Maybe it was because I lived in a small town, maybe it was because I
did better with the ladies than I recall, but I attended 5 of these
high school rituals known as Proms. Each one has their own special
place in my heart and they are all memorable. Regrettably, my most
vivid recollection of Prom is one of the more disturbing stories from
my teenage years.
It was 1986. I was 16 and living in a small
country town near Rockford. My Dad taught in suburban Chicago some 60
miles away. That year one of Dad's students asked me to her Senior
Prom. I was friends with quite a few girls from his school and this
"city girl" had always been one of my better friends so I saw no
problem in attending the Prom with her.
By all definitions this
girl was your stereotypical wallflower. She was a drama geek and very
intelligent. She'd never dated nor attended ANY school dances during
her time at school. Knowing these things about her personality I knew
it must have taken a lot of courage to decide to GO to the dance much
less ask me to go with her so I wanted to give her an AWESOME date. I
have always been a GREAT date. I'd open doors, match my tuxedo
accessories to her dress, not bang her sister - all that stuff. I KNEW
this was a big day for her and I wanted desperately to give her a
glowing Prom memory to brighten her high school experience.
Unfortunately, no matter how hard I tried, she wasn't going to have a
good time. She spent most of the evening feeling awkward and out of
place. We sat at a table filled with part-time friends of hers that
were there to have a good time. She didn't talk to anyone other than
me. It was a disaster.
Eventually we went to her home. Given
that I lived so far away it was predetermined by her parents I would
spend the night at her house. Let me add that if you've got the
go-ahead from the girl's parents to sleep over on Prom night you ARE
"The Daddy." Let's face it, the parents have ONLY themselves to blame
if their daughter wakes up sticky & confused.
There was
nothing too unusual about the house. However the guest bedroom was a
bit off-putting as her Dad had a wide collection of Nazi memorabilia on
display. I suppose this was to discourage guests from staying too long.
We stayed up most of the night talking and discussing the
events of the evening. I tried to apologize for such an awful evening
and make conversation. She was very close to me and the lights were
low.
It was then that she made a little confession. "Y'know,
I've ALWAYS had a huge crush on you." Being a teenage boy I saw a
chance to make a lousy night better, if not for her, most definitely
for me. So I popped in the Journey tape (it WAS the 80's) and proceeded
to ease my way into some very fine making out which we both enjoyed
very much. After a while, I decided to take it up a notch and "try to
reach second base". After all, I couldnt just start munching rug right
then and there could I? With this decision came the removal of her top.
There they were in all their glorythe breasts; the first stop on any
young man's journey to YOWZA. I have always been a man with no
particular concern or obsession with breast size. I like them all. If
we stick to the baseball terminology with regard to breasts, I don't
care about the size of the stadium so long as I get to play the game.
Men
that are worth their salt as lovers take an artisan's approach to the
fondling of a breast. I compare my plan of action to that of scaling a
mountain. You can't start at the top. You must slowly ascend to the
glorious mountain's peak, stopping to enjoy the view along the way.
While I was not on The Grand Tetons this evening I still had to advance
with care. In the darkness I began my erotic climb, her heart racing as
I moved to the timeless strains of "Open Arms". I was feeling pretty
damn cool, taking an older woman and in her parents house no less. In
my mind, I was saving the evening for both of us.
During my
smooth operations I was interrupted by something while I was cresting
the mountain's peak. There was a hair in my mouth. These things happen.
I had long hair, she had long hair, there were cats in the house; it
was perfectly conceivable that a hair could find its way into my mouth
at an inopportune time. Not wanting to ruin the ebb and flow of things
I slowly worked the hair out of my mouth with my tongue, pushing it
outward as my head pulled back. I retreated farther...and farther...and
farther still. I had pulled back so far the feint outline of her breast
had almost vanished in the darkness, turning the scene into an aerial
view of the mountain range. Realizing that I had little hope of
maintaining a suave appearance I decided to just fish the damn hair
out. I seized the moment. I grabbed the hair, gave it a little tug -
and felt...resistance.
There, in the darkness, with hair in
hand, I heard her soft, breathy voice say a simple phrase that will
echo in my head forever.
"No, no...that one's attached".
Yes
indeed it was a nipple hair. But this was no ordinary nipple hair. This
was one EXTREMELY long nipple hair (about 5 inches long). Not only did
I reach the mountain's peak, I found out I could rappel all the way
down to ground zero with that thing! This hair was so long I felt that
if I yanked it, there would be a twanging sound, and the gray mouse
from the "Tom & Jerry" cartoon dressed like a cowboy with a white
handlebar moustache would come out and say, "Got another guitar string
there, N-N-Neph-N-N-Nephew?"
I wasn't then nor am I now a
prude. I'd had a little experience with hairy nipples before but I
expected it from the other girl. She was Italian (Im Italian...I KNOW
WHAT I'M TALKING ABOUT!). But ONE LONG HAIR? Just one, very long,
unattended nipple hair? NO WAY! Game over.
I couldn't freak
out or comment. I was the first man she'd ever kissed and it followed
that I was the first man to encounter her most treasured of delicates.
I had to remain calm and not embarrass her. She probably had no idea
that this was NOT NORMAL! Well let me rephrase, having hair around your
nipples is fairly common, but cultivating a single strand of nipple
hair is NOT.
I had to preserve her innocence and not return
her to the awkward world that was her norm. She was feeling special and
loved. She was with a boy who wasn't judging her, just wanting her, an
experience that was completely lost to her during her teenage years. I
had to say something to smooth things over.
"No, no...that one's attached. It rang in my head like a grandfather clock.
I
tried to summon up the right thing to say. I needed that "cool", that
Fonzie-Cool that would save face and prove my worth as a savvy lover.
Then it came to me, the line that would make everything better.
With confidence I said, "That's OK, I'll just suck on the other one".
I
could almost hear the moment crash into the ground with a thud. In my
mind Fonzie himself was giving me the "thumbs down." I proceeded to
move to the right and tried to finish my work, but of course the whole
evening went south from there. I couldn't get past the nipple hair and
my own sexual stumbling caused her to lose confidence in me. She got
nervous. I held back shocking disgust. We went to sleep.
The
following morning, before we went on our post-prom activities I said
something that I never thought I'd hear myself say to ANY woman,
something I haven't said to a woman since because it is the most
horrible and degrading thing any human can ever utter to another.
"I think it's best if we just stay friends".
Near
as I figured it, hair today - gone tomorrow (Ba-Dum-BUMP!). We
maintained our friendship for many years. To this day we have not
spoken about that incident. Nearly every time I see her she apologizes
to me for being such a frump on that night. I usually brush it off with
a simple, "No problem" and try not to think about Prom night.
Need Even MORE Tales from Andy Land? Check out Andy's BLOG or click HERE to read Andy's Past Contributions to The Cheers.
did better with the ladies than I recall, but I attended 5 of these
high school rituals known as Proms. Each one has their own special
place in my heart and they are all memorable. Regrettably, my most
vivid recollection of Prom is one of the more disturbing stories from
my teenage years.
It was 1986. I was 16 and living in a small
country town near Rockford. My Dad taught in suburban Chicago some 60
miles away. That year one of Dad's students asked me to her Senior
Prom. I was friends with quite a few girls from his school and this
"city girl" had always been one of my better friends so I saw no
problem in attending the Prom with her.
By all definitions this
girl was your stereotypical wallflower. She was a drama geek and very
intelligent. She'd never dated nor attended ANY school dances during
her time at school. Knowing these things about her personality I knew
it must have taken a lot of courage to decide to GO to the dance much
less ask me to go with her so I wanted to give her an AWESOME date. I
have always been a GREAT date. I'd open doors, match my tuxedo
accessories to her dress, not bang her sister - all that stuff. I KNEW
this was a big day for her and I wanted desperately to give her a
glowing Prom memory to brighten her high school experience.
Unfortunately, no matter how hard I tried, she wasn't going to have a
good time. She spent most of the evening feeling awkward and out of
place. We sat at a table filled with part-time friends of hers that
were there to have a good time. She didn't talk to anyone other than
me. It was a disaster.
Eventually we went to her home. Given
that I lived so far away it was predetermined by her parents I would
spend the night at her house. Let me add that if you've got the
go-ahead from the girl's parents to sleep over on Prom night you ARE
"The Daddy." Let's face it, the parents have ONLY themselves to blame
if their daughter wakes up sticky & confused.
There was
nothing too unusual about the house. However the guest bedroom was a
bit off-putting as her Dad had a wide collection of Nazi memorabilia on
display. I suppose this was to discourage guests from staying too long.
We stayed up most of the night talking and discussing the
events of the evening. I tried to apologize for such an awful evening
and make conversation. She was very close to me and the lights were
low.
It was then that she made a little confession. "Y'know,
I've ALWAYS had a huge crush on you." Being a teenage boy I saw a
chance to make a lousy night better, if not for her, most definitely
for me. So I popped in the Journey tape (it WAS the 80's) and proceeded
to ease my way into some very fine making out which we both enjoyed
very much. After a while, I decided to take it up a notch and "try to
reach second base". After all, I couldnt just start munching rug right
then and there could I? With this decision came the removal of her top.
There they were in all their glorythe breasts; the first stop on any
young man's journey to YOWZA. I have always been a man with no
particular concern or obsession with breast size. I like them all. If
we stick to the baseball terminology with regard to breasts, I don't
care about the size of the stadium so long as I get to play the game.
Men
that are worth their salt as lovers take an artisan's approach to the
fondling of a breast. I compare my plan of action to that of scaling a
mountain. You can't start at the top. You must slowly ascend to the
glorious mountain's peak, stopping to enjoy the view along the way.
While I was not on The Grand Tetons this evening I still had to advance
with care. In the darkness I began my erotic climb, her heart racing as
I moved to the timeless strains of "Open Arms". I was feeling pretty
damn cool, taking an older woman and in her parents house no less. In
my mind, I was saving the evening for both of us.
During my
smooth operations I was interrupted by something while I was cresting
the mountain's peak. There was a hair in my mouth. These things happen.
I had long hair, she had long hair, there were cats in the house; it
was perfectly conceivable that a hair could find its way into my mouth
at an inopportune time. Not wanting to ruin the ebb and flow of things
I slowly worked the hair out of my mouth with my tongue, pushing it
outward as my head pulled back. I retreated farther...and farther...and
farther still. I had pulled back so far the feint outline of her breast
had almost vanished in the darkness, turning the scene into an aerial
view of the mountain range. Realizing that I had little hope of
maintaining a suave appearance I decided to just fish the damn hair
out. I seized the moment. I grabbed the hair, gave it a little tug -
and felt...resistance.
There, in the darkness, with hair in
hand, I heard her soft, breathy voice say a simple phrase that will
echo in my head forever.
"No, no...that one's attached".
Yes
indeed it was a nipple hair. But this was no ordinary nipple hair. This
was one EXTREMELY long nipple hair (about 5 inches long). Not only did
I reach the mountain's peak, I found out I could rappel all the way
down to ground zero with that thing! This hair was so long I felt that
if I yanked it, there would be a twanging sound, and the gray mouse
from the "Tom & Jerry" cartoon dressed like a cowboy with a white
handlebar moustache would come out and say, "Got another guitar string
there, N-N-Neph-N-N-Nephew?"
I wasn't then nor am I now a
prude. I'd had a little experience with hairy nipples before but I
expected it from the other girl. She was Italian (Im Italian...I KNOW
WHAT I'M TALKING ABOUT!). But ONE LONG HAIR? Just one, very long,
unattended nipple hair? NO WAY! Game over.
I couldn't freak
out or comment. I was the first man she'd ever kissed and it followed
that I was the first man to encounter her most treasured of delicates.
I had to remain calm and not embarrass her. She probably had no idea
that this was NOT NORMAL! Well let me rephrase, having hair around your
nipples is fairly common, but cultivating a single strand of nipple
hair is NOT.
I had to preserve her innocence and not return
her to the awkward world that was her norm. She was feeling special and
loved. She was with a boy who wasn't judging her, just wanting her, an
experience that was completely lost to her during her teenage years. I
had to say something to smooth things over.
"No, no...that one's attached. It rang in my head like a grandfather clock.
I
tried to summon up the right thing to say. I needed that "cool", that
Fonzie-Cool that would save face and prove my worth as a savvy lover.
Then it came to me, the line that would make everything better.
With confidence I said, "That's OK, I'll just suck on the other one".
I
could almost hear the moment crash into the ground with a thud. In my
mind Fonzie himself was giving me the "thumbs down." I proceeded to
move to the right and tried to finish my work, but of course the whole
evening went south from there. I couldn't get past the nipple hair and
my own sexual stumbling caused her to lose confidence in me. She got
nervous. I held back shocking disgust. We went to sleep.
The
following morning, before we went on our post-prom activities I said
something that I never thought I'd hear myself say to ANY woman,
something I haven't said to a woman since because it is the most
horrible and degrading thing any human can ever utter to another.
"I think it's best if we just stay friends".
Near
as I figured it, hair today - gone tomorrow (Ba-Dum-BUMP!). We
maintained our friendship for many years. To this day we have not
spoken about that incident. Nearly every time I see her she apologizes
to me for being such a frump on that night. I usually brush it off with
a simple, "No problem" and try not to think about Prom night.
Need Even MORE Tales from Andy Land? Check out Andy's BLOG or click HERE to read Andy's Past Contributions to The Cheers.
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