I. Goldberg
My family, cousins included, Erin, and I departed
Orlando, and headed to Fort Meyers, where my dad’s boss owned a condominium
that he let us rent out. Of course, when
telling people about it, my dad tended to refer to it as his condo: “Yeah, I’m taking
the family to Florida this summer and staying at a condo we got down there. Our condo is in Fort Meyers. Yeah, my
condo in Fort Meyers is pret~ty nice.”
It was a spacious, four-bedroom condominium that had
a lot of mirrors… seriously, like a wall of mirrors. It looked like a comfortable safe house
Scarface would use. The condo was great
when I was younger and more easily impressed; when I was so young that I not only
didn’t mind sleeping in a walk-in closet, because all the bedrooms were taken,
but insisted upon it! However, as I grew into a jaded, cynical teenager,
the deficiencies of the condo became more glaringly obvious. For one, it wasn’t remotely near any of the
beaches, which made it instantly lame, even for a kid. Secondly, the place was overrun with lizards,
which are charming at first, but after hearing enough horrific “crunches”, feeling
a lizard’s death spasms underneath your flip-flop, and walking around the rest
of the day with that odd feeling of having gum stuck to the sole of your shoe,
it gets old. Finally, the worst thing
about the condos was that it was made up of 90% elderly people, making it a
glorified retirement community. Nothing
soils a party atmosphere than the sight of walkers, scooters, and the
occasional ambulance (though, in a different context, the presence of an
ambulance might be considered the sign of a kick-ass party).
Despite having several months to prepare for a trip
to a place primarily known for its beaches, Erin had forgotten to pack one of
the most essential items one should bring to a tropical peninsula: a swim
suit. It really was quite an astounding
oversight but, as it would turn out, a very fortuitous one. Before arriving at Fort Meyers, we stopped at
a duty-free shop for her to buy a cheap bathing suit. My mood had lightened a little since my
emotional breakdown at Disney World, but I was still a little on-edge. On a whim, I bought a t-shirt that featured a
cartoon headless man holding a sign that read:
WILL WORK FOR HEAD.
I modeled it for Erin, laying it on rather
thick: “Huh? Huh?
What do you think? Pretty funny,
huh? It means I want a blowjob!” The only way I could be less subtle would be
to forcibly pull her head to my crotch.
Much to the chagrin of every man on Earth with more common sense in
these matters, I would go on to wear that shirt like a sign of protest
throughout the rest of the trip… and throughout the rest of my stint in high
school. My ancestors would breathe a
collective sigh of relief when I finally retired the shirt for college.
I also took advantage of the stop to delve further
into my nerdy interests in order to escape the immediate reality of my shitty
situation. I had finished the Babylon 5 book that I brought to read
during the trip. I didn’t bring anything
else, having not expected, in my right mind, that I’d have either time or
inclination to read anything. So I
stocked up on several magazines that covered the gamut of my interests,
including Gamepro, Cinescape, Mad Magazine, and Wizard. If these magazine selections, combined with
the Babylon 5 novel, and the goofy
blowjob shirt haven’t painted a stark portrait of why I didn’t get laid in high
school, you needn’t fear, as it gets worse in college.
I used the magazines not only to mentally block Erin
from my consciousness, but physically block her from my vision by holding the
magazine ridiculously close to my face.
Occasionally she’d try to break the ice by asking what I was reading to
which I’d curtly respond: “Huh? Oh, nothing you’d be interested in – just
video game stuff.” Then I would turn to
my little brother and begin a conversation about the article I was
reading. “Oh my god, Jon, the more I
read about Final Fantasy VIII, the
more I become convinced that my life will be complete after I play it.”
“What’s Final Fantasy?” Erin asked.
I dismissed her question with a wave of my hand and
didn’t bother to look at her. “Oh, it’s
just a thing. It doesn’t matter.” I continued talking to my brother. “So, the main character’s name is Squall,
which is an awesome name, it means ‘storm’ or something. He uses this badass weapon called a
‘gunblade’, which is like a gun with a fucking sword sticking out of it.”
“Cool!” my brother exclaimed, reaching to take the
magazine.
I yanked it back. “Hey! Hey!
No touching! Get your own
magazine! Gawd!”
“Can I see it?” Erin asked.
“Pfft,” I spit, rolling my eyes. “You
wouldn’t understand.” I continued
thumbing through the magazine in silence.
***
When we got to the condo, Erin and my mom immediately
went down to the pool, while I opted to stay inside and watch Happy Gilmore, which was the only movie
my dad’s boss had available at the condo, so we probably ended up watching it
more than the FDA would recommend is healthy for a normal human mind. While lying out by the pool, Erin finally
broached the subject of my sour attitude with my mom.
“So, have you noticed Craig’s been acting… weird?"
Mom took a deep breath and continued facing the sky
as she answered. “What do you mean,
exactly?”
“Well, it’s like… it’s like he’s really mad at me
for some reason and I don’t understand what I did. You know?”
“Yep.”
“Why would he be mad?”
Mom took off her sunglasses and regarded Erin with a
look of surprise. “You really don’t get
it, do you? Why do you think Craig took
you on this trip anyway?”
“Because we’re friends,” Erin answered with a shrug,
as if this were the most obvious answer in the world.
Mom rolled her eyes and slipped her sunglasses back
on. “Yeah right. If he wanted to bring a ‘friend’, he would
have brought Johnny or Matt. He brought
you because he likes you.”
Erin had to take a moment to let this sink in. Despite how obvious this information should
have been, it was genuine news to her.
Erin’s brain had to readjust and reprocess all of her memories of our
friendship since the beginning with this new piece of crucial information in place
to fully understand the scope of this revelation. It was probably like finally figuring out a
crucial word in order to solve a crossword puzzle. So it was perfectly understandable when the
only vocal response afforded to her was a simple, succinct: “Oh.”
Erin and mom sat in silence for a beat, before Erin
broke it: “I still don’t get why he’s so
mad at me.”
“Erin, honey,” my mom said patiently while turning
to face her: “I really don’t know how to
say this, but… a guy doesn’t pay your way to Florida for nothing. When a guy goes through that much trouble and
expense for a girl, well, they tend to expect… something… in return.”
Mom's explanation hung in the air for a moment before
Erin finally caught on.
“So… what does he want from me?” Erin responded
irritably. “A blowjob or something?”
Mom shrugged and lay back down. “It probably wouldn’t hurt.” She sat back up and added: “Not that I’m telling you to give my son a
blow job or…” She looked Erin up and down.
“…or 'something', for that matter.
I’m just saying that’s probably one of many things he was expecting to
get out of this trip. It’s certainly not
the main thing… although that’s probably why he bought that stupid shirt. He really, really likes you, Erin, and he
just had a different vision of how this trip was supposed to go. I think he expected you to be his girlfriend
after this trip.”
“What should I do?”
“I really don’t know.”
***
***
What Erin decided to do was probably the wisest
thing either one of us had done since the trip began: she went to stay with my
cousins for a night at their beachside hotel.
I could not have been more relieved.
I finally had the space I needed to work through the helter-skelter of
emotions that had overtaken me since we crossed the Kentucky state line. I needed the time away from Erin to reaffirm
my sense of self-worth, my very masculinity.
So I did it by watching professional wrestling. There isn’t much on this Earth that helps a
man recover his composure like the spectacle of violence, even
fully-choreographed, simulated violence.
I was never into sports, so professional wrestling was as close to a “manly
interest” as I ever got. It was Monday
night, which meant WWF’s Monday Night Raw
and WCW’s Monday Nitro. I was particularly excited because that night
on WCW Monday Nitro, a professional wrestler named Goldberg, who was enjoying
an unprecedented winning streak, was getting a title shot against Hollywood
Hulk Hogan. If one isn’t a wrestling
fan, it’s difficult to explain why this was exciting, but I’m going to attempt
it anyway: for months, Hollywood Hulk
Hogan, the leader of an evil faction of bad guy wrestlers known as the New
World Order, had retained the World Championship by using devious means like
cheating or simply leaving the ring, and losing via countout, but according to
the rules, a champion retains the title if he loses via countout or
disqualification. Meanwhile, Goldberg, a
completely unknown palooka in nondescript black tights, began rapidly gaining
notoriety by starting a winning streak never-before-seen in professional
wrestling; by the time he got his title shot with Hogan, he was well into a
hundred wins versus zero losses. Naturally,
as Goldberg defeated one opponent after another, like an unstoppable
juggernaut, fans wondered if he’d ever face the champ, Hollywood Hulk
Hogan.
Finally, that Monday night, the fans were going to
get what they wanted. My brother and I
were glued to the TV in rapt attention, while my dad watched impatiently,
occasionally complaining at how fake wrestling was. As desperate as my dad always had been for
me to be interested in sports, it was fascinating how disparaging he was of the
only thing close to a sport I was at all interested in. “Why do you watch this crap?” he would
ask. “It’s so stupid.”
“It’s better than football,” I’d shoot back.
“Pfft, at least football’s real!”
“Yeah… real boring,”
I’d mutter to myself.
“What was that, piccolo?” When my dad was irritated by me, he had a
tendency to call me a “piccolo”. To this
day, I still don’t know what it’s supposed to mean.
“Danny,” my mom interjected. “Let the boys watch their wrestling.”
“They’re just lucky nothing else is on. I’m going to bed.” Dad got up and petulantly retreated to his
room.
The match was fairly short and unspectacular as far
as technical wrestling matches go – neither Goldberg or Hogan are well-known
for wrestling matches that feature a variety of moves or holds. Their matches tended to a simple, yet tried
and true, formula: kick, punch, clothes line (or shoulder block), finishing
move set-up (the “big boot” for Hogan or “the Spear” for Goldberg), followed by
their respective finishing move (the “Atomic Leg Drop” for Hogan or the
“Jackhammer” for Goldberg). That was
pretty much exactly what we got, but the build-up for the match superseded the
technical skills on display, so we were thoroughly engaged from beginning to
end. After receiving not one, not two,
but THREE of Hogan’s patented Atomic Leg Drops of doom, Goldberg managed to
kick out of a pin, much to the horror of Hogan and to the shock of everyone
watching. As Hogan reeled in disbelief, desperately
calling for back-up by the NWO, Goldberg sprung to his feet, delivered a Spear
(which is essentially a full-body tackle), and finished Hogan off with a
Jackhammer (which is suplex that turns into a full-body power slam), winning
the match and becoming the new champion.
My brother and I were absolutely floored. We cheered, clapping our hands. “Keep
it down!” my dad yelled from the bedroom, hushing us up instantly.
I went to bed that night inspired by Goldberg’s
surprise victory. Predetermined though
it may have been, watching Goldberg overcome all odds and pull off such a remarkable
win made me consider how quickly and totally I had descended into despair over
this trip. I began to consider that may
all was not lost after all! I still had
not told Erin my true feelings, so I still wasn’t sure how that would go –
maybe it would completely change the courses of the whole trip! I went to bed with fuzzy optimism that this
trip could be salvaged after all.
II. Sand Fleas
Erin and my cousins came over to the condo early the
next day. I had gone to sleep with a new
resolve to finally tell Erin how I felt, and my resolve had fermented into a
steely determination by morning’s light.
That morning I stood ready to receive Erin with open arms and an open
heart. However, when she walked in, I
immediately knew something was wrong.
She walked in, dragging her feet sluggishly, her arms hung limply at her
sides, her hair put up in a frizzy pony tail, and bags under her eyes suggested
either sleep deprivation or a hangover (or both). In other words: she kind of looked like shit.
“Hey, um, Erin… how are you…?” I asked with no small
amount of uncertainty.
“Miserable,” she stated flatly, and walked right by
me to her bedroom.
“What gives?” I asked my cousin Melinda.
She shrugged. “We were hanging out in the outdoor
hot tub at our hotel last night, and we met some cute Cuban guys. They were getting really flirty, so Erin got
uncomfortable and decided to go take a walk on the beach. We tried to warn her about the sand fleas…”
“Sand fleas?”
At that point,
Melinda’s cute friend Kristy cut in.
“Sand fleas are these little critters that only come out at night. It’s generally a bad idea to hang out at a
beach if it gets too late or they’ll eat you up.”
“Huh. Well, it’s not serious is it? I mean, it’s like mosquito bites, right?”
Kristy shook her
head. “Oh no, it sucks. I got bitten up once. It’s not like one or two bites. They attack by the hundreds. When I say she got eaten up, I mean she got eaten up! She’s been sick all night.”
I walked over to her
bedroom and softly knocked on the door.
“Erin? Are you alright?”
“No…” she replied
drowsily.
I opened the door, without
any forethought as to her privacy, but she was simply lying on her bed in her
clothes, which comprised of a t-shirt and sweat shorts. Her legs were grotesquely ravaged with large,
red bite marks. Kristy was right – these
were not simple mosquito bites. She
looked like she had smallpox. “Do… do
you need anything?”
“I don’t care… just
wanna sleep…” Erin answered faintly as she drifted between sleep and awake. I quietly closed the door.
***
Erin spent the bulk of
the day doing what she seemed to do best – sleeping. She’d emerge from her room only to sleep on
the living room couch for a change of scenery.
My mom bought her some medicinal cream to put on the bites, and Ibuprofen
for the pain. We all tried to stay out
of the condo for the most part to give her space while she recovered. As the day wore on, she became slightly more
lucid and active, alternating between watching TV and napping on the
couch. When my parents were confident
that she wasn’t going to die, they decided to go out on a date that night.
Under better
circumstances, this would have been the perfect opportunity to have the talk I
wanted with Erin. Never one to be
deterred by something as trivial as “horrible timing”, I was determined to have
the talk anyway. I couldn’t back out
now, or my confidence would dissipate like a barely remembered dream. I don’t know if I had too much caffeine that
night, or it was the release of a week’s worth of tension, but I was super
hyper for some reason. As soon as my
parents left, I put on a silly Panama hat I’d been wearing since we got to the
condo, because it complimented my obnoxious “Will work for head” shirt so much,
and began chasing my brother around the condo complex with a water gun, as if I
were an overactive 5-year-old. Sometimes
we’d run into the condo, squirting the guns at each other, occasionally
squirting Erin on the couch, who would understandably react with barely
contained rage: “Could you two PLEASE
take that shit outside? I’m fucking
sick!” she would growl.
Curiously, her anger
only seemed to fuel me more. I even took
an odd, almost sadistic pleasure from her annoyance. For nearly the whole trip, I was the angry
one, while she was totally oblivious. Now
I was finally having fun, while she was the absolutely miserable. A dark part of me found the role reversal too
delicious to ignore. “Take what
outside? This?” I squirted her again
with the water gun.
She shielded herself
with a blanket. “Stop it!”
“Oh, quit being such a
baby, it’s just water!” I squirted her again.
“Why are you being such
an asshole?” she asked.
“Asshole? I’m just kidding around!” I dejectedly sat on
the other couch.
“Well, I’m not in the mood.”
“Oh, well, I’m sooo
sorry,” I said mockingly. “I forgot that
this trip is all about you. However, you know, sometimes in life, things
just don’t the way we want…”
Let me stop for a
moment to point out that, for a moment, the briefest fraction of a second, I
was cognitively at a crossroads. Consciously,
I knew that this was an awful time to have this conversation, but emotionally,
I could care less. I had a choice
between conscious awareness, or instinct, and emotional satisfaction, or
impulse. This is a crossroads that would
become very familiar to me in later encounters with the opposite sex. In some of those encounters, I would choose
the correct action – conscious awareness.
In this instance, though, I chose the wrong action.
After that
ever-so-brief moment of decision, I continued on: “I invited you on this trip because I like
you, and, well, I just don’t feel like you appreciate it!” So there it was, out at last, but instead of
being honest about my feelings with Erin in a way that was more heartfelt and
sincere, I wrapped my feelings in a steaming hot passive-aggressive bean
burrito and threw it in her face.
She threw off the
blankets, and sat up, the flea bites as red as the fury on her face. “WHAT THE FUCK DO YOU WANT ME TO DO ABOUT
IT?” she screamed.
I was stunned. For one, I had never seen Erin so angry since I've known her. Any of the cockiness that I had summoned for
this confrontation immediately drained away, leaving me completely disoriented
and somewhat speechless. It’s like when
your friends goad you into a fight with someone bigger than you, but you
realize all too late that instead of helping you, they’re content with simply
watching you get pummeled. It’s the same
feeling you get when you put all of your money on play, but the roulette ball
lands in red. The only words I could
manage were: “Um… well… I guess I just
mean… I guess I just mean…”
“WHAT?” Erin yelled impatiently. “WHAT?
YOU MEAN WHAT?”
I stood up, took the
Panama hat off, and threw it across the room in frustration. “Just… FUCKING NEVER MIND!” I cried, stormed
out of the condo, and slammed the door behind me. With no particular destination in mind, I
ended up at the swimming pool, which was closed, but the gate was
unlocked. I needed a place to throw a
fit, and to think, and the pool was perfect for both. The moment I got there, I picked up a chair
and threw it in the water. “FUCK YOU!” I
screamed at the chair. “FUCK!” I
screamed to nobody in particular, throwing punches at the air. I made a complete circuit around the pool,
throwing all the furniture in until my rage was exhausted.
I sat in the final pool
chair and reflected on what had just happened.
This was about as far from how I intended the night to go as possible,
but that was just typical of this entire trip, wasn’t it? What the hell happened? Had I lost my mind? What the fuck was I thinking? All I wanted to do was let her know how I
felt, but instead I basically tortured her while she lye sick and helpless, then
proceeded to turn what was supposed
to be a tender, heartfelt confession into a hateful accusation.
“What the fuck is wrong
with me?” I asked God, the universe, or anyone with an answer, and buried my
face in my hands.
“Are… are you okay?” a
meek voice broke in, totally startling me out of my self-pity. I quickly wiped the tears from my eyes.
I looked over to see my
little brother, Jon, standing by the gated entrance to the pool and looking,
with great concern, at the mess I had made.
“Yeah,” I answered sharply, before taking a breath, and answering more
calmly: “Yeah. I’m fine.”
“Is it Erin?” He asked,
nodding his head at the drowned pool furniture.
“Yeah.”
Jon opened the gate and
walked over to me. “Why are you so mad?”
I rubbed my eyes,
gathering my thoughts. “I don’t know, because… because I really liked Erin and…
and I thought she liked me, or that she would after this trip, but I fucked it
all up, you know? This… all of this… was
such a huge fucking mistake. I’m such an
idiot.”
“You’re not idiot,” Jon
replied, before adding: “Okay, well, most of the time, you’re not. You’re only an idiot when a girl is involved. Girls make you stupid.”
I laughed, which
dissipated my anger significantly. “True. I just… really thought she liked me, you
know?”
“She does like
you. Why else do you think she’s here?”
“Yeah, but she doesn’t
like me the way I want her to like
me.”
“I want a time machine
like in Back to the Future, but that
doesn’t mean I’m going to get it. Maybe
you shouldn’t get so wrapped up in what you want
and appreciate what you have.”
“How did you get to be
so wise beyond your years?”
Jon shrugged. “I just watch you fuck up and learn not to do
that.”
I nodded
thoughtfully. “Huh, that makes
sense. I could stand to do that myself
from time to time.”
I. Wardrobe Malfunction
By the time I went back
to the condo that night, Erin had already retired to sleep in her room. I went to bed that night, heavy with thoughts,
and listening to track 17 of the Braveheart
soundtrack to soothe my aching heart. I’ve
always found that track to be a source of inspiration whenever I needed
it. It accompanies the scene in the
movie when the protagonist, William Wallace, gets executed by the British after
famously shouting out “FREEDOM” in defiance.
The music perfectly captures the feeling of rising above one’s hardships
to embrace something more important than one’s self. I wish I could say I woke up the next morning
with a more enlightened attitude, but if anything, I was simply more repentant
and subdued.
When Erin woke up, my
cousins were over while my dad cooked up a big breakfast. She was feeling much better, and had regained
much of her sunny disposition, although she was still a little groggy and
annoyed at her chewed up legs. We
exchanged basic pleasantries, but made no mention, either vocally, or even
through facial expressions, to our unpleasant confrontation the night
before. I think we mutually decided to
just forget it ever happened and try to soldier on. I know I preferred it that way.
When my family and Erin
decided to go to the beach, I opted to stay at the condo. I thought it best for Erin and me to get some
space. Also, the beaches at Fort Meyers
tended to be choked up with seaweed, not to mention people, and I was simply in
no mood to go to a crowded, sweltering, seaweed covered beach. I needed to some serious alone time in the
cool, cozy environment of the condo… meaning, of course, that I needed to
masturbate… a lot. Don’t judge me, I
didn’t have many opportunities to masturbate the entire trip, and the release
of that… pressure… was desperately needed.
Once I got that out of my system (on multiple occasions and in multiple
locations – once on the balcony), I did other things to take my mind off things
such as draw, write in my journal, or just watch TV. The day passed agonizingly slow, and I was
bored out of my mind, but it was ultimately good for me to have some time alone
to get into a better head space.
When my family got
home, Erin went back to her room to change without saying a word.
“Is… is she still angry
with me?” I asked mom, while sipping probably the sixth Coke I’d drank all day.
“No, I think she’s just
embarrassed because… well…” She looked around to make sure Erin wasn’t within
listening distance and whispered: “…her
top came off at the beach in front of everyone!”
I choked on the soda. “You have got to stop bringing up the subject
of Erin’s boobs whenever I’m drinking something,” I sputtered, coughing. “What do you mean her top came off?”
“That bikini she bought
at the duty-free shop doesn’t fit right.
She was in the water, a big wave hit her, whoosh, top gone.”
“Everyone saw?”
“Everyone saw.”
I threw my hands up in
the air. “Goddamn it!” I exclaimed my
voice cracking as it does when I get aggravated.
“Language!”
“Well, that’s just great! I’m sorry, it’s just… can’t one thing go
right on this trip for me? Just
one? I mean, honestly, my entire family
got to see the boobs of the girl I like and not
me? What the hell? Gawd!”
“If it makes you feel
any better, it was very, very quick.”
“But if you had to pick
them out in a line-up…”
“Oh, she’d be in jail
like that!” Mom snapped her fingers.
“Argh!” My dad was walking by whistling the Andy
Griffith theme. “Dad, did you see…?” I
began, as he walked by.
“Oh yeah!” He answered, while cracking open a fresh
beer.
I growled, squeezing my
hand into a fist. “This… trip… it just never ends!”
***
The next day I decided
to join my family and Erin when they went swimming in the pool. I was magically feeling a lot more
social. Nothing gives a guy a second
wind than the chance of seeing breasts. As
ridiculous as it sounds, though, Erin’s wardrobe malfunction made me realize I
had spent too much time of this trip sulking and being pissed off, while missing
several opportunities to actually have fun.
If I hadn’t been so busy being such a baby, I might have been there to
witness Erin’s topless beach adventure, and walked away with at least some
measure of shallow, teenage sexual satisfaction.
Erin was wearing the same
cheap two-piece bathing suit as before.
She was planning on going shopping for a better swimsuit with my cousins
later. I didn’t really expect anything
would happen this time around – the way my luck was going, why would I? Lightening hardly ever strikes the same place
twice… unless its sights are set on me. If
Erin’s top did come off again, odds were one of the straps would hit me
directly in the eye, scratching a cornea, and leaving me helplessly blind,
while my family got yet another impromptu strip show.
She spent the majority
of the time sunbathing, but after awhile, I managed to cajole her into joining
me in the pool. I swam over and
playfully splashed her. “Hey Erin,” I taunted.
“You wanna race? I bet you can’t
beat me to the other side of the pool while staying underwater!”
Erin laughed. “What?
Uh, hell no, you’re going down!”
She hopped into the pool. On the
count of three, we both dunked underwater, kicked off the wall, and torpedoed
to the other end of the pool. What
happened next is still a bit of a blur to this day. To the best of my recollection, we both
reached the end of the wall at about the same time. I popped out of the water first and wiped my
eyes. My hands moved out of my line of
sight, almost like a curtain being pulled, and what I saw happened as if in
slow motion…
Erin’s face broke the
surface of the pool first, followed by her hands to wipe the water from her
face. Her torso kept rising until I was
unavoidably, undeniably,
face-to-nipples with her breasts. At
some point during the race, her top must have been pushed down by the force of
the water. I don’t know if it is the
same for women, but for men, unexpected nudity is a shock to the system – even
more so if the girl in question is someone a guy is attracted to. It can be almost surreal, because a guy will
fantasize that moment with a girl for so long, so when confronted with the
reality of the nude girl, it’s kind of like… meeting Harrison Ford. Your rational mind would be like, oh, hey, it’s Harrison Ford, the actor, while another portion of your mind is
screaming: “OH MY FUCKING GOD, IT’S
FRIGGIN’ INDIANA JONES!” Unfortunately,
for me, that part of my mind is most likely the one connected to my mouth so,
yes, I would probably say that out loud.
For so long, I had fantasized about this moment,
in different contexts of course, and here it was, the reality, facing me like
two firm, perfectly sculpted C-cups (at least) orbs, wet and shimmering with
reflected light from the sun. I could
have sworn I heard a chorus of angels sing, although, it might have just been
my own voice letting loose an elongated high-pitch squeal of joy that sounds
not unlike a balloon being slowly deflated.
I didn’t have my glasses on, so my vision was blurry, but oh, my eyesight
got good enough for that one glorious moment!
I wish I would have had
the time, not to mention nerve, to give Erin’s boobs the proper level of
admiration normally reserved for the masterpieces of Vincent van Gogh. Instead, I glanced at them for as long as it
took to realize what I was seeing, then panicked, and quickly dipped my head back
into the water to pretend that I hadn’t yet resurfaced. I should emphasize that all of this
transpired in about the space of a few seconds: I resurfaced, she resurfaced, I
see breasts, make a sort of high-pitched squeal, and immediately drop back into
the water. I sank to the bottom, holding
my knees to my chest, bubbles trailing my descent, as I processed what happened. When I rose back up, she was in the process
of readjusting her bikini top, and was furtively looking around to make sure
nobody had seen.
“Umm…” I began, and
then raised my hands in mock surrender: “You win…?”
I. The Trip Cruises to a Close
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“Craig, you’ve been in
the shower for thirty minutes!” Dad pounded on the bathroom door. “What are you doing in there? Ya fiddlin’?”
“No! I’ll be out in a minute!” I yelled back. Ouch,
ouch, this shampoo is kinda burning my dick, but that’s alright, work through the
pain, work through the pain. After I
finished… showering, that is… I dried off and prepared for a short cruise that
we were taking on the last night of the trip.
It had been a couple of days since the wardrobe malfunction, but since
then my attitude had brightened considerably.
Nothing gives a guy his second wind more than boobs… okay, well, except
for sex.
Speaking of which, seeing
Erin’s breasts had made me realize something critical that I had been ignoring
since the first day I developed a crush for Erin: I was not ready for her. We had a fantastic bond, and a great
friendship, but I wasn’t as prepared to take it up to the next level as I had
thought. To put it in nerd-terms, I was
trying to take on a Behemoth in Final Fantasy with a level three mage – it just
ain’t happening. There I had been, the
moment of truth, the moment I had waiting for – Erin was practically nude in
front of me, and my reaction was pure panic.
Realistically, I
suppose my options were rather limited beyond pointing at her chest and nasally
screaming, “BOOBIES!” It wasn’t like I
could have made some kind of move, what with my family there, and even if we
had been alone, in the dark of night, with all of the necessary elements for
getting laid in place, I’m almost one hundred percent sure my reaction would
have exactly the same. My reaction to
her breasts, not to mention my erratic behavior throughout the trip, betrayed a
fundamental lack of maturity to handle anything close to a sexual relationship at that point in my life. I finally realized that a relationship with Erin
beyond our friendship was absolutely absurd.
No wonder she had such a difficult time grasping my inability to figure
out what she had already known since day one.
Now that the monkey of
sexual desire was off my back (for the time being anyway), for the rest of the
week, I tagged along with the family for more outings and even managed to have
a really good time with Erin. We all
went miniature golfing at a jungle themed golf course, wherein Erin snapped a
picture of me spanking a large statue of a gorilla while I covered my mouth as
if I were aghast at the naughtiness of what I was doing. We ate at a restaurant that claimed to serve
the largest onion rings in the country, and took turns taking pictures of each other
holding the onion rings up to our eyes like glasses. As the week went by, we slowly repaired our
damaged friendship back to its former sheen, complete with the “new car” smell.
On the final night, we
were taking a short cruise on a small casino ship. I was looking forward to it, as I had never
been out onto the ocean before, much less have I been in even a moderately
sized cruise ship. We met up with my
cousins, boarded the ship, and left port.
We all looked over the edge of the ship at the dolphins that swam
alongside. It briefly occurred to me
that had Erin and I been dating, this would have been a really cool romantic
moment, but I immediately shook that thought away and tried to appreciate that
it was a really cool moment, and that was fine.
We all managed to have
a fun time on that ship. Erin danced the
night away with my cousins, while my dad reigned over the Craps table like the
master gambler he was, while I spent most of the time on the deck of the ship,
lost in thought, and looking into the distant horizon of the ocean. I wanted to crystallize my experiences of the
trip into a solid lesson of some sort. I
reflected on why I had failed so terribly in what I had set out to do with this
trip, and what I could do to rectify those mistakes for the future. First of all, I wasn’t exactly the most
attractive guy in the world – I was overweight; had a terrible, pasty
complexion; huge, tinted pedophile glasses, and dry, wiry hair that I barely
bothered to brush, much less style. If
Erin wasn’t the girl with whom I was supposed to spend my life with then I
sorely needed to prepare myself before that hypothetical girl came along, took
in the sorry state I was in, and found me sorely wanting. I decided, quite erroneously, that the reason
I failed with Erin was because I wasn’t worthy of her, or any girl’s,
affections. This completely insubstantial
belief would become the cross I’d force myself to bare for most of my adult
life whenever I’d interact with the opposite sex. It’d become a poisonous mantra I’d
periodically repeat to myself whenever I’d fail with women, almost like The
Little Engine That Couldn’t: “I’m not good enough. I’m not good enough. I’m not good enough.” I had to be better. I had to be somebody, anybody, that wasn’t me.
Erin popped out of the
ship long enough to inform me that a conga line was starting and that I should
come join it. I rushed inside, all of my
thoughts instantly brushed away by the prospect of getting to hold Erin’s hips
(which I did).
I. Epilogue
Junior
Yearbook
(Note: I copied this directly, including all the line
breaks, which gave her entry a strangely lilting, poetic quality that I found I
quite liked.)
Craig,
We are almost out!
Has this year been long or what?
Have you ever noticed
that if someone
doesn’t know you
that well, they write
the same thing?
Well, this years been
fun! (after I finally got you
to talk to me!) Don’t forget
me this summer okay!
I’ll come by to see you
guys K.
Anyways – your
a great guy! Don’t ever
forget that!
Love ya!
Erin
PS. Reach for the Stars!
Senior
Yearbook
Craig,
I will miss this school so much the
teachers, the halls, Mrs. Flowers, crowded rooms… wait a minute, Hell no
I won’t miss this place. There is not
one thing I like. But that’s okay.
Your a great guy and you have a lot of
potential. You are very artistic and I
envy you for that. Since we are both
losers and are because we are going to Western (come on 30 min.
away. What is that about) I guess the fun won’t end in RHS. I don’t know what I would have done without
your jokes all of my 4 years of high school.
Your the Best!
Erin
***
Around
2008ish
I was nervously pacing
back and forth in front of a local bar called the Brewing Company, waiting for
my guests to arrive. I was performing
stand-up comedy in my college town of Bowling Green and several of my friends
were coming out to see me perform for the first time ever. I had been doing stand for about three years
and moved to Louisville to continue furthering my craft. The show was starting any minute and, so far,
my friends were late – every one of them.
I wasn’t terribly worried over them showing up, so much as one
particular person I had invited.
I felt a tap on my
shoulder. My heart leaped, but it was
just the bar manager. “It’s show time.”
Crap,
I thought and went inside. A local radio
deejay went up first to make a few announcements and give away free t-shirts. Then it was my turn to go up. The stage was
one of the weirdest I had ever performed on.
There was a large, load bearing pole awkwardly placed in the middle of
the stage. While I did my set, I kept
holding onto the pole as if I were about to perform a strip tease, although, in
reality, I was simply incredibly nervous, all the more so because my set wasn’t
going very well at all. The audience
politely listened… but that was about as far as they were willing to
participate.
There was one very
familiar laugh though. Erin was sitting
to the left of the stage, her legs crossed, her hands folded over her knees,
smiling beautifully as she laughed at every word I was saying. I began performing directly to Erin, as I had
done in high school. I let go of the
stripper/load bearing pole, and felt a resurgence of confidence to bring my set
to a more satisfying close. The energy I
projected onstage changed dramatically, and the audience began to laugh more at
my jokes. I closed out my set, brought
up the next comedian, and hopped offstage to join Erin at her table.
We couldn’t really talk
during the show, so we both went outside.
I gave her a huge embrace. “You
made it!”
“Of course, I did!” She
said, hugging me back. “You were
awesome!”
“Heh, thanks,” I said,
scratching the back of my neck bashfully as I do when given a compliment. “It wasn’t my best…”
“You’re just as funny
as I always remembered you,” she said.
“Oh, then I must not have
been as funny as I thought,” I quipped.
We stood in silence for a moment.
I cleared my throat. “So… how’s
Nathan?” I asked. Nathan was Erin’s
husband, whom she’d met around senior year of high school after breaking up
with Burt the Muppet. I had instantly
taken a liking to Nathan when I met him, either because I had grown more mature
by that point, or, more likely, because he was just a likeable guy.
“He’s fine. He had to work tonight, but that’s alright. I hardly ever get to have a girls’ night out
like this anymore.” She gestured inside,
where girls in question were still watching the show. “We’re trying to have a kid now. Oh my god, can you imagine me as a mama?”
I chuckled, “Couldn’t
be any worse than you as a babysitter.”
She laughed. “Hey, I
was a damn good babysitter!”
I nodded and
smiled. “You’re the best.”