Nathan started one of the first truly monolithic sites devoted to poetry—local event calendar, books, contests, you name it. That’s how I found out about him. He hosted a well-attended reading in the Valley that I’d never been to, but heard of. I especially liked the picture of him standing in the rec room of the school where he worked as a music instructor. And his list of likes included a number of things that seemed like a crazy coincidence…or FATE! I sent him an email. Which I still have. It should be noted that I had turned twenty less than two months prior to the incident I am about to relate. I was practically a teenager! And that I continually humiliate myself so that you may be amused, dear reader.

Based on my gushing, adolescent email (and much to my surprise) he wrote to me. We started IMing. Eventually, the IMs became…flirtatious. One night, he suggested that I come to his apartment (he managed the building; this was the reason he gave for being unable to come out and meet me somewhere) so we could have this conversation in person. I was hesitant, but he gave me a pep-talk about spontaneity and before I knew it I was on my way to Sherman Oaks.

When I got there, he was short. Not “a little short,” or “slightly below average.” He was an inch or two taller than I was. I’m a hair over five feet. Once I’d gotten past the initial shock of how skillfully he’d manipulated his pictures to make him appear taller, I was met with a new challenge: coping with his cats. There were several. And they were territorial. As they inspected me, Nathan pulled several of his self-published volumes from a shelf. He showed me a few, read from some, and let me hold one that was a limited edition…although he asked I refrain from opening it wide, he didn’t want the spine to crack.

I asked him to tell me a bit more about Hebrew traditions and customs. He asked me if I’d ever let him tie me to the kitchen table.

I suggested we go for a drink. He suggested he mix me one.

I told him I was tired. He told me I could lay down if I liked.

Turning off the light in the living room, he returned to my side on the futon couch with that certain look in his eye. Although I had just turned twenty, I felt about fifteen years old.

His petting was more violent than heavy. I had to stop him when shifted into “jackhammer” mode. For someone so much older than me (31 at the time, I believe), he hadn’t developed much in the way of finesse. He withdrew his hand and brought it up, attempting to slide his fingers beneath my nose.

“What the hell are you doing?!”

He looked surprised. “Well, I guess you don’t like that.”

“No, I guess I don’t.” Dipshit. I cited the hour and said goodnight, thinking only of the ice pack I’d put in my underwear once I got home.

He continued to IM me. There were many late night invitations to visit, but the kitchen table, the cats, and the jackhammer loomed in my memory. I told him at one point that I thought maybe we were looking for different things.

He said it was irrelevant what I was looking for; he could never be with a woman who wasn’t Jewish.

“You mean you couldn’t have sex with a non-Jewish woman? Are you not trying to have sex with me?”

“No, I mean that I could never marry her, so there’s no point in her ever being my girlfriend. I can totally have sex with you, I could just never date you.”

Good to know.

I ran into him a few times and various readings, I still get his group emails. In fact, I heard he recently got married.

To a nice Jewish girl, of course.

I was remembering this open mic I went to about a year ago, to watch an old friend who was visiting from out of town do a feature. Once upon a time, he was an important figure in the LA and OC poetry communities, and his return always seems to bring folks out of the woodwork.

The reading was at a small coffee shop (you know, the kind that was a dime a dozen in 1994, but is now part of a dying breed). It had been years since I went to a reading, I was nervous just being there. But as I saw some familiar figures, I relaxed. I sat at the table with my chum and enjoyed catching up before the performances began.

During the host’s warmup, someone entered through the back door. I looked to see the latecomer and was met by another face from the past. The curly-haired boy ambled over to a table just in front of me, sat down, and plugged his laptop into the wall. He turned around and asked if I could see ok. I recognized him, but clearly he didn’t remember me. Granted, I had lost a bit of weight, changed my hair, my clothes—I did look different. But he really had no idea.

As the reading wore on, I found myself distracted by his presence. The performer’s words became background noise, as I lost myself in a memory I had long-forgotten.¹

About five years earlier, I had met this guy—a local ‘slam’ poet I’ll call Isaac—at an open mic in Hollywood. He was clever and funny, a total nerd in my favorite way. Mustering all the courage I had, I approached him after one reading and told him I thought as much. He was polite, and receptive. That was all.

A few months later, I befriended a poet from Washington over the internet. We struck up a correspondence, and decided that we’d have to hang out after one of the features during his upcoming tour.

I met him before a show in Silverlake and we sat at a table having cocktails. Poets who knew him trickled in and said hello, and two sat with us. One of them happened to be Isaac. He became much friendlier suddenly. In fact, his interest made me almost uncomfortable.

After the reading, he invited us to all come back to his neighborhood for late night French fries at Fred 62. I couldn’t think of the last person I’d met that I found so charming. He kept me laughing, and at the end of the night he asked for my phone number. We made a date for the following weekend.

When I met him at his apartment², I noticed how sterile everything looked. White walls, white carpet, fluorescent kitchen light. He offered me a beer and I sipped it while he gave me a brief tour. His bedroom was furnished with a futon mattress on the floor and a couple of crates turned over for nightstands. The living room had a big screen TV and an oversized chair, something like a chaise lounge.

He suggested we take his Scrabble game to the coffee shop down the street and have a match to see who the greater wordsmith was. After three rounds undefeated, it was clear that I had it all over him in this regard. While finishing up my tea, I learned that he planned to go on the road with a slam team for nationals in a few weeks. We walked back to his building and he invited me up. I agreed³. He showed me a set of shot glasses that had been made in a limited edition and sold by my favorite band. And then Isaac said, Oh wouldn’t it be fun, to have a shot with them?⁴

Several fun shots later he put on a movie and sat in the chair, inviting me to join him. I sat, practically on his lap, and told him, Don’t think I don’t know what you’re doing for one second. This chair is hardly big enough for two and you knew it.

Fine, he countered. Then we should just get to business. Isaac kissed me as we stood up, and walked me backwards into his room, to the futon on the carpet. He laid me on my stomach and licked my back from the base of my spine to the nape of my neck. He asked me if I would “kiss it,” for him and I did. Then he was done, and it was over.

When he walked me out, I was giddy. I asked when I’d be able to see him again.⁵ He opened my car door—He said he wasn’t sure, because of the nationals and—Well, they were so close, he probably wouldn’t have much time to hang out before then.

Ok then, I asked, perhaps when he got back? He looked at the ground as he stood on the other side of the door—Well, that was so far, and who knew what would happen before then?

Everything was too close or too far, so I just said goodbye.

A few months later, I stopped attending poetry readings. And in five years, I hadn’t heard a single word from or about him until he walked into that coffee shop.

The reading ended and my visiting friend chatted with the poets. He began to introduce us, “This is Isaac. Have you two met?”

Isaac looked at me, “I don’t think so…but…”

“You know me. You definitely know me,” I raised an eyebrow as he began to squirm.

“Oh, yes!” he smiled stiffly. He looked like someone had unexpectedly jammed a finger up his ass. “I remember you, you’re the girl…” I watched his face and smiled at his obvious discomfort as he searched for a way to finish that sentence other than, the girl I asked to suck my dick after a game of Scrabble, then never called again. Eventually, he made the connection he needed. “You’re the girl with the Tiara poem.”

“Yes, that’s me alright. Isn’t it a small world?”

¹Yes, this is the wavy-line flashback part of the story. I know it’s trite.
²My first mistake. I have since learned not to volunteer to enter the den of my predator.
³My second mistake. I have since learned that an invitation to ‘come up just for a minute’ means ‘come up just for a minute…of mediocre foreplay’
⁴My third, fourth, and fifth mistakes.
⁵My final mistake. Showing a genuine interest in someone, and asking a guy I’d just been intimate whether I’d see him again. Silly girl.

Wade�s comment and the pic of that costume yesterday got me all nostalgic for Halloweens gone by.

Halloween was always such a great time to look forward to. Despite the tales of razor-blades embedded in treats, that famous serial killer who was supposedly loose and possibly in my neighborhood, and the fact that most of our costumes were just collections of safety hazards, we had a great time. My hood had one of the old dudes who gave out full-size candy bars, a guy that wore like a fake hanging eyeball and acted really creepy when you reached into his bowl of candy, and one house where every year there was a fat scarecrow on the porch swing that was actually a man who would JUMP UP AT YOU when you walked past him. I think the first year he did it to me I cried and was scared, and he gave me extra candy.

Then I became too old to go asking for candy with my mom, and instead got to wear sexy costumes to foggy, dark Halloween Parties where Thriller played. Or Bauhaus.

That got me thinking about all the great (and not-so-great) costumes I�ve had throughout the years. I�ll skip the not-so great ones (like that time I was four and insisted that I was dressed as Wonder Woman even though I was just in my underwear with some stickers on it) and tell you about my top five:

Age 7- Butterfly. A very nice store-bought costume that was worn with a leotard and tights. Blue satin �exoskeleton� with silver glittery accents. Pretty gauzy wings. And springy antennae. Loved it, wore it ALL the time. Even in March. It lived in �the costume bag� until it completely deteriorated. I think some part of it is still in my mom�s garage. We had a Halloween party that year and I was pissed I didn�t win first prize. My mom tried explaining that I could have any of the prizes I wanted later, since we had bought them and there were more. But I was still pissed. Adam is probably laughing right now. And Rina. My mom is probably remembering how I ALWAYS wanted to win first place at my own parties.

Age 11- Bride of Frankenstein. Got a cool old white gown from a family friend, tore and dirtied it. Did my hair up in a scary fro and painted the white stripes in. That year we threw a Halloween Party at my grandma�s house. All the kids in my class came. It was awesome. I had a little bust and it showed in the dress. I think one of the boys was flirting with me.

Age 15- Magenta. I found a magenta-colored French Maid outfit, did the make-up just right, and teased out my bad perm. Fishnets. Heels. Time warp.

Age 16-19 Flappers, Greek Myths, Season Fairies (I was Winter), Black & White Television Icons. These were fun because they were group and matching costumes with my girlfriends from High School.

Age 21- Bride of Frankenstein II. This time I bought a wig for the purpose (getting that fro out had been a painful task) and added the stripes. Scary make-up. It wasn�t flattering. At. All. But it was the first �couple� costume I wore with a boy. Adam was Frankenstein. He looked pretty cute, actually.

Some of my friends now are old enough to be taking their own little ones trick-or-treating. Some are still partying like nothing else matters. Some are already old cranks, who will probably sit inside with the lights off. To those friends I say, every egg you threw will one day return to you.

I�d like to know what everyone else�s favorite costumes and Halloween memories are! Please leave obscenely long-winded comments so I feel better about this long-ass entry.

I thought this would be a good opportunity to post something from last year.

I acknowledge that “recycling” an entry is a shitty thing to do. And the truth is that I do have a new piece of writing that I would love to post, but it’s a little too obscene and personal for me to feel comfortable putting it up here. It is the story of a teacher I looked up to, and how that ended. Fill in the blanks.

So here is the deal. If you want the story, leave a comment saying so, or email me. Then you will receive the secret link! And now, enjoy the brutal self-loathing of…

“Helena’s Man Quiz” or “The Emotionally Retarded Woman’s Quiz for Potential Suitors”

1. When you say, “All Women are Beautiful,” you mean:
a)I adore the female form, conventional beauty means little to me.
b)Lay down so I can make sweet love to you. Then your best friend. And maybe your sister.
c)I don’t say that. Some women are pretty heinous.

2. When you say, “Yeah, I’m seeing someone, but it’s not serious,” you mean:
a)I have a girlfriend, but I’d like to get in your pants just this once and never call again.
b)I think I can do better than her. What you got?
c)I’m really not serious with her, and I’m going to be saying the same about you.

3. When you say, “I’m just not ready to get serious with anyone right now,” you mean:
a) I fear commitment.
b) I fear commitment.
c) I fear commitment.

4. When you say, “I’m an old fashioned kind of guy,” you mean:
a)I open doors and bring flowers. Maybe we can kiss on the second date.
b)I buy you dinner, you like to put out.
c)I make you think I’m a gentleman. Then I bend you over. Old-fashioned style.

5. If you want to stop seeing a girl, you:
a)Tell her you need some space, and that you’d like to take a short break (by short, you mean infinite).
b)Tell her you like her, but she just isn’t right for you.
c)Don’t tell her anything. She’ll figure it out when you stop returning her calls.

6. If you give a girl your number, and she calls two days later, you:
a)are happy to hear from her. Make a date for dinner and a movie! Hope she likes the restaurant you suggest.
b)aren’t sure of her eye color, but remember her cleavage bearing shirt. Make a date for dinner! Hope she wears another shirt like that.
c)don’t remember who she is. Make a date for drinks. Hope she’s not fat.

7. You’ve been dating a girl for two months, and she wants to take you to a family barbecue, you:
a)tell her you have previous plans, then pull out your little black book. She’s gonna be gone at least six hours!
b)feel flattered she’d ask. Nervously select a cardigan and offer to drive.
c)don’t really feel ready to spend a day with the fam. Take your own car and stay for an hour.

8. You’re about to be busted when she spies a forgotten pink toothbrush in your bathroom and asks you about it. You:
a)pick it up and tell her it’s yours; you use it to clean the toilet. Illustrate.
b)say your friend visiting from out of town must have left it over. Put it in an envelope and ship it to a fictional address in Abu Dhabi.
c)never have that problem. Bitches don’t bring toothbrushes to your house, they know the rules.

Scoring:
1. a)2 b)3 c)1
2. a)3 b)2 c)1
3. a)3 b)3 c)3 (duh!)
4. a)1 b)2 c)3
5. a)2 b)1 c)3
6. a)1 b)2 c)3
7. a)3 b)1 c)2
8. a)2 b)1 c)3

10-14: Too bad. You’re a Nice Guy. You say what you mean, you’re not afraid to be vulnerable, and you treat women with kindness and respect. Unfortunately, I’ll have to sabotage things within the first two weeks.

15-20: So-so. You’re a Regular Joe. You have a Nice Guy living inside of you, but make every effort to drown out his voice. Although you occasionally engage in dick-behavior, you try to do the right thing when you can. We might have a good month or two before the threat of a relationship causes us both to scurry away.

20-24: Congratulations! You’re an Absolute Pig! You’ll lie to women in order to get what you want, and feel little to no remorse after the fact. Getting yours is the number one priority. I’ll become enamored of you instantly, write tortured poetry about you, and waste on you all the goodness and charms I possess.

Original Entry Here

So I finally got rid of my old computer tonight. In transferring the files I got to reading some of the (very little) poetry I wrote in 2002-2003, and found this one.

Denial

Katina K.
was my girlhood friend.
Well, I was more her friend
than she was mine.

When she condescended to see me
we played with Barbie dolls,
her collection of purses,
and the lipstick she’d stolen
from her mother.

Katina moved to Texas
when I was eleven
and she was thirteen.
By that time,
she wasn’t speaking to me much.
She kept insisting
that Ken and Barbie
French kiss.
It made me uncomfortable,
I preferred the Slip ‘n’ Slide.
But Katina said it hurt her boobs
when she fell on it,
and flaunted the little white strap
of her training bra.
Her big brother was a real jerk.
He used to pinch her chest
and shout, “Mosquito bites!”
Katina acted as if
she didn’t mind
but when we were alone
would cry like always.

Although she’d deny it later,
if you asked her.

The day her family left,
she sat in the station wagon
and played with the manuals
in the glove box.
I stood on the curb sobbing,
wishing
that she would look at me
just for a second
to let me see
that she felt something.

But she didn’t.

There have been men like her.

If I could find her now,
I’d ask Katina
if she ever loved me.
I’d would ask,
If I had done
all the things you asked me to,
would you love me then?

And I know
she would say,
I don’t think
we were even
really friends.

I know it’s like uh summer, but just now there was this sound out my window that was like rain. And it made me think how nice it would be to be somewhere with a fireplace, sitting inside on a stormy night.

But we are about as far from that as we can be, I think. It’s the part of summer where things get stale. By this time, Vintage Helena would be almost eager to go back to school. Ready to meet all the new boys, feel the new books, and wear the new (old) clothes she’d spent months culling from the Salvation Army.

It was about this part of the summer, between 7th and 8th grade, that I was drunk for the first time.

Through our schoolmate’s older brother, Stacy had managed to hook up with a 16 year old boy. If he were our age, we would not have paid a second thought to him. He was a slovenly, greasy-haired headbanger. Even so, she pursued him. He responded initially, but lost interest rather quickly when she wouldn’t go all the way. Fortunately, he had a younger (and much cuter) brother, Bill, who promptly became enamored of Stacy and turned into our constant companion. He also had plenty of adorable friends for me to choose from. They were all in a death metal band together.

I’m so serious.

Bill lived in a house with his two older brothers—Jimmy and Joey—16 and 21 years of age. His father owned the house and supposedly lived in it as well, but I did not see him there once. He was always away on a business trip or working late. So the boys pretty much ruled themselves. There were never any groceries. But there were pizza boxes—in the kitchen, in the living room, upstairs in the room where the band practiced—stacks of empty pizza boxes, with discarded crusts rattling around inside. They were pigs. And they fought constantly. Bill’s oldest brother could be especially mean, and pulled rank all the time. Things could be going along really well, everyone hanging out after practice. Then Joey would show up, and act like a badass, and everyone had to go home. Still, even considering Joey’s relative tyranny, Bill’s place was a Mecca for the misbehaved.

The house was in a city called Friendly Hills. The whole place was comprised of three different model tract homes. So every third house was just like yours. Bill’s friend Ryan lived several blocks away, in exactly the same house, and exactly the same room as Bill did. His bed was even in the same place.

Except for this house, with its heavy metal blaring at all hours and electric guitars flying out of second story windows, the street was a quiet one.

One weekend, Joey decreed that there would be a party. That Saturday afternoon, the house was full of kids from sixteen into their early 20s. It was the house party stereotype to a tee—couples making out in dark corners, stoners having absurd conversations about the depth of the universe, girls getting drunk and taking their shirts off. Not that that’s a crime.

The only people Bill’s age there were myself and Stacy. When she and Bill disappeared somewhere, Joey essentially took me under his fucked up wing. Did I mention how hot Joey was? He had long brown hair, a goatee, and that hang-dog look. The girls agreed that he reminded us of Matt Dillon in Singles.

He had me sit next to him at the dining room table, which we shared with about eight other people. They passed a bong around, the first bong I had ever seen. They offered it to me and I politely refused. I hadn’t ever smoked pot and someone had told me that it would hurt. Bill’s brother said that if I drank the water from the bong, it would get me high. And then two other boys at the table dared me to. So, of course, I did.

Most people just grimace when I say that. You know, it’s really not that bad. It just tastes like dirt. And week-old tea.

At any rate, after I drank it, everyone applauded and I was heralded as a Little Badass. My host took me into the kitchen, where he said I could choose any drink I liked. I said Something Sweet. And I got a tumbler full of Kahlua.

I probably don’t need to tell you how hard it is to get drunk off straight Kahlua. But I managed, somehow. I found myself in the backyard, bumming a cigarette off some girl, and trying to smoke it and stand steady and hold my drink all while looking at least 16 years of age (which is how old we told everyone we were). Just when I had convinced myself I was doing a swell job, Joey and his best friend pop up out of nowhere and start messing with my head.

“How you feeling? A little dizzy? Yeah? Harhar. My little brother says that you have the nicest rack in your class.”

“What?”

Joey’s buddy stifled a laugh as he continued, “He swears, but I don’t think it’s the best I’ve ever seen. Although I could be wrong. I’d have to see to say.”

“Well, look then.”

“I don’t mean with your shirt on!”

“No way!” Even though there was another girl who had been hanging out in her bra for like forty minutes, I wasn’t going to follow suit. I went to the bathroom. They stuck right behind me. I stood in the doorway. They stood in the hall.

“Just show us, real quick.”

“No!” I started to close the door.

“See, I told you she wouldn’t. She’s just a little kid.”

My cheeks burned at those words and before I knew it my shirt was up around my neck.

“Yeah? How’s THAT for a little kid?”

And then I slammed the door in their open-mouthed faces. From the other side, Joey called, “Yeah, well…I HAVE seen better!”

Even though I wanted to feel like it, I hadn’t really proven anything. Except that I wore an underwire bra. I was mad that I’d been goaded into such a thing. But impressed at how much power it had—those assholes were speechless. If only for five seconds. For the rest of the afternoon, Joey stuck close, but I gave him the cold shoulder.

After the party, it was business as usual around the house. The pecking order was restored, and Bill’s brothers would have nothing to do with him, or us. Joey pretty much ignored me altogether, except once when I went to the kitchen for a soda and he offered me a beer.

I said, “No, thanks. It makes me act immature.”

I don’t know how I let things get so bad. I’m actually drinking cheap merlot for dinner. Out of a coffee mug. Yes, I have food. Frozen dinners and soup-in-a-can. But it’s not condensed soup. It’s Progresso. So I could be worse off.

Don’t judge me!

Below is the second part to my salacious tale of teen lust. Read if you dare. Unless you’re Mom. Then you can check this out! Actually, it’s more funny than it is salacious, and I have to admit it’s on the sad side as well. And long. Fuck it. Read it or don’t; it’s just good exercise for me. Maybe you’ll think of some long-lost memory? You should write to me about that, I’d like to hear yours, too.

Although Steve had given me his phone number, I didn’t call (his hard-on freaked me out that night. He kept rubbing it on me and I felt like I was being humped by a dog). But the next few times we went to Knott’s, Stacy and Johnny would go on rides together—this made them sort of an unofficial Park Couple. I mean, if Johnny wasn’t there, Stacy was allowed to ride with another boy. And vice versa. Well, Stacy got her pass taken away on account of some lying she did. And that meant Johnny was on the prowl again.

One overcast Sunday, my mom took me out to the park. When I got inside, no one was there (this was before the time when every teenager had a cel phone, I’m sure being a delinquent is much easier now than it was in my day). No locals, the place was a ghost town (no pun intended).

So I went back outside the park to sit in the entrance plaza, that way I could spot anyone coming in. I would not get picked up until the evening, so I was feeling pretty desperate for company. Then I heard Johnny’s voice behind me.

“No one inside?”

“Nope.”

“Wanna go to the mall?”

“Sure.”

It started to sprinkle as we walked to the Buena Park mall (where I got caught shoplifting at and was banned from Longs’ Drugs, but that’s another story), just a few blocks away from the park. We were quiet for the most part. He didn’t ask about Stacy, and I didn’t ask about Steve.

Once we got there, we visited the Comic Book shop. Johhny loved the X-men, he said. He showed me some issues that he was particularly fond of, and told me his favorite character was Wolverine. This was the most personal piece of information I’d ever heard him utter. It explained his sideburns and quasi-pompadour.

After tooling around for about twenty minutes, he suggested we go see what was playing in the theater. There was a matinee of Toys. I bought us the tickets and we took some photos in the booth outside the box office to kill the time left until the show. In the booth, I sat on his lap.

The theater was empty, for the most part. About halfway through the movie, Johnny put his elbow next to mine on the armrest. That electrically nauseating touch was my first taste of real desire.

I still have the ticket stub to prove it.

After the movie, we walked outside the mall and headed back to the street. By then, it was really raining. Johnny hopped over a low wall and onto the sidewalk. He motioned for me to follow. I timidly climbed onto the stucco, and placed my right foot into the planter on the other side that Johnny’s long legs had completely overstepped. As I brought my left leg over, my foot slipped in the slick ground. And I fell. Onto my ass. Into the mud. I held back tears as Johnny laughed hysterically, unable to breathe.

“Ha, yes, very funny!” I pouted. “Now I get to be wet and muddy for the rest of the day.” My mortification was complete, as he offered a hand to pull me up.

“Oh,” he stifled a giggle, “I live right around the corner. We can wash your clothes, it’s not a big deal.” He put a finger on my chin, “It’s ok.” His green eyes were totally hypnotic. That’s what I wrote in every poem about him for the next year.

The house where Johnny lived with his grandmother was right across the street from the mall, a typical late 60’s suburban home. Inside, the walls were wood-paneled. There was a thick mustard yellow carpet, and it smelled like dogs. His grandma was home, but did not seem to notice as we walked past her and he said, “I’m here with my friend Helena.”

Once in his room, he told me to get undressed. He handed me a pair of his boxer shorts and a Social Distortion T-shirt. He left and I changed, taking in all the details of his personal space. Being in someone’s room, I always felt, was like being inside of them. He had posters of the Cure, Siouxsie and the Banshees, and Sandman on the walls. His dresser was covered in figures of elves, fairies, and dragons. There were lots of the symbols most people associate with magic or devil-worship. The ankh, pentagrams. There was a Ouija board sitting on a mirrored tray.

When he came back in, he took my muddy clothes. I followed him to the washer and his twin sisters, about four years old, were in the laundry room playing on the floor. They approached me and laughed, they said, “Those are Johnny’s clothes!” I talked with them a little while as he started the machine. Their dark skin and tight, curly hair clearly indicated that they were mixed. I wanted to ask Johnny why that was, especially since his grandmother referred to any person of color as a ‘nigger’. But I sensed this was not the time. He pulled me away and back into the close quiet of his room.

“Sit down, I want you to hear this.”

He put on the Velvet Underground.

“Listen,” he said, “the way it gets more and more intense. It’s supposed to be like taking heroin.” He closed his eyes as the music became increasingly powerful, and nodded his head with the beat. I was watching him and felt that I was looking at a different person. Where was the mysterious, dark stranger? Johnny was a boy, like any other boy. But trying so very hard to be something more.

“Do you use that?” I asked, pointing to the Ouija board.

His eyes opened, dark, “Oh yes, but it’s no toy.” Normally, such seriousness would have made me laugh. But for some reason, when he said these things, no matter how ridiculous they were, he had this air of authority that made laughing impossible.

I had been taught for years at my private Christian school that a Ouija board was a tool of the devil, and we were to avoid it at all costs. I wanted to know the devil more and more those days, so I persisted, “Well, can you use it now?”

He said that he could, but things would have to be made ready. He placed the board and the mirrored tray on the floor. He poured a circle of salt around the board. To keep all the spirits in the circle, he said. I still didn’t laugh. He lit three candles around the mirror and turned off the light. Then he closed his eyes, and touched his fingers to the dial.

He told me to ask a question. I asked if anyone had ever died in this house. My heart raced as the dial jerked across the board. Johnny’s eyes flew open, and he said, “Get out of this room!”

“What?”

“Get out!” He frantically began pouring salt all around the board, and used his fingers to pinch out the candle flames. “Now!” he said, grabbing my arm as he stood up and ran out of the bedroom, into the hallway bath.

He closed the door behind us and sat on the toilet. He appeared shaken. Looking at his fingers, I could see that he had burned them.

“Here,” I whispered, taking a washcloth and putting cold water on it, “let me see that.”

“Johnny?” his grandmother’s voice came from the other side of the door, “Is everything ok?”

“YES grandma, it’s FINE.” Silence.

I wiped his fingers and found ointment to put on them. As I rubbed it in, he looked at me. “Bad things were about to happen.”

“I believe you.”

And then he pushed my hands away and pulled me down to my knees, where he kissed me. The linoleum was cold and hard. Standing up, he undid his black jeans and took them off.

I didn’t have any smart aleck remarks, I didn’t have anything to say. He was pale, perfect, beautiful. He guided me down onto the little blue bath rug, and put his hand inside the fly of the boxers I wore.

There was scratching at the door.

“Jooooooooohnny,” one of the twins said, “what are you DOING in there?” They both giggled. A tiny brown finger wiggled in under the door and caught a lock of my hair.

“Go away!” He pulled the boxers to my ankles and pushed himself inside of me. I don’t remember much, except the strange sensation of flesh within flesh, something unreal. He immediately pulled back out and kneeled over the toilet. I heard a faint splash.

There was a hard rapping from outside. “Johnny, you come out of there!”

It seemed the twins served an effective, albeit delayed, alarm system. Unfortunately for his grandmother, premature ejaculation was not an element she had accounted for.

“Put your shorts on,” he whispered harshly, cleaning himself off and flushing the toilet.

Dazed, I stood.

He opened the door and there was the fuming matriarch of his home. “You come OUT of there. You and that hussy.”

Hussy?! Why, that wrinkly old racist bitch. Lucky for Johnny, my mouth had not fully developed. I was ushered into the bedroom where I waited for him to retrieve my still-damp clothes. I put on a pair of his pants and we headed back to the park.

***

I was his Park Girl for a few weekends. Then a new girl came into the clique, and garnered everyone’s attention. He forgot about me. One day, I made a scene, and told him, “You can’t treat people this way!”

He took me aside and said, “Don’t you EVER talk to me like that here again.”

That was his world. He ruled the park. The Johnny groupies snickered as he returned to them once he had dismissed me.

After that summer, I stopped going to the park. I tried Disneyland for a while, but it wasn’t the same. Stacy wasn’t allowed to see me anymore, because her parents had read her diary and found out that I arranged for her to buy some pot through a guy we knew from the park. I tried to tell her once, what had happened with Johnny. But she hung up on me. Her older sister called me back and said, “Bitch, you better not be serious, because if you are I’m coming to Downey to kick your ASS.”

I told her I was only joking.

I ran into Johnny a few times over the years. The last I heard, he’d changed his name to Johnny Rockstar, and had R2D2 tattooed on his arm. I went to a coffee shop in Long Beach once and saw, written on the bathroom wall, “I Love Johnny Rockstar.”

I added, “Me too,” underneath.

fin.

I loaded up Flickr with the photos that make me never want to have daughters.

You can click MORE to see them here, right now. I apologize for the low-tech/ghetto style and stuff, but I don’t have a scanner here, and I will forget to do this if I wait until tomorrow. Beause I’m a dingbat like that.

Anyway, Click More… already!

Here I am at our 8th Grade Dinner with “Stacy” (13 Years)

In my 8th Grade Class Photo (13 Years)

8th Grade Graduation (13 Years)

At Knott’s Berry Farm (13 Years)

And at fourteen in my Freshman Prom and Class Photos

Scary, no? I typically wore clothes to hide my figure, especially vintage dresses and hippie stuff, like the shirt in the Knott’s picture. If I had it to do over again…ha!

Johnny Rockstar II to follow…now with improved visuals!

A DISCLAIMER: This entry is NOT family- or people-who-get-freaked-out-by-too-much-information- friendly. Proceed at your own risk. And if you are related to me please do not ever let me know you read it, because that will give me the creeps.

Last Friday night when I was at Rina’s, there was like an 80’s/90’s thing happening on the radio, I’m not sure what station it was. But one of the songs that came on was Friday I’m in Love, by (The) Cure. The song was on an album I listened to a lot with my best friend in 7th and 8th grade (I will call her Stacy), when we used to hang out at Knott’s Berry Farm and I was just learning how to cause trouble.

Listening to that song that night after a couple of (ok, a few) drinks, sitting in the backyard, I drifted off into a nostalgic haze.

I thought about that time Stacy and I took our passes and headed to Knott’s to find a certain boy. His name was Johnny Gonzales. I won’t change his name, because he was an asshole. He was tall and skinny, he wore a leather jacket, he had cool sideburns, and he claimed to be a reincarnation of a vampire. Also, he knew magic. I think he was about 17 at the time. I was 13 when he made my virginity disappear.*

Every girl in the park wanted a piece of Johnny—or rather, wanted to give him a piece of them. The goal was to get him to go on the Log Ride or Kingdom of the Dinosaurs, and work things out in line so that when you got to the front…you’d be riding with Johnny.

So we had put on our shortest shorts and our perfume of choice (ex’cla·ma’tion), and gotten a ride to the park. Once in, we immediately made the regular stop at the first bathroom, in Ghost Town, to check our make-up (which we had just put on at home and re-checked a million times in the car). We then walked over to the Nacho stand in Fiesta Village that served as the spot where the “locals” congregated to stand around and smoke cigarettes.

It was a weeknight in the summer, which meant a diminished crowd. To our excitement, Johnny was there. He also had a friend with him, rarely seen in the park, Steve. Steve was wearing a necklace made of beads and fangs. He said it was a voodoo charm. Even though he’d never really acknowledged us before, Johnny came over and started talking to me and Stacy. He asked if we wanted to go for a walk to Camp Snoopy, and we eagerly agreed.

We walked a few steps behind Steve and Johnny, and Stacy told me Johnny was HERS, she had liked him for WAY longer than I had. And besides, it was obvious she was the one he was after. I didn’t put up a fight, as this would be only my second kiss and I didn’t really care who it was with.

The caves in the wooded area of Camp Snoopy were made to feel maze-like. They were surrounded by little lagoons and waterfalls, flanking the path that ran through the park. A small rope bridge on the ground level crossed the water to the grotto. A set of stone stairs led up to a much larger, scarier rope bridge that crossed over the main path and united the two structures. There were nooks and crannies everywhere. At night, you couldn’t see anything. And because Camp Snoopy was the kid’s section of the park, it was pretty much abandoned after dark. Pretty much.

Once we got to the caves, Johnny said he was going up to cross the big rope bridge, and who wanted to come with him? Stacy went, and I stayed with Steve in the darkness of the lower caverns. He advanced and touched my hair, then pressed me against the wall. The waterfall was pounding, mist entered through an opening just to my left. He kissed hard, he was older than the boy I’d been with before, and he moved in a different way. I tried to steady myself by placing a hand on the nearby rock, but it was slippery with moisture. I just gave in and put my arms around him; I felt his big fang necklace pressing into my chest.

Tonight I ate some buttery-soft O-Toro and watched Young Sherlock Holmes. I’ve said before that Nicholas Rowe, in this part, was one of my first crushes. I’m not sure exactly what did it for me–his precocious manner…his studly brain…his tall, lanky build…or that sensitive side of him we just catch a glimpse of here and there. I mused over all of this as I popped in the DVD, and knew I was in for a little nostalgic trip.

But MY GOD I didn’t realize how attracted I’d still feel to him.

I am so disgusting! I mean, look at this kid…he’s like 17 years old! He’s jailbait! And I still get butterflies in my tummy when he professes his devotion to his little girlfriend before she dies in his arms.
It worries me a bit. Fortunately, I’m not partial to the young fellows (not for long, at any rate). And I feel better because the real Nick Rowe (it’s just Nick now, not Nicholas, ok?) is also a grown-up. This is a character. I’m not a pedophile if I’m enamored of an underage character, right? Does it mean something that “Boy Toy,” who I dated last summer, bears a striking resemblance to Rowe? These are the burning questions.

All-boy prep schools. My goodness, now I understand that obsession with the Catholic Schoolgirl Skirt. Pardon me while I try to hunt down the Lawrenceville Stories…you know, for use in aversion therapy.