Listen here: if you haven't been to see Shame That Tune @ Hideout, you're a damn fool what's been robbing yourself of terrific experience. Abraham Levitan is an improvisational musical genius and Brian Costello is a sharp, wry host. Their interplay is spot-on, and the whole thing zips along briskly. Oh, and I won. I may lose at WRITE CLUB with frequency, but it's clearly an outstanding proving ground, because whenever I do anybody else's competitive reading, I seem to win.
The year was 1978, and I was on the cusp of my sexual awakening. Which I think we all recognize as literary code for “still pubeless and untouched by the hand of another.”
In 1978, I was 12 years old, and, knowing nothing, I was drawn to the same coltish and blandly attractive girls as the other dudes in sixth grade – all of whom seemed more advanced and sexually precocious than I.
I just copied the other guys – your Ray Wilsons, your Paul Theilmans, your Mark Tibaldis. In the sixth grade of Fort River Elementary, there were two alpha females – one blonde (Kristin Mallory), and one brunette (Dana Townsend), just like Betty and Veronica.
I developed a bad crush on Kristin, the blonde one. The Betty. She was a gymnast, so she was everything I was not – where I was a chunkwad who had to shop in the Husky department, Kristin Mallory was lean and tall and straight. Where I was halting and dopey, Kristin Mallory was graceful and poised. She was a sun-kissed wonder. I was a hapless and artsy little nerd.
That was the year that the sexual baseball diamond method for categorizing intimate encounters was explained from boy to boy. Honesty compels me to report I had yet to even round first base, because I was, as you will recall, on the cusp of my sexual awakening.
As a budding artist, I had a vivid inner life, and my dreams were far more engrossing than what passed for reality. It was the revelation of one such dream, about an amorous encounter with Kristin Mallory, that made me a sixth grade pariah.
The dream was this: each spring, a fair came through town – a Tilt-A-Whirl, and Ring Toss, and so forth in the town square. In real life the fair was always a shabby mud pit where you had to dodge puddles of puked-up funnel cakes.
But in my dream, the fair was held on a clear and bracing spring afternoon, the grass lush and green. In my dream, Kristin Mallory and I were on a date – I had won her a stuffed panda, and had demonstrated valor by not blowing chunks on the After Burner, which all agreed was the scariest ride. We were ending our perfect date with a placid ride on the Ferris wheel just after sundown.
The bony-faced attendant of this dream Ferris wheel possessed secret carnie knowledge, and though he did not speak, his wall-eyed gaze wordlessly imparted the following as we boarded:
“I kin tell it’s true love for sure. Imma hep you out.”
I feel I may have super-imposed this Sling Blade voice later on, but still. Feels right.
My carnie mind-meld matchmaker then STOPPED the Ferris wheel when Kristin and I were at the tippy top.
Which in dream logic made it sexy time. I totally felt her budding boobs, you guys – AND, she let me put my dream hand down her dream pants, touching the mysterious and fleshy gateway that we sort of learned about in health class, the exotically named parts of which, like labia, I always got confused with the names of flower parts, like stamen. Even in my dream I worried there would be a quiz.
I spent the balance of that dream making tender finger-love to Kristin Mallory in the swaying cradle of the Ferris wheel.
Which would have been fine. It would have remained a cherished memory from the cusp of my sexual awakening.
Except that later that week, I told a few of the other guys in my class that I got to third base with Kristin Mallory in my dream. And they immediately ran and told her. And with scalding tears running down her enflamed cheeks, she confronted me. I hung my head, struck mute by her mortification and outrage.
It being a small town, and word of my perversion traveling like wildfire, I didn’t touch a live human female for two years after that.