She promised – you were embarrassed. You tried not to show it – you made it worse.
First time – big moment – parents away for the weekend. Whole house to yourself.
She was up for it – you were up for it. The only thing on your mind since Halloween. The only thing on your mind since that explosion in your hand in sixth grade.
Got all the advice, got all the high-fives. Got words of wisdom from your buddies who have been around the block a few times. Everybody nudging and winking.
A fistful of rubbers and a mind full of moves.
Ground Zero; parents bedroom. She brought candles.
Dark room – faint glow – Christmas light – busy hands.
She kisses like a dream – your head’s going to explode.
Clothes peel – the bra snaps – each move is a mystery solved.
Air thick with breath mints, Marlboros and sweaty hair.
Can’t wait to get in.
She tugs at your shorts – you reach for a rubber.
Nothing.
You could’ve sworn . . .
She slides her hand down – you do your best.
Nothing.
Your brain is making a collect call.
Your Johnson isn’t accepting the charges.
She gazes up at you, baffled.
You are dying of embarrassment – completely, totally – rigor mortis embarrassment.
You look away – portrait on the wall – your grandparents. They gaze judgmental.
Your brain starts flipping pages – every copy of Gent you’ve ever read.
Nothing.
Now she’s taking it personal. Was it something she said?
No-no-no. It’s just . . .
It hangs there; head down. Evil little creature – mushroom on strike.
You know it works – you’ve done it a lot. Just not with somebody else.
Magic moment gone. You make excuses – she nods her head. Gets dressed. Grabs two cigarettes.
Could’ve been like every movie – all the great love scenes rolled into one. Words of bliss – recounting ecstasy – caressing each drop of sweat. The heady aroma of accomplishment.
Instead, it’s pleas to not tell anybody. Your little secret. Pained expression – vanishing in your pool of excuses.
Solemn oath – not a word. Just a bad time – Mercury in Retrograde – something you ate. Too excited. Performance anxiety.
All of the above.
She sighs, it’s not your fault she tells you again.
You sigh and beg for a raincheck. Loser stamped on your forehead. Truckloads of anxiety. She smiles, but behind that smile an exit.
Next night – friend’s house. Christmas party. Scrape up the courage to go. Convinced she didn’t tell anybody.
She did. She told her friends – they told their friends – the entire house knows. Probably the neighborhood – most likely the planet in general.
Even your friends are shaking their heads – your pals – your confidants.
And you wish for a sudden lightening strike – wish the saucers would come and take you to the mothership.
Wish you could turn around and quietly leave, pretend you forgot something important at home.
Like staying at home. Maybe forever.
The best it’s going to be for you this Christmas of 1981 is sitting in your car, somewhere on PCH with your radio in the background playing anything to get your mind off all those grinning expressions.
Next life, for sure.
And while all that contemplation is going on, here’s an hour’s worth of K-IQQ from December 16, 1981 just to remind you.
