Sexy. She�s so sexy, he told me.
So I gave her a good once over, trying to figure out where her attributes and mine meshed. Not good, so far, unless you counted the hair. She had a rather angelic countenance, baby�s breath cheekbones, a perfect nose. My features are rather� thick. Exotic. Heavy. Full mouth, full nose, big eyes if you are looking down, and I am looking up.
But, you know� there�s always the hair. And I am switch-hitting optimism today.
When I first met him, I was a tomboy tiny dancer� soccer during the week, ballet on Saturday and Sunday. I missed every soccer game for a leotard, a dusty pine floor, and worn pink leather slippers. I used to love the smell of the muslin figure eight on the bottom of them.
We would kick the ball around in the backyard, and he never got a goal past me. Pre budding bosom era, I used my chest to trap the ball squarely between my spindly arms.
In exchange for the endless hours of pre-teen outside sweat, I coerced him and his younger brother to play �dance� in the twilight, gathering a mirror ball and an antiquated boom box from his older sister�s room. He and his brother wrestled through the whole thing, except for one or two awkward slow dances. I never talk about that. Neither does he.
Years go by, my mom goes to visit his dad and I end up in their jacuzzi, white t-shirt and nipples galore. Virginally vacillating between overly conscious and utterly oblivious, I am sixteen and suddenly unsure. His dad notes the nipple phenomenon, I note my inability to either blush or stammer. My mother gasping and yelling, I suddenly remember my modesty� and he laughs. The only sound out of his mouth into the evening air, followed rapidly by an insult that sinks me up to my shoulders in the hot tub for the rest of the visit. I leave, thinking that when boys don�t talk, they are busy finding flaws to toss out with teenage flippancy at a more opportune moment.
Christmas, and I am moving to California. He is a pre-law, balanced breakfast polar opposite. I have a fan base, by this point. My online notoriety is enough to dispel any outward meekness, I tell him about my passion, my joie de vive. I show him; walking around in evening dresses at four in the afternoon, rumpled hair and pixie smile. My mom bemoans my fate as an online �porn star�� telling him there are pictures of me draped in nothing but tinsel and christmas lights all over the internet. He makes it a noticeable point not to show his interest, and tells her it could be construed as �art�.
Roadtrip three months later, flying through cities, states, and layers of familiarity. He intrigues me, rapidly becoming something I wish would go away, or come thrusting in. I don�t think he even notices the doorway. Unless it is late at night, and we are camping in Nevada, or Kansas, or Indiana. Cue random outside noise, alabaster faces, blurry in the bluelit tent. Then he might breathe heavier if he hears my stifled excitement, or press a knee against mine. We don�t talk about that, either.
In the end, it doesn�t matter. Just another boy, another toy. I play until I am tired, usually. But I never get the goddamn chance to even contemplate yawning, and I feel his apathy, burning through my bravado to the sixteen year old cringing within.
She�s so sexy. And I am thinking silently, undercover (of blas�): I know you are, honey, but what am I?
6:28 p.m. - 2001-08-03
Recent entries:
cliffhanger - 2005-11-12
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