Umm… how do I usually start these things… Oh yeah…
Thursday night, glass of wine in hand as I watch a TiVo’d episode of the Simpsons. Got a lot done at work today, booked all the travel I mentioned the other day. What started as a three day trip to Germany morphed into a full week. Not excited to be away Keaton and Sharaun, but kinda excited because I’ll be there with a couple close buds from work… and have some free time to boot. First time to Europe for me, so that’s another tick in the “pros” column.
You were three years my junior, but I still wanted you. Now, I’d consider you out of my league: younger, attractive, voted homecoming queen of your Baptist highschool; but back then, I had drive, game. I had a girlfriend who I’d cheated on already, and didn’t want to do it again. When I realized I’d made up my mind to pursue you, I ended it with her. I told you, and you were surprised – but I could see the knowing in your questioning smile. In a blink, we were walking a wooden boardwalk at the beach. I lifted you up to sit on the railing, and we whiled away an hour while my shorts strained. After work, we drove to the river’s edge, where we kissed in the darkness. You always wore the bras that hooked in front. I felt guilty when we were in my room, thought you wore those fancy ruffled panties to impress me, it made me feel exploitive. But the soft crop of your hair against my chin veiled my guilty conscience. In my journal dated 8/10/96, I wrote this embarrassing poem about you:
Wandering through plush lust
On the carpet blue is you
Let that skirt drag dirt
I won’t watch your crotch
I’m a good boy
I’m a young man
I’m mature enough to take a stand
Let my head roll takes toll
See your eyes feel highs
Laugh please then freeze
The face you make I’ll take
I’m an old toy
I’m your left hand
I wish things went the way I planned
And then one day I found myself walking with you on a busy downtown street, holding the hand attached to the end of your swinging arm attached to your shoulder attached to your neck attached to your face, split wide by a broad smile. To you, this was a relationship; to me, it was fun. And all at once I felt pitiful, sorry, homesick: you were not my girlfriend. I gave up my girlfriend for a few weeks with you, and as exciting as it was to have you in my bed, you were a poor substitute. So, I turned on you, left you no sooner than I’d snared you, used you. I was angry with myself, felt cheap. I hated facing you each day at work, pretending nothing happened. I’d see your face and be taken back to my room, remembering you smile coyly down on me; see your hips as you turned your back to me, wordless, and remember the feeling of them pushing against my face. I am sorry Liz, I really am; I was a ponytailed punk, you were a homecoming queen – and I’m sorry. But, I wouldn’t trade the memories.
Enough of this filth… again…
Really debating including that “poem,” actually I hate this whole entry. Just go look at Keaton’s pictures, OK? Goodnight.