no matter how much “what if’ing” I do, everything turns out the way it does for a reason. Now on with the show, hmm?

We continued our trysts at his house, almost daily.

I spent my mornings and afternoons watching him move around the training room and my nights getting high and using him like a rowing machine. I was ditching the gym to buy us more time since TG was becoming more and more agitated by my nightly absences.

We spent one glorious afternoon on the lake. The only downside was the meeting of my parents. It was when they were still married and as luck would have it, dad was home and sober that day.

We only stopped by so I could drop off a package TG insisted my mom had to have. My attempt at explaining that just because we were going out on the lake didn’t mean we would be close to their home wouldn’t suffice. Chris was slightly irritated since the package in question was a head of cabbage. I can’t say I blame him.

Anyway, we delivered the important cabbage and I introduced him to my parents. My dad was immediately taken with him. He had a boat and a truck, and by gawd that made him a man’s man...even if he was a Yankee!

My mother wasn’t so easily blinded. She took me aside and said, “How old is he?”

“Um, 28, I think.”

“Right. And you work with him?”


“Right. What are you doing, Al?”

“I like him. LOOK at him.”

“I am.” She sighed and gave me a look that I now know was pity. At the time, I thought she was disappointed in me for plucking out of the company pot...the older one.

We left and went on our merry way, stopping mid lake to enjoy a little public boat sex.

I met his parents that day too. Though, unlike Chris, I didn’t leave a lasting impression. The next we met they didn’t remember me at all.

Things continued on for awhile. I’ve found that most of our time after that weekend runs together in a blur of sex. He did come over to TG’s once, late at night, and sat outside with me and a friend. He watched me roll a blunt and eat a snack cake at the same time, which couldn’t have been attractive, I’m sure. He didn’t like that I smoked pot, but I pointed out that he’d done it at my age. Again, probably not an attractive thing to bring attention to: our age difference.

He’d hurt his leg skiing a few years before I met him and had a lot of trouble with his knee. The scar was terrible...huge and oblong, but I thought it made him that much sexier. Occasionally he’d have to take a few days off work when it hurt really badly, or something.

Shortly after his visit to TG’s, he did just that. And while he was at it, he took some time away from me as well. Back then I thought it was all about the stupid pot and the age quip, but it wasn’t. He said he was resting.

I was worried that my happy ending would go up in smoke if I didn’t do something. The only thing I knew to do was talk to him. So after a few days, I called and asked him this question, “What are we? Are we dating?” Well, a variation of it anyway.

His response was immediate. “I don’t want a relationship.”

I was crushed, but I put a valiant effort into not letting him know. I said OK, changed the subject, and then got off the phone shortly after. We agreed to talk again soon.

I cried for gawd knows how long. I knew that after I asked the no-no question and received that answer, that we couldn’t even go back to the casual hanging out and sex. I’d showed my hand.

Work was terrible. I felt like everyone knew what had happened. I was positive that some of them did because one of his best friends worked there.

I spent the next week getting epically wasted and smoking massive amounts of pot. It took me that long and a remark from TG about the empty contents of the bathroom trash can to realize that I wasn’t just vomiting from being fucking up all the time.

I was too stunned to cry at first. He’d had a vasectomy. The first fear I had, however illogical, was that he wouldn’t believe me when I told him.

I called him before I had time to really digest what was happening.

I exhaled heavily. “I have to tell you something”, I said.

“What’s up?”

“....I’m pregnant.”

Pause. “Are you sure?”


“Shit. Um, what do you want to do...?”

“Have an abortion, I guess”, I replied.

He sighed. “I’m against abortion....but I can’t afford another kid...”


“Ok. So, you need my help?”

“Um, yeah.” I was choking back tears by this point.

“Ok. Find out how much you need and let me know.”


I hung up. I couldn’t deal with his nonchalance. It was like I’d just told him, for the third time, that I needed the $20 back he’d borrowed. After all, it was only my fucking uterus. Again.

I found out how much it would cost for how far along I was and I told him. He said he’d have the money in two weeks. The thing about abortions is they get more expensive every week. I didn’t tell him that, though somehow I bet he knew.

Then I did what I do best...check out of reality. I conveniently forgot I was even pregnant. It was going away soon anyway...what difference did it make?

I got fired from my job, which was just as well. I couldn’t stay on the call floor anyway, I was too busy vomiting.

Two weeks turned into three and I didn’t hear from him. I called again and he said to give him two more weeks.

The next time I spoke to him, my daughter was five months old.

(The months between the last two times I spoke to him aren’t his and my story. They are mine and my daughter’s.)

I could have gotten the money myself. I could have saved for those few weeks and had enough, but I didn’t. I was more comfortable ignoring the changes in my body and pretending it was business as usual. Everything happens for a reason, eh?

Being a single teenage mom, the government will help you pay for daycare and medical care. At the time, I would have been content to work five jobs and get it done myself, but my mother would have none of it. In order to get the help, they required that I pursue child support. I’d had no intention of ever contacting Chris at all.

They notified me of a court date to establish paternity and that they sent him a letter. I actually laughed when I heard that. Not just a chuckle, but fall down hysterics. My poor mom thought I’d gone off the deep end. I had for a minute. I pictured his face when he opened a letter saying his presence was required....possibly his daughter...and I just found it hilarious. I howled and hiccupped with tears streaming down my face and tried to tell her through it all just why it was so funny. He probably thought I’d had an abortion and forgotten all about me. That was FUNNY.

She gave me a few Xanax and sent me to bed.

The closer the court date got, the more nervous I became. What if he didn’t show up? What if he did? Would he think I looked fat? What would he think of my daughter?

Selfish thoughts mixed with the more logical. I’m only human.

I had his child; I wasn’t allowed to forget him. Somehow I couldn’t hate him either. I could call him names, laugh at his expense, but the truth remained that I never stopped being...attracted to him. I was disgusted with myself for it.

I showed up at court that day with my daughter, cousin, and family friend. I didn’t have any idea what to expect, but I knew what I needed. I needed my cousin to be the superficial asshole she was and validate my claim that he was hot. And I needed the family friend to glare at him. I realize that might not make any sense to you, but I had to appear normal and by trivializing the experience, it allowed me normal and calm.

I sat in the huge main lobby, the kid nestled in my lap and a ferocious female on each side.

“Do you see him yet”, my cousin asked. She craned her neck and looked around the room.

“No.” I attempted to be less obvious.

“Bastard”, said the family friend.

“Is that him?” My cousin pointed at a tall man in a white t-shirt and jeans striding across the lobby.

I nodded. I watched him sit across the room on a bench and put his elbows on his knees. He looked at me and I quit breathing.

My cousin stood up and said, “I’m going to the bathroom over there so I can get a better look at him.”

“Rat bastard”, quipped the family friend, glaring for all she was worth.

I sighed. What an idiot I was.

My cousin came back a few minutes later, a look of awe on her face.

“He’s fucking gorgeous!”

I sighed again. “I know.”

When they called our names we went into a room. We sat elbow to elbow, not saying a word to each other. The woman went over some shit; I have no idea what, and then asked him if he wanted a paternity test. He said, “Yes”, then looked at me and said, “I’m’s not that I don’t believe’s just...”

“I understand.”

We went across the hall into another little room. They swabbed mouths and the lady said she had to take our pictures to go with the sample. She asked if we wanted it done all together or all separately. Chris and I looked at each other and shrugged.

“Alright, get in closer together.”

He leaned against me while I held the kid, the woman snapped a Polaroid, and then left it on the table to dry while she went to get something. I stared at that fucking thing while it developed and I felt the keenest sense of loss...I can’t even accurately describe it.

Once we were let go, he strode to the staircase. I stood a few feet away with the kid in my arms; he paused on the step and opened his mouth to say something. I handed her off to my cousin and went to him.

“I’m sorry”, he said.

I just shook my head.

“I’ll take care of her, if she’s mine. I’ll be there.”


Over the next several months I went insane. We went to court again to figure up child support, this time without the kid. He said he wanted to be involved and to call him.

So I did. I called and I called and I called. He was always too busy to see her that day. Always working that weekend.

“Please”, I begged him, “just tell me a day...any day and I’ll make it happen.”

All my intentions of not caring, of not wanting him or needing him disappeared the moment I saw that picture. I wanted him to be something he wasn’t. I wanted him to be a father. He just didn’t care. His lies and excuses weren’t even made to sound plausible, and I swallowed them again and again.

I was disgusted with myself, but I couldn’t stop trying to make him pay attention.

Finally one day he said he had time to see her. I left work early to pick her up from daycare. I called to let him know we were on the way and he said he’d just gotten called in to work.

I fucking lost it. I screamed and cried told him what a son of a bitch he was and how I’d given him every opportunity and then some and he still didn’t care. He apologized and made more empty promises.

I didn’t call him again.

A year later I was sitting in my office. My phone rang.

It was his mother.

Tuesday, October 20, 2009

We've only just begun: Part two

The following day, at work, I was full of nervous anticipation.

I watched him go through slide after slide of meaningless computer drivel. I was day dreamy and impatient. He smiled at me often, as if to say “just you wait”.

We talked during lunch break outside, careful not to touch each other. Dating or sleeping with other employees was frowned upon.

He asked if I would like to come over that night and watch a movie. I said, “I’d love to...” and in my head added, “Have sex with you”.

I went to the gym after work. I’d been going consistently for a few weeks and really enjoyed it. That night, I remember nothing. I couldn’t tell you what machines I used, or how long I stayed. I floated in, did things, showered, and floated out.

His house was in a large subdivision and when I pulled up, it wasn’t quite dark yet.

I rang the bell and he let me in. I don’t know what I was expecting exactly, but it wasn’t his parents sitting in the living there...watching the pre-walk of shame.

He introduced me, quite flippantly, and I awkwardly waved and said hello. Then I followed him up the stairs, glancing back at his parents to gauge their reaction. I don’t think they even glanced up from the TV after I walked in the door.

Once I was in his room, I forgot all about them.

We picked a movie (I’m pretty sure it was Eurotrip) and settled down on the bed. We talked about work and I asked him about the pictures of children around his room.

“I have three sons”, he said nonchalantly.

I balked. “THREE?”

He told me a little about them, their names and ages and the tiny little fact that they all had different mothers. Then he mentioned that he had a vasectomy. Of course, I thought, why wouldn’t he? Three kids at 28. (Ah, 18 year old Ally...your ignorance amuses your 24 year old self.)

I was surprised by all the information he was throwing at me. I’d never liked children and I’d never slept with anyone that much older. The truth is, after the first few minutes, I didn’t care. I had decided that he was pretty much perfect, kids or no kids, and I was determined that we would have a relationship.

I was lying on my stomach, chin in hands, watching the movie. He was propped up against the headboard, ankles crossed and nestled against my body.

I felt him slide his hand up the leg of my pants and rub my calf. I continued watching the screen while he shifted over me, lifted the hem of my shirt and licking the small of my back. I was biting the shit out of my bottom lip, which is what I do when I’m nervous or insanely turned on...or both.

He grasped my shoulders and I allowed him to turn me over. He leaned over me. One hand braced on the bed and the other cupping the side of my face, he stared directly into my eyes. I’d never seen that look in a man’s eyes before...because I’d never slept with a man. Boys...only boys. That stare was impossible to break, intense, knowing, calculating...scary. I was shivering before he even really touched me.

He pulled his shirt over his head and gawd, he was sexy...with just the right about of muscles and tattoos on his upper arms.

He made short work of my clothing and the rest of his, pausing to kiss me every so often.

I was on fucking fire. I was touching him, kissing him, and begging him to touch me more. He ran his tongue down my body, pausing to lick my inner thighs and I made a noise of protest. I’d never liked oral sex. But he grinned at me and moved in anyway, pinning my wrists to the bed when I raised my hands to say no.

He didn’t have to hold them long...they went limp, and then grasped the bed sheets tightly when he paused to bite my thigh. I think that was the first time I came, but who really knows? I felt like a bomb set to go off every few minutes and each explosion, though slightly different, left me more breathless and more...gone. I think my mind was gone. I had no idea what was happening, really.

My mind might have deserted me, but my mouth was clearly present. I believe he had to say “Shhhh” several times. When he finally slipped inside me, he had to cover my mouth with his to keep me quiet. It had been eleven months and, well, you guys know...right?

We didn’t have sex that night. I can’t call it that. He was intense, tender, achingly slow, and every single movement was made for me. At the time, I called it making love. Now, years later, I call it artful seduction.

But I’ll have to save that for next time.

Monday, October 19, 2009

We've only just begun: Part one

This is a story I’ve only ever told in bits and pieces. I’ve never written it outright and I thought it might be a good day for it, since my mojo is taking a vacation and my brain is grinding with the effort of thinking up new material.

It was my 18th birthday.

When I entered the training room that first day and looked around, I was heavy with disappointment. I’d yet to learn the old adage, “You don’t shit where you eat”, and was of the mind that the working environment was the best place to pick up men.

Not only that, but I was severely undersexed: Eleven months of abstinence following an event that horrifies most, traumatizes some, and fazed me barely at all. I like to say that I abstained from sex because I had an abortion and it scared and horrified me and I don’t want people to think I’m a monster, but it’s just not true. The truth is, I wasn’t afraid of the abortion...I was afraid of getting pregnant again. Coupled with the fact that I just hadn’t met anyone that I wanted to have sex with.

That training room was full of women and scattered here and there was a geeky guy or a gangster wanna-be.

The tables were long with three computers side by side. I took a seat three rows back, on the end next to two black girls. We immediately started a conversation about the lack of prospects.

The door to the front of the room opened and we all glanced up expectantly. In walked the trainer...our boss for the next four weeks.

He was beautiful. Tall, shaved head, big dark brown eyes with thick, inky lashes, full lips, and a deep voice that gave me chills up and down my spine. I’d never felt such a powerful, instantaneous physical attraction.

His name was Chris.

Formalities commenced and we started going over and filling out new hire paperwork. He came to my table and I handed him my finished stack. He smiled at me and took it, glancing down and rifling through to make sure it was all there, I suppose.

“Look at that”, he said.

“What”, I replied, worried that I’d messed something up.

“It’s your birthday today.”

“Oh...yeah.” I was embarrassed.

Of course everyone had to wish me a happy birthday and make jokes about my age.

I don’t remember much else from that first day other than his warm brown eyes staring into mine.

The next day I was on a mission. I was determined that I would have him, by any means necessary.

I’m ashamed now to say that I employed less than admirable antics: using the dumb blonde act, flirting with other guys, and wearing tops that left little to the imagination. My only excuse is...I was 18. As for the cleavage....I still do that, but trust me...we’re talking from then (obscene) to now...definitely more tasteful.

The other girls nudged each other and shook their heads while he paid me more attention, laughed at my jokes, and flirted with me outrageously. Everyone in that room, all 20 something of them, knew we were going to hook up.

After four days, I had my man.

Number in hand, I went home that afternoon and tried to think of anything but him. I wanted to call so badly it hurt, but I knew I should wait and let him do the calling.

I had just moved in with The Grandmother and we weren’t adjusting to each other’s company very well. I’d been on my own for the past year and I resented being told what to do.

On that day my mother was visiting, and my mother is the ultimate shit stirrer. I’d been home from work approximately 30 minutes before they started irritating me and I stomped out to the porch to sit on the swing and smoke.

I picked up the phone and called him, no longer caring about appearances. He asked me to meet him out.

I got ready and met him at Applebee’s. I don’t remember the conversation.

I remember the way his face looked when he smiled. I remember the way he seemed to dominate the entire if he’d sucked all the air out of the place and the only way I’d go on breathing was to look at him.

I remember being nervous. Especially when he decided we should go play pool at a local bar. I’d never been to a bar in the city, just the hole in the wall places my dad used to drag me to. I was afraid that I wouldn’t be let in, but he handled everything.

Soon we were playing pool and bantering back and forth. I drank vodka and Jaeger (not together)...which back then I loved. He brought my drinks to the pool table and I wasn’t bothered once. It excited me, that first taste of what I thought being a cool adult was like, and doing something illegal, which I wasn’t a stranger to.

I was quite tipsy when we left and we decided to sit outside on his tailgate for awhile. Again, I don’t remember what the conversation was about specifically...this time it was probably due more to the alcohol. But soon we were hitting each other playfully and dodging the other’s advances like school children.

It went on forever. I was dying to be in his arms, but unwilling to make the first move. In the end, I didn’t have to.

I made a smart remark and he pinned me to the side of the truck and demanded I take it back. I, of course, refused. We struggled against each other and I thought I would literally explode by the time his lips met mine. Our first kiss was not gentle.

I felt wanton and exposed, wrapped around his body in a busy parking lot, but I didn’t care. A trucker drove by and cat called out his window and Chris broke the embrace long enough to laugh, then bent his head to mine again.

That was our first date. I arrived home at 4am with swollen lips and confronted an angry TG. I waved her off and went to my bed smiling.

I smile now, remembering that girl lying there with tingling skin and sore lips, and shake my head. If only she knew.

Tuesday, October 13, 2009

Does it feel hot in here to you? Must be me. Do do CHHH!

Sometimes I feel a little muddled in the head.

You know, like there’s cotton wool up there and you can’t think so you say what you think you’re trying to think out loud and it comes out something like this:

“My nipples are hard ‘cause I got the chills and it’s not even cold.”

And your big boss is standing there looking at you like you’ve peed on the carpet they just shampooed, but you don’t even care because you’re trying to think about why your nipples are hard when it’s not cold and wondering if you unknowingly had a sexual daydream somewhere in your cotton wool brain and then getting this horrifically angry expression on your face because you can’t THINK and you haven’t gotten laid in forever and if your brain is having sexual daydreams without you then you are really going to be PISSED. Then you say something like, “I’ll have that for you this Monday”, and he gawks at you as you zig zag down the hallway with your head tilted to the side and shouts, “Today is Tuesday!” and your only reply is a maestro finger move in the air and a half sung, “Tuesday’s gone with the wind!”

No? Maybe it’s just me.

And sometimes I feel a little depressed.

You know, like when your four year old daughter says she doesn’t want you to walk her into school this morning because you aren’t wearing any make up and your hair is wet and you wonder who taught this ungrateful child to care so much about appearances and then you remember sitting on the porch and openly laughing at that incredibly fat five year old jumping up and down on the trampoline that isn’t even hers and knowing that if she breaks it you’ll be blamed for it because your fat ass was jumping on it two days ago, but then making a remark about her bob haircut and who does that to a fat kid anyway? Then you hang your head in shame and vow that your daughter will learn that it’s not what’s on the outside and jiggling up and down that counts, but what’s working its way through those fat little insides and if she ever wants another snack pack again she’ll do well to keep that trap shut.

No? Maybe it’s just me.

And sometimes I feel like vomiting.

You know, like when you find out through the grapevine that your mother’s ex boyfriend whom you nicknamed Spongebob because of the ridiculous tattoo on his fat pasty white leg has been asking mutual acquaintances if you are single and if they think you’d be interested in going out with him and when they tell you about it they laugh uncontrollably, especially when you start making those retching sounds and not even as a joke, they’re totally real. Then you freak the fuck out because what if he thinks you owe him something because he fixed your car and gave you that expensive digital camera and a $100 gift card for Christmas and he shows up to put the fucking lotion on your skin and give you the hose he used on your mother...OH DEAR GAWD and the retching continues because he’s probably crazy enough to do it. After all he tried to buy you and you totally let him and you realize that you’re probably going to get stuffed into a van when you leave work by a short, fat man that looks kind of like him but you can’t really tell because he’s got used panty hose over his face and you make a promise to yourself that if this happens you will stab yourself in the jugular no matter what Jesus says about suicide.

No? Maybe it’s just me.

And sometimes I feel sheepish.

You know, like when you write a blog post that makes absolutely no sense but you can’t help it because the alternative is actually doing some work or getting up to go to the copy machine where you’ll surely pass your boss and he’ll shake his head because he’s positive about two things – first that he’s writing you up for wearing that shirt when he specifically told you through another employee that that amount of cleavage is not suitable for the office and secondly he’ll forgive you all your weird habits and outbursts and even your unsuitable cleavage if you’d just sit on his desk one time with no under....

Ahem. I’m sure that’s just me.

Thank you, come again.

Friday, October 02, 2009

Fat kids are fun. Richard Simmons has a vagina.

What is the definition of food?

The chief comfort Southern women are born and bred to provide to their loved ones.

The Grandmother isn’t a true Southern woman in a lot of ways, but that heifer can cook. Fried chicken, mac-n-cheese, rice and gravy, biscuits. And bake...Boston crème pie, cheesecake, pound cake, peach cobbler. When she wasn’t cooking, she was feeding me store bought goodness. Cheetos, cookies, ice cream sandwiches, candy bars.

I would sit in my brown wing chair, watch “Clarissa Explains it All” marathons and stuff my chubby little face. Then I’d lock myself in my room and read about horror (Goosebumps) and pre teen angst (The Saddle Club).

Misty water colored memories....

Until...TG decided she was tired of my expanding, adolescent waist. She began her campaign then and there by making the most beautiful cheesecake I’d ever seen.

(There’s a long list of things I’ll do for good cheesecake and most of them are felonies and/or crimes of a sexual nature.)

She brought said cheesecake out on a lovely glass platter and called my 10 year old self into the dining room. “Look what I made”, she said as she extended her arms, bringing the platter level with my face.

As I looked, it sang its cheesecake siren song and demanded I inch just a bit closer. So I did. But as I took that one tiny step, TG took one back. I looked up at her in puzzlement. This was my offering, was it not? I was the chosen child, was I not?

“Oh, I can’t have this”, she declared. Then she whipped around and toted it back to the kitchen.

That was the day my sister became the undisputed favorite and I became the “Oh, you can’t have that” grandchild. Even 15 years and a normal weight later, I’m still the “Oh you can’t have that” grandchild. Old habits die hard, I suppose.

Once TG started her campaign to shame me into losing weight, my mother jumped on the band wagon. She realized that she had found the perfect work out buddy to help her lose that 2nd baby poundage.

I saw my life flash before my eyes when she purchased matching work out clothing and a box set of Richard Simmons exercise videos.

But no matter how much I protested, I was told that the Department of Social Services most certainly wouldn’t consider it child abuse. No amount of threatening, begging, or bargaining with my candy stash could keep her from her goal: 3 days a week mimicking Richard’s scary, tan legs pump pump pumping away at the pony.

Have you ever seen a fat kid and her mom do the pony in spandex shorts? Don’t. Ever.

To this day I can’t listen to most oldies songs for fear of regression. If I hear Peggy Sue, my feet start doing the quick step heel toe heel toe heel toe and I start pulling out my hair in panic. When I watch Dirty Dancing, I put the TV on mute through the Wipeout song montage.

But copying and watching that giddy man stomp away wasn’t enough punishment for the fat kid. NO.

My mom thought Richard Simmons was sexy.

While we ponyed across the living room, he ponyed across the TV screen in his tiny red and while stripped shorts...tan, shiny legs flashing and afro bouncing.

And she would say, “OOOOO WEEEEE! Huff, puff left. LOOK AT THOSE SEXY LEGS! Huff, puff right. I’D LIKE TO LICK THOSE CALVES SOMETHIN’ FIERCE! Huff, puff left. LOOK AL, LOOK AT UM MMMM MMM! Huff, Puff right.”

Her favorite saying though, was “Richard Simmons’s legs were hand crafted by Jesus.”

Once she said it in front of my dad and through him Crown Royal replied, “Jesus don’t craft fag legs.”

My daddy was (is) an eloquent, well mannered drunk.

As you can well imagine, after weeks of being subjected to this treatment I was growing more and more agitated. Rebellion was inevitable.

It came on a Saturday afternoon. My mom had some kind of lunch get together for her friends and one brought their daughter for me to play with. Her name was Suzanne and she was a walking fence post. Of course I hated her.

As they fixed our lunch plates, our mothers discussed Richard Simmons and his “Sweatin’ to the oldies” tape. And then it came.

“His legs were hand crafted by Jesus”, my mom said reverently to her nodding friends.

And the angry fat kid in me heard those words, saw all the vegetables on that fucking lunch plate and lost it.

“Daddy says Jesus doesn’t craft fag legs and with shorts that small he probably has a vagina. And I bet he’s right! Richard Simmons is a woman!”



“Excuse us”, my mom said.

She grabbed me by the arm and pulled me down the hall, into her room, and beat my ass with the biggest belt she could find. I laughed.

She banished me to my room with my plate of vegetables and the fence post Suzanne. I dug out my candy stash.

“Are you supposed to be eating that”, she asked.

“No”, I said.

“But what if you get caught? You could get spanked again.”

“So what?”

“Well...I’D be scared!”

I popped a piece of chocolate in my mouth and grinned. “That’s because you don’t have any padding, fence post.”

Then I did the pony out the door.

(Ok, so I didn’t do the pony part...but that would have been awesome right?)

After everyone left, my mom called dad at work to tell him what I’d done. When he got home that evening he stopped by my room.

“Here”, he said, handing me a $10 bill.

“What’s that for”, I asked.

“For making me laugh and pissing off your mom’s friends.”

I bought lots of candy with that $10...and I never did the pony again.