Okay, so maybe I’ve learned my lesson after yesterday’s shenanigans. Evidently people aren’t as evolved as I had hoped. Basically, we’re still afraid to talk about S-E-X and everything that entails. But… I get it. I wouldn’t really want to air my dirty bedsheets in public, so why should I expect you all to?
The comments I got were GREAT. I just wish there more of them. So I’m gonna give you another chance. Tonight we’re going to re-do the writing assignment, but I’m going to tone it down it a bit.
Tonight I want you to tell me about the dumbest thing you’ve ever done. And to get the ball rolling, I’ll start.
When I was in high school, I was dating this guy who was a year ahead of me grade-wise, but a thousand years behind me emotionally. He was one of those incredibly brilliant people who had a hard time bringing what was going on in his head down to a level the rest of us mere mortals could understand. That’s part of the reason I was so attracted to him in the first place.
Well, that and he played a guitar. And for a teenage boy, the ability to play a guitar is like coating one’s self in sugar water before stepping into a tent full of female mosquitoes. A guitar makes panties drop. (Not that mine did, MOM.)
Besides being digitally gifted (heh!), my boyfriend was also mechanically inclined. In the early part of our relationship, he was busy restoring a sporty little rear engine car that he loved almost more than he loved me.
And I hated it.
That thing–that 1986 Fiero he put so much work into–was a fucking death trap. A shoebox on wheels, if you will, and just as fragile. Every time a bug ran into the windshield, it felt like the whole car was going to explode. I had abandoned Catholicism long ago, but I caught myself doing the sign of the cross and saying a quick prayer to Saint Christopher every time he asked me if I wanted a ride down to the corner movie store.
So one sunny spring afternoon, he has just completed some kind of maintenance on the thing (hell if I know WHAT it was) that made the car faster and stronger and MORE MANLY. Or whatever. He was proud of it, and he wanted to show his prowess off. So he took me up to the top of the highest hill in the area. When we got to the top, he turned the car around, and pointed down the very curvy, very dangerous, very fucking scary road. Then he told me to hold on.
He let the clutch out and slammed the car into gear and y’all, we FLEW down the hill.
I thought I was going to die.
He took the switchback turns at 40 miles per hour, tires barely gripping the road. The previous winter had left the road dotted with pot holes and areas where the shoulder had completely washed away, but he didn’t try to avoid them. He just threw his head back and cackled evilly as I clawed the dash, very nearly leaving gouge marks where my nails had dug in.
“Slow down, you rat bastard!” I screamed, when we nearly fishtailed off the road. “If you kill me, I swear to GOD and all that is HOLY that I’ll haunt you as the ghost of mother fucking IMPOTENCE.”
When we finally got the bottom of the hill, I’m pretty sure my blood pressure was nearing stroke range. My heart was pounding a merry tattoo, and my eyes were bulging out of my head like a demented cod fish. I wanted to kill him. But he was still laughing like it had all been a great joke.
I didn’t speak to him for days after that. And he didn’t even call to apologize, because I threatened to tell my dad what had happened.
Though that boy-man-child may have had the emotional range of a rock, he was smart enough not to chance angering an Italian man with access to multiple fire arms and several acres where no one would ever find a body.
Now it’s your turn, meine Leiben. Tell me stories so ghastly your own mother’s hair would curl if she ever found out.
And if you’re reading this, Mom, um… don’t tell Dad. Mmmkay?