Sunday, August 17, 2008

Strawberry

They were Neapolitan.

They were a 1986 cliche.

They were the three hottest chicks in the class, and they were appropriately dressed for a blistering Californian Summer.

Dave has already established the scene. GSR, the mandatory class that taught you how to drive, how to use deodorant, how to floss, how to put on condoms and how to balance a check book. All useful, of course, for a weekend in Vegas...

I don't actually remember much from the class. There are the comic strips that Dave discussed and of course the biggest game of Dots ever assembled. I think it took a week to draw all of the dots and another week to play the stupid game.

The three girls, though, were a distraction: the sexy blond, the fiery redhead and the unfortunate brunette. They all had ratted poofy metal hair. Ill-fitting peek-a-boo clothing told a saucy tale of what lie beneath.

Truth be told, these three had probably been in my graduating class for years, yet I'd never seen them before. I tended to share curriculum with the same 30-or-so other dorks and dweebs, and didn't have much opportunity to meet anyone else. GSR offered me that opportunity.

The redhead was named Kelly. She's the only one I remember. Medium tall. Thin, but not skinny. Freckles-everywhere (or for at least as far as I could peek down her often-open neckline...) And those freckles flowed over a pair of buoyant perky blouse puppies.

She often had a big smile, and her lip gloss smelled of strawberry.

She was friendly, but disinterested, at least at first. Dave and I would chat them up, running through our repertoire at the back of the class, trying to make them laugh. Kelly often would.

The following semester, I was pleased to find her in my biology class, this time without the other girls. Dave was not in that class, but Dr. B was. He of course was too busy fawning over the little blond girl behind me to notice the redhead to my right.

She was friendlier now, but still, in my estimation, way WAY out of my league. I thought maybe she was being nice for a reason. She wouldn't be the first person to use me for "help" with school work.

However, not long in to the class I discovered that she was quite smart, knew her own shit, and didn't need any help from me. Odd, though. I still couldn't figure out why she was being nice to me. So, I just kept being friendly with her. Sure there was some flirting, but it was low grade, nothing serious.

One day, after school, she gave me a ride home. She wore tall black leather boots, a short denim skirt, and her hair was extra-poofy. She drove an old beat up muscle car with a frighteningly loud engine, something Dr. B would tinker with these days...

The music in her car was loud, guitar heavy, the band name had lots of umlauts. She lit a cigarette and offered me a beer.

I passed on the beer.

I had my cargo pants pegged, and I was wearing my Scritti Politti shirt (see below). I was titillated. I was terrified. I was certainly out of place. The ride was quick and I said thanks. She shot me a big smile.

Over time, I put together that she came for a rough home and moved around a lot. She also didn't know many people at the school, and kept most of them away with her well-rehearsed defensive barriers. For some reason, she let me in. Just a little. It was like our very own little after-school special. And since you're wondering, no, nothing happened. Well, nothing happened at that point...

My sophomore year drew to a close. Dave and I had passed GSR. We had gotten our drivers licenses. I did well in Biology. So did Kelly. Summer was upon us.

I didn't talk to Kelly at all that summer. That mythic summer of 1987...

Nor did I really see much of her that Fall. We'd say "Hi" in the hallway as we passed, but that was mostly it. It, that is, until January, 1988. Tom had been working as a yogurt slinger at Penguins Yogurt, and he hooked Dr. B and I up with jobs there.

(side note: Dave never applied for a lucrative career with us in the yogurt industry. Otherwise, he'd be in more of this story.)

Soon, I was running night shifts at the yogurt shop, and it just so happened that Kelly liked frozen yogurt. Well, truth be told, Dave's ex girlfriend, Stacy, also liked to come in for frozen yogurt, but that's a different story.

ANYWAY, Kelly started coming in. Frequently, but really only on the nights when I worked. She'd hang out leaning against the case with her tight pants. I'd give her free yogurt. It was nice.

And then, one day, the flirting switch got flipped and it was on. GAME ON!

It didn't take long, really. Not long at all. I was working a late shift, and she came in. I could smell the strawberry lip gloss form across the counter. She was dressed to kill and ready to rumble. She said something about her mom being gone. She was having her troll-like girl friend over and her friend was bringing a boy. there was a vague reference to alcohol and an invitation for me to come over after work.

"Um," I thought to my self.

"Holy crap." I started the calculations in my head. "OK my parents know I'm working late, yet if I come home TOO late they will worry, AND its a school night. BUT she's so freakin hot, and she wants me... OK OK OK. Damn, she expects me to drink, but that will make Jesus unhappy, BUT look at that shirt! It's begging to come off.... OK, I can have one beer, or wine cooler. I'll play around and look like I'm drinking... I mean, the alcohol isn't really what will make Jesus unhappy tonight!"

"Cool." I said, and smiled. She smiled too, giddy almost. I wasn't used to making hot girls giddy.

That night, I did what was probably the piss-poorest close I'd ever done for any food shop ever. I'm not even sure I remembered to lock the door as I rushed out. I jumped in my mom's 1979 Ford Fairmont station wagon, and flew down Rowland Street toward Hollenbeck. I tried to avoid skidding as I pulled up in front of her house.

The lights were low and I heard music from inside. More hair metal. Whatever.

Inside, the scene was set. The 17-year-old troll-like friend was curled up on a love seat with dude with a mullet who looked to be about 30. Kelly was stunning. Short white denim skirt. Blue satin blouse, with only a few buttons left to undo.

She handed me a cold wine cooler from the fridge. I drank it quickly. I'm sure there was some polite conversation, but is is only a background buzz in my memory. There was extremely dangerous eye contact, hands on legs, lip biting and nose bumping.

She took me by the hand to the bedroom and closed the door. I was in WAY over my head, and I hadn't even kissed her yet. We sat down on the bed. Her hand was on the back of my neck. She looked me in the eye and her body language make it clear that it was time to put my tongue in her mouth. I leaned in, I could almost taste the strawberry...

BANG!!

"HEY, WHAT THE FUCK IS GOING ON HERE??" Came a loud and angry male voice from the living room.

"Oh shit..." She whispered, "my boyfriend is here."

"Your... wait... what??"

"My boyfriend. Look, I'm sorry I didn't mention him, he was supposed to be away at his army reserve training this week. Looks like he came back early."

"Back from... Oh My God."

"KELLY! WHERE THE FUCK ARE YOU. WHAT THE FUCK IS GOING ON HERE??"

"Wait here." She said. "I'll get him outside, then just leave through the back. Leave quickly, though, I don't know if he has his gun..."

The plan had holes, but it was the only plan we had. She went first, and started placating him. Apparently, he was easily confused, and she knew just how to do it. I slipped past the terrified-looking ogre and her beer-sloshed lover in the living room. I found the back door and circled around through the back yard.

I headed toward the street, and almost reached my car, when from behind me, GI Joe discovered my escape: "WAIT, AW, WHO THE FUCK IS THAT GUY?? HEY YOU!!"

I didn't look back. I was in enough trouble as it was and I didn't want to get shot and/or beaten by the giant thug in army fatigues. OK, so I was a pussy. I've accepted that.

Anyway, I saw Kelly the next day and made sure she was OK. She said yes, but she couldn't talk to me anymore. Somehow, that seemed like a good idea.

6 comments:

  1. So what class was it that you held up the sign that you were "feeling kinda queer"?

    Jesus, no wonder everyone thought we were a bunch of fags.

    ReplyDelete
  2. Rubbing that other man's dick in Gym certainly didn't help.

    ReplyDelete
  3. Brian's gay lover3:46 PM

    I loved his Miami Vice phase...

    ReplyDelete
  4. Jesus really had it in for you.

    ReplyDelete
  5. You still have those HOT pegged cargo pants?

    ReplyDelete
  6. Jeus Christ9:58 PM

    We have our ways of bringing the sheep back to th eflock, that little fucker.

    ReplyDelete

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