Summer of Love and Nicotine
At the party, I met Joe, a 21-year-old John Taylor look-alike with crooked, nicotine stained teeth. I took a break from my smoke ring extravaganza when he asked me to come outside and sit on the street curb with him. I had frequented this curb countless times during my childhood, but never like this. I’d never kissed a boy at that point - I think that's one of the first things I told Joe as we sat there. He replied, “I realize there’s an age difference, but it doesn’t matter to me. I hope it doesn’t matter to you”. No one had expressed an interest in me like this before - I was an ugly duckling, had just begun wearing makeup after getting my braces off. I readily gave him my phone number, told him my parents were out of town for a few more days, and dallied back inside to blow more smoke rings.
When my folks called the next day to check in on my sister and me, I was worried about talking to them with my cigarette-swollen tongue. But I was so excited! I met a boy! I told them all about him. I didn’t understand the weird silence when I told them Joe's age. I was so eager to grow up, I figured it was amazing that a 21-year-old was into me. So what was the problem? I told Mom & Dad that Joe and I were going on a lunch date that day. They booked an early flight back home. I simply didn’t understand what the problem was.
Joe picked me up that day in a shitty beige Chevy boat that smelled like mildew and cheap air freshener. For some reason I loved it. To this day, when I'm reminded of that smell, it reeks of freedom. We went to this hippie restaurant downtown called The Casbah. It was saturated with what I would come to know as patchouli, and they piled sprouts onto all of their sandwiches. I barely ate due to first date jitters. After lunch we went back to Joe’s apartment and sat and talked while we listened to some cool punk music.
Then the big moment: my First Kiss. I was sitting on a ragged, faded green velveteen couch, looking out the window onto the student slum street, Circle Jerks floating from the stereo. Joe put his arm around me, gently pulled me towards him, and kissed me! His tongue slipped into my mouth and I awkwardly tried to follow his lead. I tasted his smoky, alcoholic breath as his sour body odor wafted around me. Coolest guy ever. We continued kissing for a bit while his bristly, unshaven face chapped my mouth and chin. When one of his roommates came home, Joe stopped abruptly and drove me home.
World was good. I was in love! When I got home I smiled coyly at myself in the bathroom mirror as I admired my bright red, chapped face.
It all went south when Mom & Dad came home early. Joe called, not knowing that the folks were back (I didn’t think to tell him... oops!), and we set up a date for the next night. When Joe arrived, Dad ambushed! He answered the door and asked Joe in. He sat Joe down and said something that horrified me then, but now makes me love my dad more than he will ever know. It goes something like this: “I realize you like my daughter, but I want you to understand something: I love my daughter more than anything on this earth. Joe, understand that if anyone hurts Stephanie, I will personally seek him out and make him wish he was never born.” You must understand: my dad’s a serene man, a biochemistry professor who avoids confrontation. This was not easy for him, but at that moment, my dad was someone I’d never met before. He had this bad-ass, gunslinger look in his eyes that no one in his right mind would dare to fuck with. I’ll never forget it.
See, my folks figured if they forbade me from seeing Joe, I’d just sneak out and do even worse things with this weirdo pedophile behind their backs. They were right.
As soon as we got in Joe’s car I told him I was so embarrassed and oh my god, how could my dad say that! That night Joe barely touched me. I was shattered.
The next week I went to Music Camp: a week of living like a college student in the university dorms, intensively playing violin and singing all day, every day, for a week. Thing is, I got special permission to leave the dorms in the evening because I was a local. That’s the week when I learned the beauty of inhaling cigarettes, oral sex, and the art of being a woman. Not necessarily in that order.
Sometime during this fateful week I hooked up with Joe. I was so cool - all of my new friends at camp were very impressed that I was dating a 21-year-old, yellow-toothed John Taylor look-alike who wore eyeliner and played bass in a band. He peeled into the dorm parking lot in his giant, crappy Chevy like a bat out of hell. I gleefully jumped in. We went to a house party where his band played. It was so loud my ears rang for weeks. Then we went to his place. He lit a bunch of candles and gave me a beer. We kissed, then he started to go further. He craftily got under my skirt, peeled off my panties and his head disappeared between my legs. During those 15 seconds I made noises like I'd heard women do when they’re having sex in movies. I figured that’s what I’m supposed to do. It worked, I guess. I had no idea what a female orgasm was. After that night I still didn’t.
After I unwittingly faked an orgasm, I got dressed and Joe drove me back to the dorm. My new camp friends were outside hanging out. I had a pack of cigarettes. I had recently seen the movie Midnight Express and tried out something I saw there – I took a puff of a cigarette and breathed it in. It made me so high! I sat there on a concrete bench, reeling in carbon monoxide euphoria, my eyes glazed over. I decided I needed to teach everyone around me how to do this. I hope they don’t hate me now for giving them lung cancer.
After music camp I called Joe a few times and we made dates to see each other. Each time I patiently waited for him at the living room window, absently doing the crossword. I would look up eagerly as every car passed, hoping it was Joe’s so I could run and hop into his wonderfully odoriferous Chevy. Each time he never showed up. I’d call his number after an hour, then after and hour and a half, then after two hours, and each time his roommates would brusquely tell me he wasn’t there.
I didn’t realize until many years later the reason I was getting stood up was because my father had successfully instilled a fear in Joe that cannot be reckoned with. Each time I eventually gave up waiting for Joe, feeling empty and not understanding what the hell was going on. Each time I would call the next day and get him on the phone, “Oh, I’m so sorry, my friend had to go to the hospital” or “Oh, I’m so sorry, I stubbed my toe” or “Oh, I’m so sorry, I flew to the moon.” I believed him. I was 14. Eventually I stopped calling. I never heard from him again. But my ears still ring. And I still smoke.
posted by sweetweaver @ 7:24 AM
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