Cabin Six

At the beginning of sixth grade, the first year of middle school, we had Mandatory Sixth Grade Camp. In other words, get to know your peers in a controlled yet uncomfortable environment! Stay for 2 awkward days and 1 cold-ass night! Don't worry kids - we brought the cafeteria food with us, no campfire s'mores for you! And get ready for some required teamwork - only the strong will survive! (Well, socially that is.)

Anyway, considering my shyness and discomfort with unfamiliar situations, it didn't start out all that bad. We weren't exactly "roughing it" as we had little musty cabins to sleep in that held 4-6 people. And as mentioned, at least you only had to put in one overnight stay. The thing that sucked was being separated from your friends, as almost all activities were with an assigned group.

One of the few memories of the experience that sticks out in my mind was the hopeful feeling I had as I got my cabin assignment and headed off to find out who else would be in it. Maybe a friend? An acquaintance at least? Hey, maybe a possibility for a *new* friend I just hadn't met yet! (Ok, so I was a bit naive, but hey at least I was positive.)

I reached the cabin at the same time as another girl. She was pretty and had that more polished look (which at the time probably just meant a spiral perm and Umbros) of one of the richer girls. She didn't look too happy to see me coming, but I figured that like me, she must've just been thinking this camp experience was kind of weak. So I smiled and said "Oh, hi! I'm [so and so] - looks like we're in the same cabin..." Her eyes narrowed as she assessed this information. "Oh yeah? Well, I'm Katie..." (pausing for effect) "and I'm your worst nightmare." And with that, she stepped inside, slamming the door in my face.

Camp got off to a GREAT start.

But not long into the camp experience, it became clear that this Katie bitch wasn't what ended up as being my worst nightmare. Nope, I think I'd have to go with the state of the "bathrooms" along with being painfully constipated for two days as being the worst part. The thing was, at that age I tended to be horribly embarrassed by any bodily function as it is, so having no stall doors and only being permitted to go to the bathroom in groups was not something I was down with. If you were lucky, you had a friend who would hold her coat up in front of you while you went to the bathroom. But I wasn't about to ask her to keep waiting there so I could drop a load while within arms length (and definitely within smelling range) of each other. Lame. I just could not will myself to do it. So by the end of the next day of holding it in through climbing, jumping and other hateful activities, I was really having a BAD time. All I could think about was the concrete mixer action going on in my guts, and how it felt like either my ass or my head was going to explode. I didn't really care about teamwork anymore. I just wanted out of that fucking camp and to a reasonably private facility that didn't smell like sulfur so I could poop in peace. I hung in there for the rest of the time and begged my mom to drive straight home as fast as possible when she picked me up. So, seeing as how constipation is my clearest memory of sixth grade camp it's no wonder that I didn't make a bunch of new friends there, nor did I participate very well in team activities. Other people took my silent frowning as being stuck up, not stopped up. So, overall it was truly a pretty crappy experience for me. Ugh.

Side note: my friend was telling me about an actual "roughing it" hiking/camping experience she went on in high-school, complete with having to dig a hole to shit in, for two weeks. Call me over-sheltered folks, but you'd have to count me out of that. I like nature and all, but I just don't know if I could hang with being "at one" with it quite like that. My stomach hurts just thinking about it.

High School Sucked: An Occasional Series

10th grade English. We were supposed to be quietly reading Shakespeare. I felt sick, claustrophobic, and like I may burst into tears at any moment despite the medication that was intended to do otherwise. I made my way to the front of the classroom and asked Mrs. B in a whisper if I could have the bathroom pass. Up until then, we had a decent student/teacher relationship I thought. Unlike most of the jocks in my class I actually gave a shit about what we were reading or writing. But that was mostly thrown out the window in my case due to the fact that I had started accruing a substantial number of absences which I never really explained, so most teachers had me lumped into the "slacker" category. Unlike those who had initially made themselves known as slackers, I was treated with more disdain because no one likes to see someone who started out with potential head downhill so fast. Mrs. B looked up at me with a frown and shook her head "I'd rather not have you leaving class" she said sternly "I've spoken with Mr. S (my guidance counselor) and I know about your... problems." I cringed. While no teacher wants a student who's a possible mental case on their hands, she said it in a way that made me feel if I'd just asked permission to deface school property. Or as if I belonged in a straight jacket. Tears welled up in my eyes. "Well I had thought that was confidential" my voice shaking "but I'm really feeling sick and need to go to the bathroom." She handed me the hall pass, expressionless. "Quickly." I went to the bathroom in tears and dry heaved in one of the stalls. Now I wished that I was the type to deface school property. Fuck them. I wondered who else knew about my "problems" and regretted confiding in the guidance counselor. After all, we both knew he wasn't the kind of "counselor" I needed but he was the person I was assigned to speak with if I was having trouble. And talking to him meant more time away from classes that I hated, which I was sure they would also catch on to if they hadn't already. I didn't expect their sympathy, but I also didn't understand why my hurting myself made other people so angry. If this was some inspirational movie, there would've been some special teacher that reached out to me but also commanded respect and put me in my place with some tough love/heavy dose of reality kind of stuff. And I would struggle and cry and threaten, but after an uplifting music montage of getting my life back on track, would be a better stronger person for it. But of course I'm not saying that happened.

The (infamous) First Time

He was a Dutch boy from out of town. Friend of a friend. Front teeth were crooked in an endearing little way that made me think he must've been a thumbsucker. He had a mohawk and it would usually be Punky Color'd bright blue or pink. He was the quiet bass player wearing the Operation Ivy T-shirt and drawing black and white checkers on stuff. He had thick fingers and liked Big Macs. His eyes were sparkly and devoid of concern. A thick, heavy chain around his neck was clasped with a padlock. At some point, he gave me a key to it. I'm only half-ashamed to tell you that I was the one who pursued him. I was seventeen.

There was this urgency to get *it* over with. I had NEEDS, people! Mrrowr! Gimme, gimme, GIMME! Oh but there was more to it than just being pent up with sexual frustration. Like most other milestones in life, I just wanted to do it like it was some rite of passage into coolness. I don't think he could've cared less whether or not he was the one to deflower me, but I was insistent. I was going to be home alone all weekend and this was the big chance.

I had already met his penis, so I wasn't intimidated by that aspect of it. The previous time he had been in my room had ended up in an exhausting 20 minute blowjob in which he laid there lifelessly except for a half-chub then finally said "hey, I think I gotta pee." So yeah, a whole lot of passion right there.

I didn't exactly expect fireworks. I kind of expected it to hurt, but then get better. It was... well, it was something. But not quite what I had expected. I was too nervous to get that turned on, but still thought that I would just be overcome by a feeling of closeness or well, something. Turns out I had just read way too much erotica over the years and got myself way too psyched up about it.

Back to the bedroom. We got naked. The 3-pack of condoms were produced. There wasn't much foreplay, it was more like "Ready? Ok, here goes." Turns out, it wasn't excruciating. Or moan-inspiring. It just was what it was. He slumped over me for a while, I dodged getting hit in the face by the swinging padlock around his neck, we got a little sweaty and it was done. He immediately pulled the condom off and set it on my nightstand. Classy.

We laid there with the lights out for a bit. Moonlight shining in. I thought about what we had done. I finally did it! Yay? It felt like something was missing. The following was probably the stupidest thing he could've said to me, but only because it was preceded by the stupidest thing that I could've said at the time.

Me: (hopefully) "I... love you"
uncomfortable silence, crickets chirping
Him: (exasperated sigh) "Well... you shouldn't"
turn so I can face away from him in pouty silence
Him: "Did you say there was some Dr. Pepper downstairs?"

Classic!

We stepped outside and smoked our respective cigarettes. It was late. We went back inside and he seemed to be gathering his things like he was going to leave. Again, it just didn't feel right that that was "it". I gave him a pleading look and pulled him by his chain back into bed. "One more time before you go?"

4 minutes later...

Yep, I guess that was it. Huh. I didn't even really break my cherry until my next, better-endowed boyfriend (bless his heart.) Too much info there? Was that mean? Well, fiddlesticks. I don't come out looking too great in this story either. I only had one more experience with the punk boy - in which he had just returned from a Gwar show and got fake blood all over my pillow. Then he disappeared for a while and ended up hooking up with that 15 year old girl that had always liked him but he had always pretended he didn't like her (and I wonder - did she have the other key to his lock? Because I kept mine.) So you know, the typical "first time" story.


Blogger challenge!
I think you should write about your first time, too. It would be cool. Just a suggestion. Not just because I've got a filthy mind, but because I'm curious and nosey! (Well unless it's one of those actually traumatic experiences that you don't want to relive.) Come on now, peeps. We're all friends here, right? Take a seat, have yourself a little drink and tell me all about it.

Fourth Grade Foibles (Part 3)

Part Three of... Possibly More?

Read Part One

Read Part Two

How long did my romance with Keith last? A few weeks? A month? I can't quite remember, but it didn't seem like very long. Plus I think we had decided to "go out" right before school was over so I didn't get to see him as much anymore anyway. No more sneaky kisses.

It was that summer that my mom decided she was going back to school in a city 3 hours south of where we were and I decided to move with her, leaving my dad, my stupid brothers, and well, Keith behind. I remember calling Keith to tell him the news and not being that impressed with his reaction. He was just kind of quiet and then said his mom was calling him and he'd have to go or something. Ohh, I don't think he was that sad. Was he? He probably just didn't know what to say. That was the last time I ever talked to him, even though it was a while before I actually moved away. I was kinda sad about it for a while, but my mom and her newfound liberation kept me from going on about boys too much.

So, that was about it for the "action" I got in fourth grade. Oh wait, no. I umm, I also humped a girl.

Fourth Grade Foibles (Part 2)

Part Two of A Few

Read Part One First

Alright, I didn't actually end up "going out" with both Keith and Brandon at the same time. Come on. And be like that two-timin' chump Kaylan? Nah. What I did do, however, was have most of the class vote on who they thought I should go out with. Oh yeah, ballots and shit - you know it. Alright, more like a sheet with "check one" on it, but still. Nice, huh?

Brandon was the popular, blond haired, class-clowney kind of guy while Keith was a quietly funny, polite, brown-haired guy. Naturally, nearly everyone in class voted for Brandon. I remember that piece of paper being passed back to me just before the end of class and I looked at it and smiled.

And of course, decided to go out with Keith. Ha.

After all, he talked to me first and I knew Brandon wouldn't really care either way. Plus, I always liked rooting for the underdog.

I think I made a good choice. We never actually did "go out", but one day I convinced Keith to ride his bike over to my house. He whined a little bit about how far away it was, but I insisted. I think for some reason I was going to be alone there or mostly unsupervised for a little while. And of course, I had plans.

I knew I was not supposed to have boys over, let alone have them in my room but I didn't seem to care. When Keith got there, we went in my room where I informed him that we were going to "kiss like they do on TV", demonstating a long french kiss as an example with my pillow. He was a little intimidated by that. After a little compromising, we ended up doing more of a "kiss like fourth-graders would" but hey, I was just happy to get a kiss at all.

And, as you'll see below - he even wrote me a sweet little note! Sure, it took some urging, but it's pretty good, I think. I've been holding onto this one for a long time. I think it was my first "loveletter" from a boy. It still makes me smile.

click to enlarge & squint your eyes to read

What about you? Have you kept old-school love notes? Do you remember the ones you've written?

Fourth Grade Foibles

Part One of A Few

So, fourth grade was pretty sweet. I mean, looking back I had a bunch of fucked up family shit going on and all that BUT I was also in public school instead of Catholic so I didn't have to wear uniforms, which I thought was the shiz at the time. (I actually transferred over in 3rd grade, but I don't remember much of note during that year.) And I could wear EARRINGS, well - I'd hide the really dangly ones that my mom didn't like and then put them on once I got to school. It was a really nice elementary school and I was happy there. Plus the school had the COOLEST playground, and we were even allowed to go about 3.5 feet into the adjacent woods and make forts. Forts! Awesome.

So, I never really went through that "boys are icky" stage. Or I did, but that didn't stop me from chasing them. There was this boy that I thought was cute. His name was Kaylan or some crap like that. He had bronze skin and an oblong head and I don't remember much about him but he was popular. I liked him, and then my friend decided she liked him too, and she'd go ask him who he liked. He was all "Well, why don't I go out with both of you and see who I like better?" What a pimp. I inevitably lost, though neither of us actually "went out" anywhere with him. My friend snarkily announced that she had been chosen while we were on the playground, maybe a day or two later. I went off to the woods area and was feeling half-sad and defeated. This nice boy Keith came up and after hearing about it, said
"Well, I woulda picked you"
(sniffle) "You... you would?"
Then his friend Brandon came up.
"Yeah, I woulda gone out with you too."
(beaming)"You... really?"
They look at each other, and back at me.
(light bulb goes on) "Well, I've got an idea, boys - how bout I go out with both of you and see who I like better?"