Almost Scarred for Life
I'm going to come right out and own up to the fact that I've slacked with the blog posting. And I don't have the excuse of being in either law school or PT school. I'm just a terrible person.
And with that out of the way, I have a funny story. My friend Beth was going to a wedding in Chattanooga this weekend and I decided to ride with her for an impromptu visit since I'm not going home for Thanksgiving. Being that Beth and I live on opposite ends of town, we'd arranged to have my dad pick me up at a central location to save her extra driving. Which just so happened to be our former high school. We figured that since it was a Friday night, the parking lot would be empty and we could transfer my stuff with ease. But oh, how wrong we were.
The parking lot was CHAOS. Apparently we arrived at the exact moment the middle-school dance let out. There were frantic parents and self-conscious-looking teenyboppers everywhere. The girls were all in dresses and the boys had on ties...and the different genders had separated themselves to opposite ends of the concourse to await their parents' arrival. (I can only presume that the entire dance passed in this fashion.) Beth and I sat in the car and laughed for a good five minutes. And then my dad's priceless words, "I'm so glad I'm no longer picking you up from these hormonal shit storms".
If we're completely honest with ourselves, our first-ever school dance was a horrifying experience. I know mine was. Boys were forced to enter through one door and girls another, and each set got a number written on their hand with a Sharpie. (Mine was 74. I’ll never forget it.) We broke off into segregated little groups and shot nervous glances to the strange, but fascinating creatures across the gym floor. Which might have been a perfectly fine way to pass the evening had it not been for the "match dance". Oh yes, we were cruelly forced to find the person of the opposite gender who possessed our exact number and slow-dance with them. Which was great for the girls who ended up with the cute guys. But my numerically-matched partner was obese, with braces and unwashed hair. I wanted to cry. While we stood there, jerkily rocking back and forth, I discovered that I if I shut my eyes, I could almost pretend I was dancing with JTT. That is, until I felt his erection against my leg. (I still get awful chills thinking about it.) Needless to say, I was completely freaked-out and disgusted and vowed to never go to another dance.
But thankfully, I did not keep my promise (because there would have been many a fun sorority formal missed). But if my 12-year-old self had known that I’d have countless more dance-induced erections pressed against my thigh/stomach/backside throughout the next 10 years, she might never have come out of the gymnasium bathroom.
And with that out of the way, I have a funny story. My friend Beth was going to a wedding in Chattanooga this weekend and I decided to ride with her for an impromptu visit since I'm not going home for Thanksgiving. Being that Beth and I live on opposite ends of town, we'd arranged to have my dad pick me up at a central location to save her extra driving. Which just so happened to be our former high school. We figured that since it was a Friday night, the parking lot would be empty and we could transfer my stuff with ease. But oh, how wrong we were.
The parking lot was CHAOS. Apparently we arrived at the exact moment the middle-school dance let out. There were frantic parents and self-conscious-looking teenyboppers everywhere. The girls were all in dresses and the boys had on ties...and the different genders had separated themselves to opposite ends of the concourse to await their parents' arrival. (I can only presume that the entire dance passed in this fashion.) Beth and I sat in the car and laughed for a good five minutes. And then my dad's priceless words, "I'm so glad I'm no longer picking you up from these hormonal shit storms".
If we're completely honest with ourselves, our first-ever school dance was a horrifying experience. I know mine was. Boys were forced to enter through one door and girls another, and each set got a number written on their hand with a Sharpie. (Mine was 74. I’ll never forget it.) We broke off into segregated little groups and shot nervous glances to the strange, but fascinating creatures across the gym floor. Which might have been a perfectly fine way to pass the evening had it not been for the "match dance". Oh yes, we were cruelly forced to find the person of the opposite gender who possessed our exact number and slow-dance with them. Which was great for the girls who ended up with the cute guys. But my numerically-matched partner was obese, with braces and unwashed hair. I wanted to cry. While we stood there, jerkily rocking back and forth, I discovered that I if I shut my eyes, I could almost pretend I was dancing with JTT. That is, until I felt his erection against my leg. (I still get awful chills thinking about it.) Needless to say, I was completely freaked-out and disgusted and vowed to never go to another dance.
But thankfully, I did not keep my promise (because there would have been many a fun sorority formal missed). But if my 12-year-old self had known that I’d have countless more dance-induced erections pressed against my thigh/stomach/backside throughout the next 10 years, she might never have come out of the gymnasium bathroom.
posted by Rachel at 4:53 PM
1 Comments:
Hey, we can't help it, alright?
You should be flattered. There were many girls at my junior high dances that could never induce an erection (and no, they weren't dancing with me . . . ).
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