'Of Risk Takers & Menopause'  -- Chapter 3  Stories to Break the 'Berg

   I am getting ahead of myself...the rails we traveled, each turn, twist, bump, the mixing of we, she and me. All were exquisite. Nostalgic sweet rose-tinted pristine pitch buzz humming pure perfect. But in real-time, you know? As it was happening.  Knowing that each dance, each meet and greet, that this, this NOW was so juiced and switch flipping perfect, even at the very moment it played out. No Monday morning quarter-backing. Easy to love? God, yes, and I had a hunch, a puncher’s chance at least that it ALL was going to be mine to dine. I knew at our first spin, our first re-rendezvous, encounter, touch down time re-meet.
    There was that history past “we”, us, for what it was worth then...hidden hard and frankly a whole hell of a lot buried until seeing her smile profile made me begin to shovel around my brain.  Clear out thirty some goddamn years of shit and try to get to those ‘her’ thoughts, stories, reckless rendezvous’ from the CB radio days. Jimmy Carter Peanut Farmer days. Cut off shorts and tied halter top days. Why is it always summer when I think of her, us, then, when?
     But God, yes, we had some stories to break the ‘berg that night one, of the two of us. I would be armed and ripped to plunge into the ‘remember whens’.  Get her laughing, get her talking get her thinking of summertime Jimmy Carter days, or maybe into The Gipper, Ronny’s rein. Ah, just the slosh-slosh mix I needed to fool and finesse and fornicate possibilities in in my mind. Some teased tales, confessional looks in the rearview mirror of the once-was.
    We, as kids, sinned first. Cute she was, tow-headed, a fucking nose to remember. She was the girl at school with the freckles and the nose. A buzzing blur, anti-shy. What was she third, fourth grade? Frazzled-fabulous, cute as FUCK, tom-boyish, tough. I liked her before I knew what liking was. She twisted up my insides, made me squirm, made me want to pee in that way boys do before we know what our hard is for. I’d half-ass chase her on the playground just so’s she’d tell me to mind my own damn business. I’d tickle and tackle and taunt and all the while gush lavish thoughts. Weird daydream wishes that she would trip and fall. Hurt herself a little so I could rescue her all like some noble tough-ass fire man firefighter. You know, like on ‘Emergency’.   Damn, I had forgotten about that, but I sure as hell did. Those little fantasies we had before porn drowned everything. Save that girl and she’d probably kiss me.
   Shit, yes, I do remember.  I do. I had this whole hero-rescue mojo dream going on.  I would spin that she would be hurt, injured, and I would lift and carry her squirming soft body to safety.  But first an examination, right?  You see, I’m a para-medic doctor fire man. Need to make sure it’s nothing too serious. Now of course she would need to pull down her corded little bell-bottoms so I could check the injury. Maybe set the bone, view that bruise.  Carefully, a full eye-on her and her’s, exam. Play scout – healer doctor, rescuer. Ah but she never fell. Never got injured. Never had a need for a fifth grade fire man para-medic doctor. But in my mind how, oh sweet Jesus, how we played, played, played.
    Maybe she was a new student. Just moved here from overseas. Poor girl, spoke only French, didn’t know a word of English, she would sit and cry but not to worry. I was fluent in whatever language she spilled.  French?  Sure. I was her hero and savior.  I was smart, oh, and I was also a rock star singing hero-doctor-rescuer, who spoke French. A fifth grade God and she, THAT one, she was my junior worship congregation.  All, all that shit used to spin through my day-dumb dreamed mind.  And all she thought and knew and played was that I ignored her. Kids. Such stupid dreamers.
    Junior High School?  God, is there any worse punishment in life than middle-school, Junior High School?  You know that shit we ALL fucking went through at twelve, thirteen, fourteen or so. ‘Junior High School, My Personal Viet Nam’. Bet that would make a HELL of a great movie title.  But wow, that time sucked, sixth, seventh, eighth grade. I swear I can still smell that piss wet sweat fear clearasil deodorant stale air errant sex smell of junior high. Doused with just a hint of pot and BO. It reeked through the hallways and stained the classroom walls like a yellowed tooth fungus.
   But she was there too, lower grade and all, but I would catch sight of her at times. She had grown. Shit, she was pure criminal spin if I truly confessed now and I won't fucking-ever. But goddamn I do wish I had had a clue, ANY clue then of what to do. To be cool-speaking enough to get close to her at a party, pull her away from those chain-gang girl pals, and just hang.  Alone. No one around to fuck it up. Put on some ABBA. Or Aerosmith. Watch her roller skate. Meet her at the pool. Ask if she had ever made out. Or if she wanted to. Just hang. Talk to her, convince her, trip her dare into showing hers. Jump into the pool and watch her nipples thimble. How, why, no one cares. Just the when and where.
   She was too much a child then. A year or two too young. The guys would have shit all over me if I hung out with a sixth grader. God, she wasn’t allowed out.  I’d see her in the halls, freckled, lost. She’d still tease me, pricked my ears up.  And I dream-spun elaborate junk schemes that ended with me touching her bare underweared panties. That girl in her underwear. Fuck. You know, I saw them one time back then. White shiny glimpse, flickered dew, once when her green pleated costumed skirt flew up while she was prancing and dancing.
  God, I DO remember that. I think I remember that, anyways. So much in my mind is caffeinated, but I want to remember. Refresh the mind-flash screen. Highlight her cotton white peering beneath that cheerleading outfit then, or gym clothes, or catechism skirt. Too long downloaded but pixel sharp now and can't be unseen in my mind. If I thought it, then it happened. Right? All fuel for the formulated fixation of the Junior High male’s vex of no-sex, no-how, no way.
   Fuck, Junior High is the worst possible shit.
Written by Somedayman (Missouri Breaks)
Author's Note
Chapter 3 of story middle aged life, liberty, and the pursuit sex.
All writing remains the property of the author. Don't use it for any purpose without their permission.
likes 1 reading list entries 0
comments 0 reads 352
Commenting Preference: 
The author encourages honest critique.

Latest Forum Discussions
Today 12:53pm by Abracadabra
Today 12:49pm by Abracadabra
Today 12:35pm by Ahavati
Today 7:35am by Ahavati
Today 1:55am by ajay