A Common Pornography Part 6

When we were in high school, Maurice and I would sometimes go to my old elementary school and play basketball on its court. We liked it because the hoops were made for little kids and were only eight feet tall. We mimicked our favorite dunkers (Dominique Wilkins, Julius Erving) and had dunk contests. I liked how the nets were made of chain. Each jump shot, each jam, sounded like a slot machine paying out. Once I dunked so hard that the metal backboard lost its screws and crashed to the ground. Those were good times, sweaty and dreamlike. in high school, Maurice and I would sometimes go to my old elementary school and play basketball on its court. We liked it because the hoops were made for little kids and were only eight feet tall. We mimicked our favorite dunkers (Dominique Wilkins, Julius Erving) and had dunk contests. I liked how the nets were made of chain. Each jump shot, each jam, sounded like a slot machine paying out. Once I dunked so hard that the metal backboard lost its screws and crashed to the ground. Those were good times, sweaty and dreamlike.

We played a lot of playground basketball during that time and we started a rivalry with Jeff Jones and Tim Sanders, two of the stars from our school basketball team. We beat them in a game of 2-on-2 once.

I found a book called The In-Your-Face Basketball Book, The In-Your-Face Basketball Book, which was all about playground basketball. It had a section where they talked about all the good courts to play on around the country. Instead of hunting for Bigfoot, I started to dream of this adventure instead. Pulling off the highways to play pickup games in every state, the sun casting our darting shadows. We played until the ball got too slick and then we cooled down with a Slurpee or a Big Gulp. which was all about playground basketball. It had a section where they talked about all the good courts to play on around the country. Instead of hunting for Bigfoot, I started to dream of this adventure instead. Pulling off the highways to play pickup games in every state, the sun casting our darting shadows. We played until the ball got too slick and then we cooled down with a Slurpee or a Big Gulp.

The one thing I didn't like about Maurice at the time was that he was a Lakers fan. My favorite team was the 76ers and I suffered through many postseason heartbreaks around that time. Their champions.h.i.+p season in 1983 made up for all of that though. They swept the Lakers in the finals and to celebrate, Mom took me to Burger King.

Echo

Maurice and I found a pile of discarded basketball jerseys at a sporting goods store on Clearwater Avenue. We a.s.sumed they were from some small town school that we had never heard of-perhaps a school from Moses Lake or Wenatchee. They said ECHO on the front, with the number underneath. We found the numbers that we thought were the coolest (he was 8, I was 21). found a pile of discarded basketball jerseys at a sporting goods store on Clearwater Avenue. We a.s.sumed they were from some small town school that we had never heard of-perhaps a school from Moses Lake or Wenatchee. They said ECHO on the front, with the number underneath. We found the numbers that we thought were the coolest (he was 8, I was 21).

As we rode the bus home (public transportation was new in the Tri-Cities at the time), we decided that we needed a story to go with our new jerseys. Instead of saying "Echo," we would say it was p.r.o.nounced "Ee-cho." It was decided that this was not the name of a school, but rather the name of another planet. A planet that we were from, and a planet where everyone wore Converse shoes, because we had a stout devotion to Chuck Taylors. We thought our enemy planet should be Lovetron, a fictional planet that backboard-shattering basketball star Darryl Dawkins often talked about. On Lovetron, everyone wore Nikes. We refused to wear Nikes. In fact, to this day, I have never worn Nikes.

We called ourselves the Duo of Doom.

Licorice

Maurice and I hung out at this record store in Pasco called the Licorice Donut. We used to buy all our records there. This was when we were really into funk. During the school year we'd even go home for lunch just to watch hung out at this record store in Pasco called the Licorice Donut. We used to buy all our records there. This was when we were really into funk. During the school year we'd even go home for lunch just to watch Video Soul Video Soul on the BET (Black Entertainment Television) station. on the BET (Black Entertainment Television) station.

Every time we went to the Licorice Donut we'd buy something different. We bought our first hip-hop records there (Kurtis Blow, Grandmaster Flash, various Sugar Hill and Def Jam releases) and later we'd have him special order punk rock for us too.

Maurice and I took a Radio/TV cla.s.s our junior and senior years of high school. It was at the Vocational Center, where kids from other high schools also came to take specialty cla.s.ses. Our cla.s.s had a production room where we would record our own raps using the B-side instrumentals. We were supposed to be taping promo spots for the student station. We hung out with these two black kids from Pasco High named Richie Rap and Ronnie Rhyme. Richie dressed like 1984-era Michael Jackson with the red multizippered jacket and black parachute pants (also zippered more than needed) and he always had girls after him because of that. He did well in that regard. He had a nice personality and his rap style was probably the smoothest of all of us. Ronnie was a more awkward guy. He looked too old to be in school and had a slouch. He made the most mistakes with his raps, getting off rhythm, flubbing words, and stepping on others' lines. We managed to record three or four songs during junior year.

That summer, Maurice and I got a job spinning records at a bowling alley where they had a weekly break-dancing contest. It was strange how being a DJ made it easier to talk to girls. My habit of mixing in New Wave songs with hip-hop eventually cost us the job.

Lionel Live

In 1984, my brother Mark drove Maurice and I across the state to see Lionel Richie at the Tacoma Dome. We had an extra ticket so he went to the show with us, even though he was a stoner and preferred Blue oyster Cult. Tina Turner opened for him, but it was just before her big comeback and I didn't really care about her. Even though I had seen a couple of bands in smaller settings, I still consider this my "first big concert." brother Mark drove Maurice and I across the state to see Lionel Richie at the Tacoma Dome. We had an extra ticket so he went to the show with us, even though he was a stoner and preferred Blue oyster Cult. Tina Turner opened for him, but it was just before her big comeback and I didn't really care about her. Even though I had seen a couple of bands in smaller settings, I still consider this my "first big concert."

About halfway through Lionel's awesome set, it looked like Mark was about to cry. He was singing along, cheering, and shouting "We love you, Lionel!" between the songs. When Lionel played the old Commodores tune "Brick House" my brother danced the funky chicken. It was like witnessing a religious awakening.

When we got back to Kennewick, Mark wore his Lionel Richie T-s.h.i.+rt unflinchingly. Maybe it was the power of pot, but I'd like to think it was the power of soul.

Big Momma's

My first job after I turned sixteen was at a family-run pasta place called Big Momma's. I was hired as a dishwasher/busboy but was promoted to waiter within a week after the waitress quit. There was a small dining room with a bar in the back. Most of the time it was just the bartender, the cook, and me. On the busy nights, I got some help from Tonya, the owner's daughter, who was a year older than me and had the biggest b.r.e.a.s.t.s I've ever seen on a teenager. But she was really bossy and spoiled and I enjoyed seeing her more when she wasn't in the kitchen yelling at someone. after I turned sixteen was at a family-run pasta place called Big Momma's. I was hired as a dishwasher/busboy but was promoted to waiter within a week after the waitress quit. There was a small dining room with a bar in the back. Most of the time it was just the bartender, the cook, and me. On the busy nights, I got some help from Tonya, the owner's daughter, who was a year older than me and had the biggest b.r.e.a.s.t.s I've ever seen on a teenager. But she was really bossy and spoiled and I enjoyed seeing her more when she wasn't in the kitchen yelling at someone.

There was also a really nice waitress named Deanna who was nineteen and treated everyone like she was their mom. She was going out with Jim, the main cook. Jim was tall and wiry, with s.h.a.ggy hair, a big nose, and a perpetual five o'clock shadow. He must have been ten or twenty years older than Deanna. We had a ca.s.sette player in the kitchen and we took turns playing music on it. I would bring in tapes by groups like Cameo and Midnight Star and Jim would play Judas Priest or, oddly enough, James Taylor.

Jim and Deanna were a good couple though, and they lived together in a cluttered apartment close to my high school. They invited me over to their place a few times and Deanna even set me up on a blind date with one of her friends. The friend was cute, like Valerie Bertinelli, and I was thrilled when we chose to go to a haunted house. That meant my date would probably get scared and grab my arm or even hold my hand. Of course, that's exactly what happened, but I probably blew any chances with her when I tried to kiss her later in the 7-Eleven parking lot.

One of my favorite people at Big Momma's was Joan, a frizzy-haired bartender who would sneak into the kitchen several times each night and fish the biggest chunk of Roquefort out of the blue cheese dressing. I thought it was gross at first, mainly put off by the stink, but I learned to love it soon enough. Each night I worked with Joan turned into a blue cheese fis.h.i.+ng battle.

By the summer of 1985, after I had graduated high school, I was dressing a little more strangely than most Tri-Citians. I would wear double-breasted dress jackets that Mom sewed for me, combined with stretch pants, Beatle boots, earrings, and s.h.i.+ny broaches. The boss eventually called me to the back and hinted that I was going too far, and without giving me a second chance, they fired me. When I got home that night, I tried to feel good about not having a job but I ended up on Mom's lap, embarra.s.sed and crying.

Cruising

I wouldn't say I had a prost.i.tute obsession, but when I was sixteen-just old enough to drive my Chevy Malibu-Maurice and I would cruise around east Pasco, looking at any cheap hooker the streets had to offer. We did so in silence, an unspoken pull toward what our small town had deemed "the ghetto." The first few times we trolled this area, we just looked around, our imaginations coloring in details about every abandoned building and the discarded pieces of torn clothing that littered the cracked sidewalks in front of them. We eventually got comfortable enough to wonder aloud about how much the women charged for their services. We'd pull over and ask them sometimes, careful to strike some sort of balance between businesslike firmness and nonthreatening friendliness. The girls humored us, talking dirty and sometimes letting us touch their b.r.e.a.s.t.s. We must have looked out of place on those streets, two p.u.b.erty-wracked white boys-me with my pimples and braces, Maurice with his red hair and freckles. Both of us were still reluctant virgins posing as street-smart kids. I had a prost.i.tute obsession, but when I was sixteen-just old enough to drive my Chevy Malibu-Maurice and I would cruise around east Pasco, looking at any cheap hooker the streets had to offer. We did so in silence, an unspoken pull toward what our small town had deemed "the ghetto." The first few times we trolled this area, we just looked around, our imaginations coloring in details about every abandoned building and the discarded pieces of torn clothing that littered the cracked sidewalks in front of them. We eventually got comfortable enough to wonder aloud about how much the women charged for their services. We'd pull over and ask them sometimes, careful to strike some sort of balance between businesslike firmness and nonthreatening friendliness. The girls humored us, talking dirty and sometimes letting us touch their b.r.e.a.s.t.s. We must have looked out of place on those streets, two p.u.b.erty-wracked white boys-me with my pimples and braces, Maurice with his red hair and freckles. Both of us were still reluctant virgins posing as street-smart kids.

There was one thrilling night when we actually let two of the girls in my car. They wanted a ride to a hotel that was on the other side of the tunnel that separated Pasco from east Pasco. Maurice and I listened in on their conversation during the ten-minute drive. They talked about clothes, cigarettes, and carrying guns. When we let them out, they walked to our windows and kissed us like we were their pimps.

This was around the time I started working at Big Momma's, where I made anywhere from ten to thirty dollars a night in tips, which I carelessly spent at the record store. I hadn't had a girlfriend yet-in fact, I had barely kissed a girl. But I was eager to have s.e.x and had, coincidentally, been training for such an event for at least two years, masturbating regularly with my mom's back-rubbing vibrator, timing the seconds it took for me to e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.e, like some perverted scientist.

I had no prospects for girlfriends. I was shy and anxious and probably a little gross. But the prost.i.tutes were hardly out of my league. Most were not pretty at all and actually rather unhealthy looking. If they were better looking, they probably would have been working in Seattle or Portland or even Spokane. That's what I came to reason. Still, they were women who had s.e.x a lot and, I imagined, could show me a thing or two. I wasn't picky. I was desperate.

My s.e.xual yearning came in two dominant fantasies: One was romantic love. I listened to sappy love songs by the likes of Lionel Richie, Peabo Bryson, and Luther Vandross and I cried my eyes out, wondering if I could ever experience the depth of love in their music. When they sang about happiness or heartbreak, I felt that happiness or heartbreak, minus the actual presence of a female. The other fantasy was simply f.u.c.king. As in, f.u.c.king anything that moved. Humping, s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g, boning. You get the picture.

I began forsaking Maurice and going out by myself. He was my only real hanging-out friend at the time, so it was hard to pull off sometimes. I'd get off work and call him to tell him I was just going home or had to work late. It felt a little like I was cheating on him.

One night I decided I'd had enough of my virginity. I hit the gloomy streets of Pasco, my Malibu crawling at a steady twenty miles per hour. There was no one out. I stopped at a taco stand and ate something disgusting, killing more time and shaking with nerves. That's when I saw her, coming around a corner a block away. I jumped back in the car and drove over. For some reason, I couldn't just walk down there. I had to have something to hide behind, a getaway. The car would make me feel like I was somewhat guarded and safe.

As I got closer to her, I realized I didn't have a choice. She was the one. I wasn't going to wait any longer. I rolled my window down and asked her the question. She gave me a couple of options, like a menu or a list of the nightly specials. Fifteen dollars for a hand job, twenty-five for straight s.e.x, and fifty bucks for a suck and f.u.c.k. Apparently, it was a bargain night. I told her I wanted what she called "straight s.e.x," which sounded like a good introduction for a beginner like me. She got in my car and gave me directions to a motel. She was probably in her midtwenties, short and a little chubby. Her dark hair was styled unattractively and she looked bored. If this were a girl I saw at a school dance I wouldn't have looked at her twice. Her name was Greta.

When we got to the motel, she opened the door to her room and went immediately to the bathroom. She told me to take out the money and get undressed. I took off all my clothes except my boxers and socks. She came out of the bathroom, wearing a bathrobe, and walked to the bed. She gave me a condom and told me I had to put it on. She lay on the bed and opened her robe, letting it stay under her like a beach towel. Her body was unfit and slack. More like a trucker's body than a prost.i.tute's. I didn't feel any hot s.e.xual vibe from her at all, more like a "Can I smoke my Marlboro yet?" kind of vibe. I started to have second thoughts and wanted to renegotiate the price. I told her I was nervous because it was my first time, maybe hoping for some sort of discount. Her demeanor softened a little and she started cooing warm sentiments to me as she touched my p.e.n.i.s with her hand to make me hard. I struggled with the condom, afraid I'd lose my erection if I didn't get it on fast enough. I had experimented with a condom just days before, putting one on and jacking off with it. My hand smelled bad for the rest of the day, but I couldn't help instinctively sniffing my fingers when no one was looking.

I got on the bed and fell on top of her. I could barely feel myself inside her. I wasn't really certain I was was inside her. I wasn't sure what to do with my hands or if I was allowed to kiss her. I didn't know if I wanted to kiss her. I touched her b.r.e.a.s.t.s, they seemed saggy, unloved, the huge dark areolas looking like sad racc.o.o.n eyes. She said something strange to me, like, "It's going to be all right" or "Move down a little." I can't really remember what was said but it was very little. As I tried to get into a comfortable position, a position where I could feel something, I noticed that she was looking over my shoulder. I heard the hum of a muted television. It was mounted, hospital-style, near the ceiling. She was watching something on TV while I tried to make her come alive. I kissed her neck and her shoulders to see if I could regain her attention, but she stayed focused on the screen. I still wasn't sure if I was inside her. All I felt was air. I moved my hips carefully, so I wouldn't c.u.m before I even felt her. But I was already getting to that point. If she would have grunted once I'm sure I would have lost it in a second. I tried to focus on the fact that she was a woman and we were naked and she was underneath me in a bed and that this was what I had seen in dirty magazines and in late-night fuzzy pay-channel movies. For a moment, I removed myself from what was happening and tried to imagine what it looked like in a magazine or on a screen. Greta, this naked woman I was trying to have s.e.x with, was still watching the TV above us. I compromised in my mind and imagined that she was watching us having s.e.x. That thought was enough to get me thrusting. I e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed quickly and unceremoniously. I tried to keep going but she asked me if I was done. I got out of the bed and thanked her. inside her. I wasn't sure what to do with my hands or if I was allowed to kiss her. I didn't know if I wanted to kiss her. I touched her b.r.e.a.s.t.s, they seemed saggy, unloved, the huge dark areolas looking like sad racc.o.o.n eyes. She said something strange to me, like, "It's going to be all right" or "Move down a little." I can't really remember what was said but it was very little. As I tried to get into a comfortable position, a position where I could feel something, I noticed that she was looking over my shoulder. I heard the hum of a muted television. It was mounted, hospital-style, near the ceiling. She was watching something on TV while I tried to make her come alive. I kissed her neck and her shoulders to see if I could regain her attention, but she stayed focused on the screen. I still wasn't sure if I was inside her. All I felt was air. I moved my hips carefully, so I wouldn't c.u.m before I even felt her. But I was already getting to that point. If she would have grunted once I'm sure I would have lost it in a second. I tried to focus on the fact that she was a woman and we were naked and she was underneath me in a bed and that this was what I had seen in dirty magazines and in late-night fuzzy pay-channel movies. For a moment, I removed myself from what was happening and tried to imagine what it looked like in a magazine or on a screen. Greta, this naked woman I was trying to have s.e.x with, was still watching the TV above us. I compromised in my mind and imagined that she was watching us having s.e.x. That thought was enough to get me thrusting. I e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed quickly and unceremoniously. I tried to keep going but she asked me if I was done. I got out of the bed and thanked her.

As we left the motel, I felt embarra.s.sed and gypped. She asked if I could drop her off at her corner. As we drove I thought she might say something about doing it again sometime, but she didn't. She simply got out at her corner and slammed the door.

I drove home that night, not feeling changed at all, like I thought I might. I wasn't about to tell Maurice about Greta and I didn't feel like driving around those dark streets with him ever again.

Late Movies

After we got our first VCR, I started using it to record my favorite videos off MTV. VH1 had started during my last year of high school as well, but they mostly played boring adult contemporary music. I would spend hours watching music videos with the VCR remote in my hand, ready to record whenever something cool came on. Videos were so fresh and fascinating at the time. The pop star dreams I had as a little kid were even bigger as an MTV-watching teenager. When no one else was around, I'd watch some of these compilation videotapes that I made. I'd work the pause b.u.t.ton with great skill while watching videos by Madonna, Lisa Lisa and Cult Jam, and Robert Palmer. Eventually, I got a members.h.i.+p at the nearby video store and started watching movies on the VCR. Maurice or Darren or some other friend would spend the night and we'd be watching a movie in the front room of the rebuilt house. Sometimes, late at night, Dad would come out wearing long johns and a ratty T-s.h.i.+rt. He would do two things: he would tell us to turn down the volume and then he'd say, "This isn't one of those rated-R movies, is it?" our first VCR, I started using it to record my favorite videos off MTV. VH1 had started during my last year of high school as well, but they mostly played boring adult contemporary music. I would spend hours watching music videos with the VCR remote in my hand, ready to record whenever something cool came on. Videos were so fresh and fascinating at the time. The pop star dreams I had as a little kid were even bigger as an MTV-watching teenager. When no one else was around, I'd watch some of these compilation videotapes that I made. I'd work the pause b.u.t.ton with great skill while watching videos by Madonna, Lisa Lisa and Cult Jam, and Robert Palmer. Eventually, I got a members.h.i.+p at the nearby video store and started watching movies on the VCR. Maurice or Darren or some other friend would spend the night and we'd be watching a movie in the front room of the rebuilt house. Sometimes, late at night, Dad would come out wearing long johns and a ratty T-s.h.i.+rt. He would do two things: he would tell us to turn down the volume and then he'd say, "This isn't one of those rated-R movies, is it?"

Pam

By the time I was eighteen, I had my first real girlfriend. One who would kiss me in front of people and tell me about her periods. It took two months for Pam and me to have s.e.x. She wasn't a virgin like me. (Okay, I wasn't technically a virgin either, but did my first time really count? Emotionally I still felt like a big virgin.) She lost her cherry, she told me, when she was fifteen, to a nineteen-year-old who used to babysit her. I didn't know what a "cherry" was exactly, but her announcement gave me a stomachache. One of the dirty magazines I sought out heavily at that time was called I was eighteen, I had my first real girlfriend. One who would kiss me in front of people and tell me about her periods. It took two months for Pam and me to have s.e.x. She wasn't a virgin like me. (Okay, I wasn't technically a virgin either, but did my first time really count? Emotionally I still felt like a big virgin.) She lost her cherry, she told me, when she was fifteen, to a nineteen-year-old who used to babysit her. I didn't know what a "cherry" was exactly, but her announcement gave me a stomachache. One of the dirty magazines I sought out heavily at that time was called Cheri Cheri. It was sleazier than most of the others. In one pictorial, a group of women took turns on a giant chocolate d.i.l.d.o to see who was the b.l.o.w. .j.o.b queen.

Some of the other magazines I grew bored of. I had heard cautionary tales about p.o.r.n being like a drug. That I would start to need harder, stronger, more dangerous forms of p.o.r.nography. A few years later, Ted Bundy mentioned having this problem. Many people thought he was trying to blame p.o.r.nography for his sick crimes, and I constantly wondered if something was wrong with me as well.

The day after I lost my virginity with Pam, I thought I could get rid of the suitcase. I thought I would want the real thing from there on out. Not only could I have s.e.x with Pam but I could play my Commodores alb.u.ms for her and she would write me love notes with big bubble letters and heart-shaped happy faces with wide-open hug arms and Flintstone feet. I thought I'd be happy.

We met each other at the Vocational Center where I was taking the Radio/TV cla.s.s. She was taking some kind of retail cla.s.s where the students ran a small deli-style store for all the students in the building. I'd go in there and buy Skittles and we'd pa.s.s notes to each other. If I didn't go to the store during each break she would think I was mad at her and she would write a note and have someone give it to me. She was both insecure and bossy. She went to Kamiakin, which was the rival high school in Kennewick.

For most of that senior year, I left the suitcase to fester in the closet. It just sat there, barricaded by the s.h.i.+rts and Miami Vice Miami Vicestyle jackets my mom made for me with her constantly running sewing machine. I thought that Pam would somehow notice a difference if I m.a.s.t.u.r.b.a.t.ed during this time. I thought it would be cheating.

Right before graduation, I went to Pam's place to surprise her. It was down a long, unlit, winding road in the deserty terrain behind the Columbia Center Mall. She lived in a trailer kind of thing. A big, flat rectangle of a structure with a couple of tires on the roof for some reason. She wasn't there, so I sat on her front porch talking to her younger sister for a long time until a fancy old Mustang pulled into the big lot in front of their house. This car sat idling in the dark for a few minutes. The windows were tinted. The engine finally turned off. It was the old babysitter boyfriend, Pam's sister told me. He was in town visiting.

Maybe he saw me sitting up there, waiting. Maybe they thought of pulling out, going somewhere else. Or maybe they didn't care. It seemed like a long time and I wondered what was happening in that car. My thoughts ran wild and my gut clenched. Pam's sister knew something bad was happening and she went inside so I could figure out how to "handle it."

Finally the Mustang started again and Pam stepped out. The car rolled through the loud gravel before getting back on that twisting road. I walked down from the porch to meet Pam, but she pushed me away and went inside.

The next day, I called her and listened as she described to me what had happened. I felt hollowed out and lightheaded. I pulled the suitcase out of the closet and locked my door as I heard her tell her side of things. I wanted to interrupt her and tell her about the suitcase, to make her jealous of the photos and how much I liked them. About how fantasy was sometimes better than reality, which was how I wanted to feel when the heartache went away.

Sixty-three Times

I went out with Pam for about nine months. She was the kind of girl who still slept with oversize teddy bears, wrote in huge loopy cursive, and whose favorite food was pancakes. I often went to her house after school and we'd make out in her room. She lived with her mom, who had a British accent for some reason, and didn't seem to mind if Pam locked her bedroom door while I was there. Her younger sister lived there too, and she was much more attractive than Pam. with Pam for about nine months. She was the kind of girl who still slept with oversize teddy bears, wrote in huge loopy cursive, and whose favorite food was pancakes. I often went to her house after school and we'd make out in her room. She lived with her mom, who had a British accent for some reason, and didn't seem to mind if Pam locked her bedroom door while I was there. Her younger sister lived there too, and she was much more attractive than Pam.

After we had s.e.x for the first time, I went to school the next day feeling like a new person-the excitement of the s.e.x, and the promise of more s.e.x to come, made me feel like I was neon-lit from the inside.

On the back of Pam's school photo (her hair parted in the middle and wind-swept back, her baby blue sweater with the shoulder pads, her ill-fitting blue jeans) I took a pen and drew a mark. A few days after that, another mark. I'm not sure why, but I felt the need to doc.u.ment, to count, the times we did it. I never told Pam I was keeping track. Perhaps I thought I was going to keep track forever, with every girlfriend, every crash-and-burn monthlong failure, every one-night stand. When other people talked about how many people they'd had s.e.x with, I could tell them exactly how many times times I'd had it. I'd had it.

Once when I was at the mall with Pam, we were paying for food at Orange Julius when her photo fell out of my Velcro wallet. She noticed the marks and asked me what they were and I told her it was the number of records I'd bought that year. Ca.s.settes and records, I had to tell her.

At some point, I told a friend of mine about the count. Since none of my friends liked Pam, it was only a matter of time before this friend told a few others. To embarra.s.s me at any time they'd ask, "How many times has it been now?"

When my relations.h.i.+p with Pam ended bitterly, the count was over. The final number was sixty-three. Eventually, after I started seeing other girls, I felt disgusted by the number. Sometimes, just to put me in my place, a friend of mine would still smile and laugh and say to me, "Sixty-three times."

Vodka and Squirt

Even though I seemed immune to pot, I found other ways to alter my consciousness. It took a while though, as I had to get over the ingrained fears of brain damage and eternal d.a.m.nation from a Catholic G.o.d. Sobriety was something I took pride in as a teen. There were other kids in high school who were infamous drunkards and potheads, but I kept a safe distance from them. seemed immune to pot, I found other ways to alter my consciousness. It took a while though, as I had to get over the ingrained fears of brain damage and eternal d.a.m.nation from a Catholic G.o.d. Sobriety was something I took pride in as a teen. There were other kids in high school who were infamous drunkards and potheads, but I kept a safe distance from them.

The first time I gave in to drink was a couple of nights before my high school graduation. I went over to Deanna and Jim's apartment after work.

Their place had that uncomfortable decor that happens when an older guy hooks up with a younger girl. Teddy bears and angel imagery mingled with mirrors that had whiskey logos on them. High school yearbooks from the early seventies sitting next to ones from the mid-eighties.

That night we sat in beanbag chairs and drank sweet mixed drinks (like cheap vodka and Squirt) through straws. Jim started telling really crude s.e.xual jokes and I could tell it was making Deanna really uncomfortable. But the more I drank, the more I laughed along with Jim. I drank myself into a spinning night of sleep on their couch and woke up with a furry blanket on top of me. I was hot and felt sick. I looked at the clock and saw that I was late for my graduation rehearsal. I got up and slumped outside.

I looked around for my car and then realized I had left it at Big Momma's. I had to walk about twenty blocks to my high school. My hangover made me not care so much about being late for the rehearsal. Maurice was probably the only one who would notice I wasn't there anyway. The heat was getting to me and I did that thing with my T-s.h.i.+rt where you pull the front up over your head but keep the sleeves around your arms. Suddenly I felt the sickness come up and I heaved the sour throw-up next to a tree in someone's front yard. I wiped my mouth with a leaf and kept walking in the direction of my school. I started to feel self-conscious, speed walking with my s.h.i.+rt up like that, my face melting like a sick drunk's. People were driving by me on Garfield Avenue, probably wondering why I wasn't at school. A couple of blocks later, my legs buckled. I rested on one knee and quickly vomited between a STOP sign and a storm drain. Before I reached the school, there was one more retching moment between cars in a church parking lot.

Maurice looked at me harshly when I finally got there toward the end of rehearsal. He could somehow tell that I'd been drinking, but instead of lecturing me he said that he too was going out to get drunk that night. I wasn't sure if this was some kind of reverse psychology on his part. Maybe he was jealous because I didn't get drunk with him. Nonetheless, it made our graduation night stressful. Maurice was probably my only true friend in my cla.s.s and now there was tension.

On graduation night, there was a big Las Vegasthemed party in the high school gym for us, the triumphant Cla.s.s of 1985. Maurice told me later that it was really fun and it lasted until three in the morning. I went home immediately after throwing my graduation cap into the air. I locked myself in my bedroom and listened to music on my headphones, wondering what to do next. My mind was blank.

Homemade Clothes

One day I wore an especially effeminate s.h.i.+rt that Mom had made for me. Dad saw it and freaked out. It didn't help that I had recently pierced both my ears (by myself, using the potato method wore an especially effeminate s.h.i.+rt that Mom had made for me. Dad saw it and freaked out. It didn't help that I had recently pierced both my ears (by myself, using the potato method*) and constantly ratted my bangs too. "Why don't you just go ahead and turn him into a girl?" Dad said. Some of my guy friends I hung out with were worse. A couple of them actually did wear skirts.

At the time, I was really into paisley. Mom made me dress jackets that looked like they came from Prince's wardrobe if he were on the show Miami Vice Miami Vice. Some of my friends even asked me if she could make jackets for them. It was like I had my own personal designer. (Red Carpet Reporter: Who are you wearing? Me: This is from the Mom collection.) I loved Mom for that.

One time my friend John, who was fairly normal looking compared to the rest of our friends, was over at our house. When he left, Dad shook his head sadly and said something about John wearing mascara. But John didn't wear mascara. He just had pretty eyes.