As Promised - The Sausage Post

I had read the books.

I knew how it was supposed to be.

I knew girls with dreams of perfect soul mates and their one true love. But if I wasn't born a steely eyed realist, I was certainly raised to be analytical and practical. I had done my research on the subject. I think in middle school I already knew it wouldn't be about love. There were girls at my school in Junior high having sex. I knew that that was much too young. But I decided that I would be rid of my questionable burden before I graduated high school. I thought that sixteen was an appropriate age.

Being socially retarded but a precocious reader, I knew it could play out one of two ways. I could meet the love of my life and have a romantic, perfect event with candlelight, a moment of discomfort, and we live happily ever after in our European castle with servants who would discreetly dispose of the telltale sheets. Or I could surrender in the fogged up backseat of a chevelle, and he'd never call again, but tell everyone about how easy I was.

By the time high school rolled around, my social life was in a realm I had not pictured in Junior High. While I was still socially retarded and shy and quiet, I had friends who were outgoing and social. I was the wallflower that my girl Kat invited along in spite of my social skills. Kat went to the other high school in town, and had friends who had no idea who I was. I think I managed to stutter out enough funny stuff that they tolerated me for Kat's sake. Or they may have just tolerated me for Kat's sake. I was that bad, and she was that cool.

One of the amazing things that I had not envisioned in junior high was the availability of alcohol, and it's properties as a social lubricant. Parties with alcohol were SOOOO much more fun for me than parties without! It was truly a miracle elixir for a shy girl. There were the inevitable groping sessions, and opportunities presented themselves, but I wasn't ready, and if I didn't think I was in love, then it was going to be when I was totally comfortable. (Remember the analytical thing? This really was my thought process.)

My break came when Kat's cousins came in from Southern California. Two boys, older than us, game for a party, and they would return to the depths of So Cal when I was done. There really wasn't a choice to be made. The younger one (17) was crazy and outgoing and loud--everything I avoided like the plague. Her oldest cousin, though, was funny, quiet, and nice. hmmmm.

He was, in fact, so much older(21) and nicer that when I finally threw myself at him, thanks to a little liquid courage, he declined. But he told me that if I'd like to make the offer sober, he'd love to take me up on it. A-HA! I'd picked a good one, AND an honorable one--that wasn't even something I had considered!

He was so nice. He was so quiet. As things progressed the next night, it occurred to me that there may have been a slight flaw in my plan. I thought that 21 meant he'd be a pro.

I think I may have known a bit more than he did. If he was more experienced, it was definitely more, um, hands on, if you will. So now I'm sober and thinking, and analyzing everything, and the thought occurs to me that THIS was what people meant by "get stuffed." I wish I hadn't, but there it was. That was my overwhelming impression of the deed. Then I had to concentrate on not laughing, because I'd read enough to know that me bursting out laughing while he did his best work was gonna scar the poor boy for life.

And three minute (maybe?) later it was done.

The cousins went back to So Cal, we exchanged a few letters, and I went back to my social hermitage until I got a job at Taco Bell and met the bad boyfriend.

My dad still throws up in his mouth a little if you mention the bad boyfriend's name.

But that would be another post, wouldn't it?