Every Day A Little Death

Every Day A Little Death

            I was a freshman in high school, alone.  Steve Avery had graduated.  Now here I was.  In ninth grade, hormones raging and not another queer in sight.  Seventh and eighth grades were tolerable.  Maybe because of Steve.  But ninth grade?  No way.  I hated everybody and felt like everybody hated me.  I was too skinny, too awkward.  I had too many zits, not enough muscles.  Basically I felt what every other fifteen-year old felt.  But there was something different.  I liked boys and didn’t want to.  I was teased a little for being ‘girly’.  But nothing I couldn’t handle.  I had a few friends but longed to be in the “in crowd” again, like I was when Steve was still at school.  But my classmates that were in this crowd were having sex and drinking.  And I wasn’t. 

            Home life wasn’t much better.  My brother, Keith, was diagnosed with juvenile diabetes at the age of twelve.  He spent over a week in Children’s Hospital in Birmingham while I stayed with one of my favorite families in Linden, the Glass family.  David was in my class at school and was on the periphery of the ‘in crowd’.  We got along very well though.  Besides, I loved looking at his ass.  He had a younger brother named Jimmy and a little sister named Jessie.  They were all wild as hell.  During the week I spent with them, there were baseball fights, pitchfork fights, car tag fights.  I got flea bites from their army of dogs that marched in and out of the house.  But I loved it.  Then it was home again.

            I fit into the norm of most fifteen-year olds in one aspect.  I was a self-centered brat.  So while my parents and Keith were trying to adjust to his new dietary needs and two insulin shots everyday, I was causing commotion after commotion. 

            “I want to go back to David’s!” I yelled on a daily basis.

            I pitched tantrums over doing chores, I talked back to my mother.  Anything I could do to make them notice me is exactly what I did.  Finally, at the end of his rope, Dad decided to have a “grown-up” talk with me.

            “You’ve got to calm down.  You’re driving your mother and me crazy.  It’s not good for Keith either.  He’s trying to adjust.  We’re all trying to adjust, and you’re not helping any by telling us you’d rather live with David and his family.”

            He was calm.  I was not.

            “I don’t care about any of you!  You all hate me anyway!  You wouldn’t even notice if I was gone!”

            “Shut up.  You know that’s not true.  You’re just being a spoiled little shit ass.”

            I buried my face in my pillow just to piss him off.

            “Look at me.”

            I didn’t budge.

            “Look at me goddamnit!”

            I slowly looked up.  And thought I saw a tear.

            “You don’t know what it’s like—and I hope you never know—but you don’t know what it’s like to have your son look at you in a hospital bed and ask if he’s gonna die.  Now you straighten yourself up and at least pretend that you like us.”

            And he walked out of my room.  I buried my face in my pillow again.  Not to piss him off.  But so they wouldn’t hear me cry from shame and embarrassment.  And for my brother.

            So I took my dad’s advice.  I straightened up.  As much as a self-centered fifteen-year old brat could.  The school’s annual talent showcase was coming up.  I performed in it the year before, so I auditioned again and won a solo.  Even school was beginning to look up.  Until one Friday afternoon in Mrs. Wood’s biology class.

            In some circles, Mrs. Wood could be considered eccentric.  In most circles, she could be considered certifiable.  She told stories about everything.  How she read a book about freeing one’s spirit and how she freed her spirit from her entire body…except her big toe.  How she drowned as a child and came back to life.  How her daughter saved herself for the man she loved and he in turn broke her heart because he screwed a guy.  Nothing was off limits. 

That particular Friday afternoon—Black Friday, she read an article aloud in class from one of Alabama’s newspapers.  It was a scathing expose’ about closeted gay men and how they initiate sex in public places such as restrooms at the mall.  The more she read, the redder my face got.  This was not an article for fifteen-year olds.  Especially not for fifteen-year old boys who liked boys and lived in fear every day of being found out.  According to the article, a gay guy would sit in the restroom stall and tap his foot until someone who was also in on the ‘code’ would tap his foot back.  Then it was off to Fuckland.  There were quotes from closeted gays, experts, psychiatrists.  The entire article seemed to tell us that straight was good, gay was bad.           

            With each word, I was getting more flushed.  I felt as if everyone in the room was looking straight at me.  Then there was a quote that Mrs. Wood read from one of the ‘experts’ that interviewed several closeted gays.  The quote read something like “gay guys can have sex with women but must think of a man to get it up.”  With that, Mrs. Wood dramatically put the paper on her desk and looked up at the class.  In my mind, she was looking directly at me.

            “And ladies, if that doesn’t make your blood run cold, you are dead!”

            My OCD kicked in.  Was she directing this entire spiel at me?  Was everyone talking about me behind my back?  Did they know about Steve?  I was in a full-on panic attack.  I left school that day still flushed and felt like I had the flu.  I didn’t eat dinner that night.  Instead I adjourned to my room and tried to focus on my upcoming solo for the talent showcase.  But I couldn’t. Her words kept running through my head.  I was doomed to a life of having to think about dick just to stick mine in a vagina.  Doomed to spending my days in restroom stalls at Sears, tapping my foot while waiting for a blow job.

            No.  Absolutely not.  That will not be me.  I’m not gay.  I will never look at another boy that way again.  No more hanging out in the locker room.  No more looking at David’s ass.  None of that.  I will like girls.  Maybe I’ll even go out with fat Shelley who keeps leaving notes in my locker.  I’m not gonna touch her twat, but maybe I’ll just kiss her instead.  I am straight.  From now on.  I am straight.

            My new mantra seemed to work.  Every time I would catch myself daydreaming about boys, I’d pinch my arm or slap my face.  Then I’d start thinking about the cheerleaders.  Football practice was still a challenge.  So was David’s ass.  After practice, I would just get my work done, focusing on the floor the entire time, and then leave.  And whenever I was around David for any length of time, I’m fairly certain he wondered why I kept slapping myself.  For the most part, it was working.  The gay thoughts weren’t as prevalent and were being replaced by straight thoughts.  Soon, I was even able to jack off while thinking about cheerleaders. 

            I went through the remainder of my freshman year with nothing but girls on my mind.  I asked out a few, but they all turned me down.  Not many girls want to date guys who can also give them makeup tips.  The talent showcase was a success, and my rendition of “Splish Splash” wowed the crowd.  Especially when I ripped off my robe, revealing Pepsi-Cola shorts and a tank top.  After school ended for the summer, I worked part-time at a baseball park’s concession stand and part-time as a lifeguard at the Linden Country Club.  I’m not sure whether it was all the guys in their baseball uniforms or their bathing suits.  But whatever the reason, the old feelings started to creep back in.  But this time, I was a little more rational about it.  I figured that I could do both for awhile—girls and boys.  Then quit the boys in college and get serious about marrying a girl.  I had already proven to myself that I could get hard thinking about girls.  Easy.  Now I could masturbate thinking about whomever I chose. 

            And about that time, my grandfather died.  We drove over to Jackson, Mississippi for the week.  All the grandkids were getting on the adults’ nerves, so Dad and my uncle took several of us to watch the local university’s football team practice, where Dad’s best friend was the coach.  After drinking four too many iced teas at Grandma’s house, I needed to go in a bad way.  So I went to the restroom just off the practice field.  I was peeing when I heard the door open and shut behind me.   Of all the other urinals, this older guy walks over and uses the one next to mine.  I looked up at him, startled, and recognized him from the field.  He was one of the assistant coaches, younger than the others, but ancient to me.  So, he was about thirty.  And a looker.

            “How’s it goin’?” he asked.

            “Fine, I guess.”

            He glanced down at my penis which, surprisingly, was becoming erect.  He smiled.  He had dentist-white teeth.  I glanced down at his.  It was monstrous and hard as a rock.  And he was playing with it.  He was thirty years old.  I was fifteen. 

And then he tapped his right foot.

            So that’s what Mrs. Wood was talking about.

Spring Can Really Hang You Up The Most

                   Spring Can Really Hang You Up The Most

            It was springtime in Linden, Alabama, and everything was, indeed, coming up roses.  Steve Avery and I were having a weekly rendezvous. Since our first date in his car back in January, Steve became braver about having me around. He talked to me at school more and began taking me to parties. He even went so far as to turn down a “relationship” with Patti, a cheerleader and a slut. She made it obvious that she liked Steve and even left him a note in his car with a standing offer to fuck him at the car wash.  I admired her chutzpah, I guess.

            My parents were in a constant state of bliss. Perplexed but blissful. They were relieved I had a new friend that was a boy, popular at that. Confused probably as to how or why it happened. Or maybe not. I didn’t really know them that well. Before each outing with Steve, I got the standard lecture about drinking and smoking. Then Mom gave me a twenty dollar bill with instructions not to mention it to Dad. And just before heading out the door, Dad gave me a twenty dollar bill with instructions not to mention it to Mom.

            Steve, the star quarterback, was also our baseball team’s star short-stop. In an effort to see me more, he suggested that I try out for the team.

            “It would be fun,” he proposed. “We’d get to see each other a lot more.”

            “Have you actually seen me throw a ball?”

            “Yep,” he replied.  “It’s not THAT girly.”

            “My batting average in Little League was 0.00,” I countered.

            So he suggested that I be the team’s official scorekeeper instead. Our baseball coach was also my Earth Science teacher. Coach Lill was one of my favorites. He must have liked me too, because when I asked him, he jumped at the chance.

            “Last year, Patti kept score,” he said. “She always wore short skirts with no panties, and the boys couldn’t concentrate.” 

Again, I was in awe of her chutzpah.

            As much as I hated taping sweaty ankles and hanging out at boring football practice, I loved keeping score for the baseball team. I rode with Steve and his friends to every away game…and I got to sit in the front. I kept score from the dugout bench, so every inning when it was our turn at bat, Steve would sit by me, our legs just barely touching. I was in love.  As much as a closeted teenager could be.

            Steve Avery wasn’t the only positive thing that happened to me that year. I auditioned for the Spring Follies with “Great Balls of Fire”, and I got it! Rehearsals were exhausting but exhilarating. I had to work a little harder than most though.

            “You’re not a natural born singer,” our director told me one night. “But you can raise a joyful noise.”

            Steve also got a part in the show. Anytime they needed that little extra something in the background of a number, they would instruct hot guys or girls in our school to stand on stage and mug, goof, dance or look pretty. My act got its own set of dancers. Two girls dressed in little sequined dresses gyrated around me and basically looked pretty. I thought it took away from my vocal stylings, but what did I know? One of the girls was Liz. The other girl was flung on me without explanation or permission. It was Patti the tramp. She turned out to be quite nice to me, so I gave it right back. But I let her know quickly not to steal focus.

            The show was a success, and my number a hit. I could see Mom in the second row with my grandmother and could just make out the silhouette of my father standing in the back of the auditorium with our principal. Next to the door. But he came, and it mattered. After I hit my last note, the crowd cheered and clapped. I was a star, and I felt the part. Steve was in the next number and waiting in the wings to go on. I walked by him, sweating with excitement. He smiled the biggest smile I’d ever seen on him and pinched my bony arm as I passed.  Oh, the thrill of that night.

            After the show, he offered to drive me home. We detoured through our favorite makeout spot. After our usual post-play cigarette, Steve turned and faced me.

            “I’m graduating next month.”

            I was stunned. Truly. During this whirlwind of romance, rehearsals, and baseball games, I completely forgot that at any moment life would return to normal. And that Steve Avery, a senior, was about to graduate. I needed for all this to sink in, and I was suddenly exhausted. He took me home.

            Even though the Spring Follies had come and gone, baseball games were played through the month of May, right up to graduation. Steve and I continued to see each other all the time, and I went to watch him graduate. He winked at me as he marched down the aisle and away from me. 

            Over the summer, he got a baseball scholarship to a small university in Florida, eons away from Linden, Alabama. Denial has always been my strong suit, so I chose not to think about it. But as summer winded down, I began to dread the new school year. Steve had been my diversion from reality. In his eyes, I was somebody else. Now it was back to being me. The sissy. The best girlfriend. The class jester. And worst of all, back to football practice. With no one to blow.

            My parents and younger brother headed off to Mississippi that August for a few days to see my grandparents. I was left behind because of practice. Our neighbor, Mrs. Crocker, was to keep a watchful eye on the house and on me. Luckily, she couldn’t see past her shrubbery. Steve came over and spent the night…his last night in town before going off to school. I cooked dinner. Burnt chicken and undercooked potatoes.  But he didn’t complain.

Everything we had been doing in the backseat of his car, we finally got to do in a bed that night. With real sheets and pillows and everything. Usually after the climax, we looked away from each other. Maybe out of guilt, maybe out of confusion and discomfort. This time, we just stared at each other. Neither of us sure what transpired between us over the last year. One thing was certain. I didn’t want it to end.  And I don’t think he did either.

            “This is weird to say, ‘cause you’re a guy and all. But I can’t help it.”

            “Yeah?” I asked.

            “I think I love you.”

            And before I could reply, he pulled me so tight to his chest that I could barely breathe, much less speak. His declaration did make me feel a little weird. But mostly, I felt safe and wanted. And that felt good.  The next morning, he kissed me one more time and promised he would call after he got settled in his dorm.  And he was gone.

            An excruciatingly long month later, I got a phone call from Steve. He was settling in nicely, had started baseball practice for the fall season, and liked his roommate. He asked about school and doubted he’d be home anytime soon, due to his schedule. We spoke for forty-five minutes, and I hoped the conversation would end with another “I love you.” It didn’t. He never called again.

            My freshman year of high school was spent trying to move on from something I knew nothing about. I still didn’t want to be gay, but I knew that I loved Steve. I assumed he was busy with baseball and school and couldn’t call. A local newspaper occasionally wrote articles about his achievements on the playing field at college. My high school career flew by, and I heard a couple of times that Steve was in town for the weekend.  I never saw him.

            Six years later, I was twenty years old and home from college for spring break when Mom showed me a wedding invitation. Steve Avery was getting married. To a local girl, a classmate of his. Quite nice, nondescript. Even though it had been a lifetime ago, my stomach cramped. I didn’t want to see the wedding, but I had to see him.

So, Mom and I went. Just my luck, the ushers seated us on the third row with a birds’ eye view. The wedding march began. Steve walked through the doors and took his place on the steps of the altar. Time had not moved. My heart suddenly hurt, and I willed the tears not to fall. He was still devastatingly handsome, in better shape than in high school, and was now a man. As I watched him waiting for his bride, our final conversation years before resonated in my head.

            “You’re gonna be somebody one day,” he told me. “You will. You’re gonna move to a big city and live how you wanna live and be what you wanna be.”

            “What about you?” I asked. “You can too.”

            “Naw, not me. I’m too simple for the big city. I’ll probably come back here, get a job. I ain’t foolin’ myself. I’m good at baseball but not good enough for the majors. Besides, I’m not as brave as you are. But I KNOW that you’re gonna get outta here.”

            From the altar, Steve and I suddenly locked eyes in a mutual stare that lasted through five of the nine bridesmaids’ march down the aisle. He finally gave me a knowing smile, and I returned the favor. Knowing smiles because he knew that I was destined for better long before I ever did.  And I knew on that day, his wedding day, Steve Avery was doing what he thought he had to.

My Funny Valentine

My Funny Valentine

                “Patti Pritchett is a slut!”

                I was pissed.  And Liz wasn’t helping.

                “She’s not that bad.”

                “Liz, she kissed your boyfriend!”

                “I know.  I wrote her a letter and called her a whore.  So she apologized.”

                “So now she’s your best friend?”

                “No, but we’re cheerleaders so we have to get along.  Or she’ll manage to accidentally throw me off the pyramid.  Besides, why are you so worked up about Patti Pritchett?”

                I couldn’t tell Liz that it had nothing to do with the fact that Patti and Liz’s boyfriend Joe were recently caught in a liplock behind the bleachers in our gym.  Or that I hated Patti’s peroxide-blonde hair with a too-tight perm.  Or that I loathed her purple eye shadow.  Nope.  My reasons for hating the school slut were far more insidious.  Just days before, Steve and I were riding around after school, and I opened his glove compartment looking for gum.  I found a note from Patti that she slipped in his locker. Basically, it was a standing offer to fuck him at the car wash.  I was livid.  They had gone steady the previous year until Patti cheated on Steve with the school mascot.  And since we were the Longhorns, she basically cheated on Steve with a bull. 

            “Look, I ain’t going there again.  Why?  Are you jealous?” he teased.

            “No!”

            “Well then forget about Patti.”

            I still had my doubts but decided to drop the subject anyway.

            “Patti who?”

Besides, Valentine’s Day was coming up.

            Since our first date in his car, Steve let his guard down and started letting me hang around him and his friends.  I was over the moon.  An eighth-grader being allowed to hang out with seniors was something the other kids in my class could only dream of.  On weekends, we usually hung out with Joe and Liz and even went to the Dairy Queen with them.  Hanging out at the Dairy Queen on weekends was the only thing to do in Linden, Alabama.  Steve even got into the habit of ordering for me without having to ask what I wanted.  Chicken fingers with extra tartar sauce.  I was falling for him…hard.  Yet I still couldn’t wrap my brain around it.  I didn’t want to be gay, I knew that.  So what the hell was going on? 

                I’m not sure what all the other kids in my school thought.  Here was the star of the school.  Our best athlete, gorgeous and built.  And he was hanging out with the sissy of the school.  Our class clown, built like a stick.  I didn’t care.  I knew that Steve liked me, and I liked him.  One night, Steve and I slipped away from the Dairy Queen by ourselves and rode back to Sally’s Hill to make out.  After he sucked me off, we lit a cigarette.

                “You know Valentine’s Day is coming up?”

                I was stunned.  Speechless.  I never dreamed he’d even broach the subject of Valentine’s Day. 

                “I…um….yeah….sure.  Why?”

                “Last year, I hung out with Patti on Valentine’s Day, but this year I want to hang out with you.  It’s on a school night, but we could still ride around for a while.”

                Stunned and elated.  I was the happiest kid in town.

                “I have Follies practice, but I could ask to rehearse first.  Can you pick me up at the gym?”

                The Spring Follies was my school’s annual talent showcase.  Auditions were the week before, and I got a solo.  So rehearsals were twice a week until the show later in the spring.

                “That sounds perfect.” 

                And with those words, he leaned over and kissed me right on the mouth. 

                The following weekend was unusually warm for the first of February.  So everyone had a rush of spring fever.  Liz and I went with Steve and Joe to some pasture with all kinds of trails and ponds and hills.  Several other older kids from school were there too.   There were four-wheelers, three-wheelers, motor bikes, dirt bikes.  It was a veritable playground of deathtraps.  Steve and I were on a four-wheeler, and I was holding on to his waist for dear life until fat Sonny Barkley yelled at us.

                “Steve has a girlfriend!”

                With that, Steve stopped the four-wheeler, grabbed a handful of mud, and threw it in Sonny’s face.  I beamed.  Steve got back on the four-wheeler and looked at me and grinned.

                “Dickhead.  But you should probably hold on to the safety bars on the back.”

                Oh well.

                Hours later, after almost hitting a tree and crashing into Joe and Liz, we got bored of everyone and slipped over to the next pasture which was owned by Patti’s dad.

                “We can’t go over here!  Old Man Pritchett will shoot us!”

                “Don’t worry about it.  He loves me,” Steve offered.

                “Does he know his daughter is a car wash madam?”

                We headed over to the clearing, and Steve pulled out a small blanket that he had tucked away in the cooler tied on the back of the four-wheeler. 

                “It’s warm outside.  Let’s get nekkid!” he exclaimed.

                I was a little cautious, but before I could protest, Steve had completely disrobed and was standing there in the sunshine, hard as a rock. 

                “Let’s wrassle,” he said with a mischievous smirk on his face.

                “Alright, but don’t mess up my hair.”

                And with that, I got undressed and slowly walked over to Steve.  He immediately grabbed me and started kissing me hard on the mouth.  We fell on the blanket, rolling around, making out, giggling.  My brother watched wrestling on TV, but it never looked like this.  We were perched on the top of a very steep hill that overlooked a lovely pond, and more than once we came dangerously close to swimming in it.  But we were so hot and bothered, neither one of us cared.  Steve was panting and sweating, almost breathless.

                “Can I fuck you?”

                “I…um…how would that work?” was all I could mutter.

                “I’ll show you.”

                And with that, he gently but forcefully tried to ease himself into me.

                I let out a big old girly scream just as we heard a truck engine in the distance.  Steve looked up, sweat dripping off his face.  We were both drenched.

                “FUCK!  It’s Old Man Pritchett!”

                I looked back, and sure enough, there was Old Man Pritchett in his truck making his way toward us. 

                “You gotta hide!” Steve shouted.

                “Where the hell am I supposed to-“

                Before I could finish my sentence, Steve rolled me over to the side and down the hill.  As I was rolling down the hill—naked—with briars ripping at my skin, rocks pelting my bare ass, and a mouth full of mud, I couldn’t help but think:  No wonder teen suicide is on the rise.  These are the best times of our lives??  I landed with a thud at the edge of the pond in the thick marsh.

                I hope to God the snakes are hibernating!

                I could hear some talking at the top of the hill, so I crawled over to a small cluster of bushes so Old Man Pritchett couldn’t see me if he looked down.  I wondered what kind of story Steve was spinning to justify sitting in the middle of a pasture by himself, naked on a blanket.  Then I didn’t care.  And I got angry.  So I slowly dragged my muddy ass up the hill, pulling briars out of my legs the entire way.  Halfway up the hill, I heard the truck pulling away, and then it was quiet again.  Steve came running down the hill toward me, now in his white briefs and hunting boots.

                “Goddamnit, I’m sorry!  Are you okay?”

                “Do I look like I’m ok?”  I was enraged.  “Did you have to throw me down the hill?  Couldn’t I have just hidden behind a fucking tree?  Or…I don’t know…maybe gotten dressed?”

                “We didn’t have time to get dressed, and there was nowhere to hide!  Besides, I didn’t mean for you to go flying down the hill.  Come on up here and let’s get you cleaned up.”

                He picked me up and carried me up the hill.  I was still incensed but flattered by his gallantry.  Which pissed me off even more.  He put me on the four-wheeler and began removing the briars and wiping the mud off with a towel.  Then he started crying.

                “That scared the shit outta me.  I had to tell him that I fell in the mud and was rinsing off in the pond right before he drove up.  Thank God he believed me.  You know how much trouble we’d have gotten into if he would have seen us doing that stuff?  I can’t do that stuff with you no more!”

                “Yes you can!  Just not in an open pasture.  We’ll just keep doing it in the car!”

                “No!  No more.  At all.  And I’m taking Patti out for Valentine’s Day.  Her dad said she misses me.”

                “What?”  I was enraged again.  “She misses anything with two legs and a cock!  And you promised you’d hang out with me on Valentine’s Day!”

                “You’re not a girl!”  Now Steve seemed to be the one who was enraged.  “I need to be with a girl!  Not nekkid with you!”

                “It’s naked!  You moron!”

                Steve grabbed me by the throat and glared at me.  I couldn’t tell whether he was going to hit me or strangle me.  Either way, I just shut my eyes.  He slowly let go.

                “I’m sorry kid.  I gotta take you home.”

The next week at school was uneventful with the exception of the day I raised the American flag out front in the school yard….upside down.  Everyone got a kick out of that one.  Steve barely spoke to me, but I could tell he wanted to.  So I decided to make the move.  I approached him at his locker between classes. 

                “Are you sure you want to go out with Patti?”

                “No.  But I have to.”

                “No you don’t.  Nobody will find out about us.  Don’t worry about it.”

                “I’m going out with Patti.  I’m late for class.  See you around.”

                I watched him walk down the hallway.  I was beyond crushed, and I still couldn’t figure out why.

                Then it was Valentine’s Day.  I had Follies rehearsals that night at the gym and asked to go first.  I ran through the first stanza of “Great Balls of Fire” with the pianist and then sang the entire song with the band.  Our director, Mr. Bozeman, looked non-plussed and disinterested, so I assumed that was a good thing.  Whenever I sucked, he was the first person to shake his head in disgust.  After I finished, I took a seat in the bleachers to watch the others rehearse.  The pay phone by the lunchroom started ringing, and fat Sonny Barkley, a volunteer stage hand, answered it.

                “Craig!  It’s your daddy.  He wants to know if you need a ride home!”

                I was livid.  Incensed at Dad for calling the gym.  And furious at Sonny for announcing it to everyone.  I stormed off to answer it but not before giving Sonny the finger.

                “Dad!  I told you not to call me—“

                “It’s not your Dad.  Come outside,” a familiar voice said.

                I walked outside.  And there was Steve.  Across the parking lot standing against his car.  He motioned me over. 

                “Are you through with rehearsal?”

                “Yep.”

                “Get in.  If you want to.”

                Of course I wanted to.  I was slowly allowing myself to become elated again.

                I got into the car.  There was a Dairy Queen bag on the seat.

                “I got us food.  Let’s go eat.”
                I looked into the bag, and there was my order.  Chicken fingers with extra tartar sauce. 

                “Sally’s Hill?” Steve asked.

                “Sure.  What about Patti?”

                Steve stared at me a moment.  And then grinned.

                “Patti who?”

Wonderful Guy

Wonderful Guy

            It was unusually cold on this particular night in January.  I was in my bedroom putting the final touches on my first audition for the Spring Follies, an annual talent showcase at my school.  The song was “Great Balls of Fire” by Jerry Lee Lewis, but I was having a hard time hitting all the notes.  Before my nuts dropped, I was a soaring soprano.  Now, it sounded like someone was swinging a bag of cats.  A knock at my door interrupted the bridge.

            “WHAT?” I shouted over the music.

            It was my mother.

            “You’ve got a phone call.”

            I hardly ever got phone calls, and when I did, they were from kids in my class asking when homework was due.  I stormed out of my room and down the hall, furious at the interruption.  I impatiently picked up the phone.

            “HELLO?!”

            “Hey you.  You sound pissed off.”

            Jesus Christ!  It was Steve Avery!  The last time I was alone with him was before Christmas at Liz’s house.  He promised to take me riding around over the Christmas break.  Since my parents were too cheap to buy an answering machine, I made sure someone was at our house the entire two weeks of Christmas vacation.  I waited by the phone each night but got no calls from Steve.  But now.  Here he was.  A senior.  Calling an eighth grader.  I managed to stammer out a “Hey.”

            “I haven’t seen you around school since we got back,” he said.

            And that was true.  For a school with only three hallways, it was relatively easy to get lost in.  After I fell asleep on him at Liz’s and he left without waking me, I was sure that I drooled on him in my sleep or worse—I must have farted.  So I avoided him at all costs during our first two weeks back in the new year.  I knew his schedule so I planned my hallway routes accordingly.  Since he was in mostly remedial classes for football players, it was easy to navigate around him.

            “Um, yeah.  I’ve been busy,” I clumsily replied.

            “I’m really sorry about not taking you on that ride over the break.  I’m not sure if you heard, but my grandmother died right before Christmas.  So we were kinda busy with all that.”

            Death always comes at the most inconvenient times.

“Oh.  I’m real sorry.”

“But I had a lot of fun with you at Liz’s last month.  How was your Christmas?”

“It was good,” I lied.

            Christmas sucked.  It was the first year I didn’t get anything fun.  I got clothes, the one Swatch watch I didn’t want, and a bulky instant camera that was recalled two weeks later.

            “I told you that night I’d like to take you riding around sometime.  How about tonight?” he asked.

            I almost keeled over. 

            “I’ll have to ask my mother.”

            FUCK!  Why’d I say that?  He suggested I tell her that I was invited to a party at one of the football player’s houses so it wouldn’t look suspicious.  Little did he know that me getting invited to anything remotely cool looked suspicious.  I instructed Steve to hold the line, and I bounded toward the living room.

            “Mom, that’s Steve Avery on the phone reminding me about a party for the football team tonight at Kevin Johnson’s house.  He offered to give me a lift, so can I—“

            “Of course you can go!”

            Mom was tickled that I was invited to go somewhere.  Doubly so that it involved boys.  She thought I spent too much time with Liz playing with her jewelry.  I’m sure she figured that the football players would be a better influence on me than Liz and her sparkly CZ’s.  And since Steve Avery was known all over town, Mom had an extra spring in her step.  She didn’t need to know I was blowing him.

            I arranged for Steve to pick me up within the hour and immediately started primping and arguing with my mother.  She wanted to cook something.  I yelled at her to stop making a fuss.  She wanted to drive me.  I told her to shut up.  She suggested that I wear my Lee jeans.  But my Guess jeans made my ass look fuller.  So I told her to mind her business.  I stood in front of the mirror and practiced my smile until Mom forced me to sit down and eat a hamburger.  I scarfed it down, then sprayed on too much Obsession and walked out the door to wait on the porch.  It was bitterly cold, but I didn’t care.  This was going to be my first date, and I was going out with the star of the football team. The best looking guy in school.  Every girl would have killed to be in my position.  They would have gotten to wear heels and makeup, but I didn’t care.

            After about twenty minutes, Steve’s car wheeled around the corner and pulled up to my driveway.  He honked, and I sprinted across the yard, the frozen blades of grass snapping under the weight of my prance.  His car was some kind of early-80’s Grand Prix model.  It was black with pleather upholstery and thick shag carpet.  The seats were huge, and the interior smelled like the football locker room and Polo cologne.  It was warm.  I got in, and he looked around to see if anyone was watching out the windows.  He gave me a kiss on the mouth, and I grinned.  He then opened the car door and spit violently.

            “You taste like onions!”

            OH GOD!  I forgot to brush my teeth after dinner.  In a nervous high-pitched yelp, I promised I’d be right back.

            “I just ate a hamburger!”

            He laughed and pulled a bottle of mouthwash out of his glove compartment.  Oh, he was smooth.

            “Rinse,” he instructed.  “I can’t kiss on an onion all night.” 

            We stopped at the Jr. Food Mart, and Steve bought a six-pack of beer with his fake I.D.  I smirked.  While the other kids were at home watching “The Golden Girls” and “Facts of Life”, I was riding around with an eighteen-year old, sipping cans of Budweiser.  We drove around in the country for awhile, and he even pulled me over so I was sitting in the middle.  Right next to him. We talked about everything from school to home life to his future plans. We pulled up at the end of Sally’s Hill Road which was haunted by Sally herself, a victim of decapitation in a horrible horse-drawn buggy accident over one hundred years before.  More importantly, it was a deserted dirt road that was popular among teenagers who liked to drink, smoke, and make out. 

            “You don’t think anyone will see us?” I asked.

            “Naw.  I’ll pull into this clearing.  Nobody ever comes back here.”

            He pulled off the dirt road and into a clearing in the woods.  My science teacher had just warned about the perils of making out in a parked car with the engine running.  Apparently teenage pregnancy wasn’t as pressing an issue as dying from carbon monoxide poisoning while sucking face in the backseat of a Volkswagon Jetta.  At any rate I asked if we could crack the windows.

            “You’re too funny,” he grinned.  Then, seriously, he added, “You won’t tell anybody about all this, will you?”

            “Hell no!” I exclaimed.  “I don’t want anybody to find out either.  Everybody will make fun of us.”        

            “I know.   People around here are so fucking stupid.”

            “Speaking of stupid, are you still dating that slut?”  I asked.  Steve had gone out with our head cheerleader, Patti.  Who was a slut.

            “Nope.  Never again.  Fucking her was like fucking a glass of water.  She couldn’t carry on a conversation.  And she couldn’t suck dick to save her life.  Not like you.”

            Then, there it was.  His tongue coming straight for my mouth.  SHIT!  I always heard about French kissing, but I never knew that two guys could do it.  What was I supposed to do with his tongue?!  What if it tasted bad?!  What if I got AIDS?!  He kissed me…for thirty minutes.  Only stopping to swig Budweiser.  I didn’t get AIDS, it didn’t taste bad, and I figured out with a quickness what to do with it.  I never knew this kind of intensity before.  It scared the absolute hell out of me, but I was exhilarated.

            “You have the softest lips,” he whispered.  “Do you know what a blow job feels like?”

            “Um, no.”

            “Let’s go back here, and I’ll show you.”

            We moved to the backseat, but for this I was ready.  I had been practicing with my pillow how to embrace a guy and where to position my arms while lying on my back.  And he soon showed me just what a blow job felt like.  After all those months of blowing him, he never once offered to reciprocate.  Until now.  I felt like my whole body was about to explode.  If this was what a blow job felt like, no wonder he couldn’t keep his cock away from my mouth.  After several more minutes of this wondrous thing called fellatio, we were sitting in the front seat again, drinking a beer and sharing a cigarette.  We sat there holding hands, taking turns dragging off a Salem Menthol, and looking straight ahead.  Finally, he spoke.

            “That was fucking great.  Wanna do it again next--?”

            “YEP!”  I couldn’t contain my excitement.

            “It’s late.  I better get you home,” he said.

            “Okay.  Call me next week,” I whispered, channeling my best Marilyn Monroe.

            Fifteen minutes later, he kissed me good night.  He drove away and left me standing at my driveway in the freezing cold, pondering life, romance, and why my mother puts onions in everything.