The Middle
Jul. 11th, 2009 12:37 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
deseretfireflyStarting at the beginning has never worked out for me. I get the facts down, a bit of bones tweaking and then suddenly I am snagged on a detail. How do I connect there with here? Aye, there's the rub.
She always liked boys. Even when she was kissing and feeling up girls she had boys on her mind. Boys with hard bodies hidden beneath soft, loose clothing, boys with skin that burned like sunwarmed leather. Girls felt too soft, too milky, too pliable. The skin of a man with its smells and tastes and textures, yes, that is what she always wanted.
The story begins when she was fourteen. she had invited over her best friend to visit. this best friend was a boy, because she never could take girls seriously, the catty, manipulative things. He was not perfect, and had he been she never would have pursued him on the playground. He wore a red and blue Jamaican-style woven pullover with a hood and a kangaroo pouch on the tummy. he was slender in that gangly way that only half-grown boys, puppies, and horses are. He had a Beatle haircut and it was 1995. Yes, he was different, unlike the either clean cut or grungy kids she saw every day at school and that is what drew her to him. His eyes were green, the color or moss on a stone and his hair a plain brown. After a few conversations she decided to have a crush on this boy. a crush that might one day lead to more. so she wrote dirty limericks and poems on scraps of paper to pass to him between classes. she got his telephone number and they ran up big phone bills at night trying to out-silly each other. in essence, it was a rather innocent relationship, purely platonic in action. when she turned 14 she cried on the phone to him, he tried to comfort her as she mourned the passing of her childhood. as puberty gripped tighter on the two, she found her hormones and moods skyrocketing out of control. he was not the only boy she liked, but he was the only boy she talked to. when she finally had him come over to spend an afternoon at her apartment, it was rather an awkward time for them, used to the structure of school to keep things on the down low. they sat on her bed, listened to ac/dc cds and smoked cigarettes. slowly they drew closer until he ruined everything. "want to make out?" and suddenly the door slammed shut on her fantasy. today would not be the day. "hell no." she replied, trying to cover up her disappointment at how little finesse he had. after all, a thirteen year old boy doesn't have much in the way of tact. his brains are in his boners, but had he acted rather than asked, had he made a move rather than appealing to her verbally, this story would have another ending. she would have fallen into his arms shaking like a leaf, mouths mashed together enjoying the sweet nectar of saliva. had she not been so scared, he may have decided to be hers. not long after this, her mood swings spiraled into dispondancy, the depression took over and turned her into an animal, fit only for her own company. the counselors gave up, the school staff threw in the towel and she attended school but spent all day reading in the library, alone. she was kicked out of her home, her mother lacking both the time and patience to deal with her on any level and forcing her paternal grandparents to step in and become guardians, or jailers, depending on how you look at it. it was in these books she found the romance and drama her soul craved. within the paperback covers she discovered other people like her. she found that she was not alone. she could potentially be anyone or anything she wanted. all she lacked was the motivation, self esteem, and drive to become her true self. of course, nothing came of that. she still sat there in the same chair every day all day reading book after book turning page after page. the books themselves became a drug and something she looked forward to if only to pass the 7 hour school day. outside of school, she was more of her own person. she had friends, even if they were two years younger. her brother was the closest one, and his tomboy friend who lived across the street from her grandparents house. the garret room with the slanted ceiling and one skylight for illumination became her refuge from the world. a place of her own where she could lay around in bed all day listening to the smashing pumpkins and reading novels, or standing on her bed and smoking cigarettes out the skylight. the grandparents who were so indulgent with her father were completely the opposite to her. they had (to her) unfair rules calculated to just upset her. like no smoking, and she had to tell them her whereabouts if she was leaving the one block neighborhood area. to give her something to focus on, they dogsat for an elderly friend saddling the poor depressed teenager with the task of walking the pekinese in the frigid snows. she hated that dog, but went along with the responsibility only because it afforded her the opportunity of walking to the convenience store and snaking cigarette butts out of the courtesy ashtrays. she did not treat the animal with the respect it deserved, but she did take care of its needs, brushing it only because it was fun to play with the balls of hair she pulled from the grooming tool, walking it only because she could smoke. when watching tv, playing sega genesis, talking on the phone to her school friend, or reading alone in her room became boring, she would expore the bowels of the attic. within she found old confederate money (why would her yankee grandfather have that?) a wooden box with the word "stoned" and a pot leaf carved on the inside (thanks, Dad, she thought) and an aluminum case of unknown origins in which she stashed her cd collection, which she grew by ordering repeatedly from columbia house without the intention of paying. by doing that she discovered the soothing balm of bon jovi on a sore teenage heart, the twangy delights of john cougar, the melodies of beck, the dreams of don henley. these songs became the soundtrack of her suffering and somehow each time she cried she felt her heart just a little bit lighter. TBC...
She always liked boys. Even when she was kissing and feeling up girls she had boys on her mind. Boys with hard bodies hidden beneath soft, loose clothing, boys with skin that burned like sunwarmed leather. Girls felt too soft, too milky, too pliable. The skin of a man with its smells and tastes and textures, yes, that is what she always wanted.
The story begins when she was fourteen. she had invited over her best friend to visit. this best friend was a boy, because she never could take girls seriously, the catty, manipulative things. He was not perfect, and had he been she never would have pursued him on the playground. He wore a red and blue Jamaican-style woven pullover with a hood and a kangaroo pouch on the tummy. he was slender in that gangly way that only half-grown boys, puppies, and horses are. He had a Beatle haircut and it was 1995. Yes, he was different, unlike the either clean cut or grungy kids she saw every day at school and that is what drew her to him. His eyes were green, the color or moss on a stone and his hair a plain brown. After a few conversations she decided to have a crush on this boy. a crush that might one day lead to more. so she wrote dirty limericks and poems on scraps of paper to pass to him between classes. she got his telephone number and they ran up big phone bills at night trying to out-silly each other. in essence, it was a rather innocent relationship, purely platonic in action. when she turned 14 she cried on the phone to him, he tried to comfort her as she mourned the passing of her childhood. as puberty gripped tighter on the two, she found her hormones and moods skyrocketing out of control. he was not the only boy she liked, but he was the only boy she talked to. when she finally had him come over to spend an afternoon at her apartment, it was rather an awkward time for them, used to the structure of school to keep things on the down low. they sat on her bed, listened to ac/dc cds and smoked cigarettes. slowly they drew closer until he ruined everything. "want to make out?" and suddenly the door slammed shut on her fantasy. today would not be the day. "hell no." she replied, trying to cover up her disappointment at how little finesse he had. after all, a thirteen year old boy doesn't have much in the way of tact. his brains are in his boners, but had he acted rather than asked, had he made a move rather than appealing to her verbally, this story would have another ending. she would have fallen into his arms shaking like a leaf, mouths mashed together enjoying the sweet nectar of saliva. had she not been so scared, he may have decided to be hers. not long after this, her mood swings spiraled into dispondancy, the depression took over and turned her into an animal, fit only for her own company. the counselors gave up, the school staff threw in the towel and she attended school but spent all day reading in the library, alone. she was kicked out of her home, her mother lacking both the time and patience to deal with her on any level and forcing her paternal grandparents to step in and become guardians, or jailers, depending on how you look at it. it was in these books she found the romance and drama her soul craved. within the paperback covers she discovered other people like her. she found that she was not alone. she could potentially be anyone or anything she wanted. all she lacked was the motivation, self esteem, and drive to become her true self. of course, nothing came of that. she still sat there in the same chair every day all day reading book after book turning page after page. the books themselves became a drug and something she looked forward to if only to pass the 7 hour school day. outside of school, she was more of her own person. she had friends, even if they were two years younger. her brother was the closest one, and his tomboy friend who lived across the street from her grandparents house. the garret room with the slanted ceiling and one skylight for illumination became her refuge from the world. a place of her own where she could lay around in bed all day listening to the smashing pumpkins and reading novels, or standing on her bed and smoking cigarettes out the skylight. the grandparents who were so indulgent with her father were completely the opposite to her. they had (to her) unfair rules calculated to just upset her. like no smoking, and she had to tell them her whereabouts if she was leaving the one block neighborhood area. to give her something to focus on, they dogsat for an elderly friend saddling the poor depressed teenager with the task of walking the pekinese in the frigid snows. she hated that dog, but went along with the responsibility only because it afforded her the opportunity of walking to the convenience store and snaking cigarette butts out of the courtesy ashtrays. she did not treat the animal with the respect it deserved, but she did take care of its needs, brushing it only because it was fun to play with the balls of hair she pulled from the grooming tool, walking it only because she could smoke. when watching tv, playing sega genesis, talking on the phone to her school friend, or reading alone in her room became boring, she would expore the bowels of the attic. within she found old confederate money (why would her yankee grandfather have that?) a wooden box with the word "stoned" and a pot leaf carved on the inside (thanks, Dad, she thought) and an aluminum case of unknown origins in which she stashed her cd collection, which she grew by ordering repeatedly from columbia house without the intention of paying. by doing that she discovered the soothing balm of bon jovi on a sore teenage heart, the twangy delights of john cougar, the melodies of beck, the dreams of don henley. these songs became the soundtrack of her suffering and somehow each time she cried she felt her heart just a little bit lighter. TBC...