Somewhere around the ninth grade after a terrible bout of mononucleosis where they thought I might actually have leukemia but was really just the “kissing” disease (which was comical in and of itself because I don’t think I had ever even kissed anyone but my parents up until then and maybe that one strange uncle that made everyone uncomfortable when he was around)
I found my self on a bus full of evil 14 year old monsters who I was terribly afraid of being around because they were either bullies or THE BOY who had rebuffed my subtle 14 year old advances and by subtle I am referring to the time prior to this that I asked a friend to tell him I liked him to which he responded that I was too short.
So naturally the next day I went to school in a pair of wooden heeled platform candies and extremely tight very sheer cotton lavender Sergio Valente jeans.
You know the shoe’s right?
I’m thinking my parents had no idea that I left the house in a pair of shoes that have been sexy since 1980. Or that my pants were that tight. Or that the reason I put these things on was in a valiant effort to lower my self esteem another notch to gain THE BOY’S attention only to be completely ignored.
Not even the cover girl ocean blue eyeliner I smuggled out of the house and put on in the girls room would make him look my way.
Back on the bus on a field trip to somewhere as horrifying, no doubt, as the bus ride itself, a rousing game of truth or dare broke out and that’s when I sunk down as low as possible in my seat so as not to be noticed. Come to think of it I may have tried to sit under the seat. I certainly was SHORT enough to do that. I am convinced when you are trying not to be noticed it’s like all the lights get turned down and the spotlight comes on and finds you underneath a bus seat and people are daring THE BOY to french kiss you which was making me want to throw up because, like I said, the only thing I had kissed was my parents, and maybe Davey Jones on the TV screen while watching The Monkees.
Oh and that poster of Erik Estrada.
I kissed a poster of Erik Estrada.
More than once.
He’s still got it.
Fourteen year olds are horrible relentless things I must say because, soon I found my self with my lips pursed, my tongue ever so slightly sticking out of my mouth with THE BOY ferociously licking my entire face so much that I think he was trying to lick my skin off.
French Kissing was definitely not for me.
Even more so because he then told everyone that when we kissed, I spit in his mouth.
Uh, how is that even possible?
Apparently he eventually decided that he really enjoyed short girls who spit in his mouth.
(Kinky at 17 who knew anything like that even existed.)
Because years and years later, three to be exact, I actually started “going out” with THE BOY.
Which consisted of driving to parks and sitting on picnic benches while he desperately tried to lick the skin off of my face all the time.
I guess my spitting llama technique must have haunted him in his dreams for all those years.
He was very passionate and I was very, um how do you say it…completely nonsexual.
Also extremely fond of the skin on my face so I ended up “breaking up’ with him.
At the time I was working a very high profile job in the fashion industry where I spent my days avoiding dusting shelves and folding sweaters in a mall store called Chaps.
What the hell was going on in the 80′s, it was all like sex and drugs or something and I was like a 17 year old little girl who played with tiny fake mice (because I hated dolls) who lived in a giant unfinished doll house all day long alone in my bedroom.
I was a late bloomer.
Well THE BOY would stand vigil directly outside of Chaps staring at my every move. Every shift. Every damn day until I had avoided doing so much fashion work that I got fired.
And I am pretty sure that was the end of him.
Or that I completely made this all up because I’ve scoured three years of high school year books and I find no evidence that he even existed.
Or maybe I just can’t remember his name.