It was during a time when horny hormones surged in torrents through my tiny body; when I could wipe the grease of febrile pubescence from my face with a brown bathroom paper-towel and stain it clear through, like a bag of French fries.
She sat in front of me in Social Studies.
The sight of her smooth skin, rolled down skirt, and pink hip hugging thong kept us all in thrall at the rear of the class. By doing nothing at all, with her back to us, she spread herself filthily across the stained canvases of our minds; puerile perversions, plump and perfect, pulsed and throbbed, vibrating, spurring sudden growth spurts, a lack of blood to the head. She played soccer, Captain, and had the hams to prove it. Her legs were thick and lascivious; I massaged them with sweaty, lecherous eyes, watching the curve of her outer thigh where it glistened, just below her skirt. A good Catholic schoolboy, I thanked J.C for the faulty air-conditioner and began to hail Mary.
She was perfect, distractingly so. Staring at her cleared my mind, emptied it so that I could see only her; I didn't even waste time on her clothes. I inventoried her body with a vexing, drug-like fixation, reeling and rapt with teenage desire. Her proportions were perfect and full, not like other girls, who had scrawny, flat mud-flaps and boyish breasts; she was tight and toned and tanned, had curly hair colored like fall's leaves, mischievous eyes, a playful smile. In her there was all the allure of soft, wet, heaven. Mary was so torturously desirable that one of her was simply not enough; she multiplied in your head, standing scantily clad in the mirrors of your mind like life-sized Barbie dolls, one for each day of the calendar-year; Beach Mary; Promdress Mary; California Mary; Reverse Cowgirl Mary; Sleepover Mary; Pink Corvette Mary; Red Light District Mary; Jungle Mary; Down on Her Knees Mary; Tropical Mary; Doggy-Style Mary; you get the idea.
But to dwell only on the swell and the swelling is to paint an incomplete picture. I also wanted to steal away with her, to pursue passions; I wanted a shared adventure. Vivid images of escape, good fortune, magic, dark dangerous forests, far away cities, a stowaway love taken to the high seas, high-speed chases, sunshine laughter, she asleep in the safety of my arms. Her tearful trembling lip and trusting eyes as I'm kidnapped and beaten, swearing to rescue her from the vile villain, spitting a mouthful of blood on the floor after he delivers a fierce blow to my jaw. I wanted to protect her, teach her, learn from her - be for her what she was to me. I wanted to encase her in song, to place her infinite beauty in the immortal bars of a serenade, beside a G clef. To have woken up before her and to have seen the peace of pleasant dreams promenade across her soft, limpid cheek.
Eventually, guided by glands and glans, endocrine and end-oh-cringe, my work became seminal, influencing later late-night toilings and mental midnight-movies, as I tried to pull out of me my most true self. I never dreamt wetly of her; my dreams were never wet, in fact; I would always wake up as I was about to. She was a sucky succubus, limply licentious at best.
As I dote on her memory, even now, I realize how strange it is, how much we aggrandize our infatuations, the way we allow them mythic sway and sovereignty. But only in the present, though; in the future, where present becomes past, as our obsessions fade away into the wistful winds of yore, we succumb to the profligate perversion of nostalgia, peeping Toms stealing glances at soundly sleeping dead dreams.
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