Nuts

This past weekend was a tumultuous one.  I had to cancel my date with the 19yo I was going to meet because one of my brothers decided to up and move to North Carolina, giving us all less than 24 hours notice.  I went to help him pack and see him off.  Fortunately Nineteen was understanding when I told her the story.  She offered to reschedule for next weekend, accepted my regret with a maturity that stood in stark contrast to Shorty’s current behavior – a girl who is ten years her senior.

And I’ve broken things off with Shorty.  This girl was way too needy and insecure for me.  She would bombard me with texts and calls and would get upset when I didn’t respond immediately.  She would second-guess every date idea I had, and whenever we managed to finalize plans she would change her mind two hours later and come back to me with a different suggestion.  It took us nearly an entire day of going back and forth to settle on “diner and bowling.”

First she agreed that I could pick her up.  Then she wanted to meet me somewhere.  Then she went back to saying I could pick her up.  Then she didn’t want me to drive all the way out to meet her.  (Never mind that I was insisting on coming out to meet her because she drove all the way out to meet me for our second date, so it was only fair that I did the same in return.)  Then she said I could pick her up.  Then she said she wanted to meet me somewhere because she claimed there were no diners near her house.

Sigh.  Yes there are, I said.  This is New York, there are goddamn diners everywhere (case in point, I passed one just ten minutes down the road from her when we were driving).  Then she was on Google Maps looking for bowling alleys, saying that there nearest bowling alley was fifteen minutes from the nearest diner (I thought she said there weren’t any diners near her?).  But oh my God, so what??  So we drive for fifteen minutes.  Then she didn’t want to go bowling because she’s a terrible bowler (never mind the fact that she was the one who proposed it in the first place).

So what?  I’m terrible too.  It’s just for fun.  She acquiesced.  Okay, we could go bowling if we couldn’t come up with anything else, she said.  Then she wanted to take it off the table again.  Then she was okay with it, she said.

This went on and on.  Sheesh

And on our second date… before we came back to my place to watch a movie and fool around, I took her to the local nature preserve to walk the trails and feed the birds.  She knew beforehand that we were going there, but no sooner did we arrive did she start whining about how she didn’t want to walk, she couldn’t walk because she had sandals on, how it was too hot to walk (it was 70 degrees), and how she didn’t want to go near the ducks because she’s afraid of anything that might bite her.  She literally stood in the middle of the street rather than come over to the pond where I was.  I had to go and grab her before she got hit by a car.  Good grief.

Not to mention that anytime we had a conversation she would get this weird hesitation in her voice like she wanted to say something, or she wanted me to say something.  Then she would go completely silent for an entire minute before she would talk again.  So I got on the phone with her the other night and asked her what was up.  She said she really wanted things to go well, but that she was still incredibly nervous around me.  I made the point that we just did not seem to be meshing.  She insisted that we were, so I stupidly decided to give her one more chance.  I chalked up her behavior to her professed nervousness. Maybe she’d finally loosen up and act less weird and awkward and more normal.

We did one more date (the aforementioned dinner and bowling) but it fell apart halfway through.  So we did it. We broke up.  Now that’s over with. I certainly could have slogged through and gotten laid.  But I don’t want to do it just to “get it over with.”  it has to be with the right person.  Once I got going on the dating scene, it only took me a few months and 20-odd dates to get to this point.  I can get here again, and probably faster now that I’m getting a feel for things.

However, Shorty has not stopped texting and calling and leaving sobbing voicemails.  She’s worried that we were too hasty and that we rushed out of something too quickly.  Sigh.  This is precisely what I was trying to avoid.

All I know is, thank God I didn’t have sex with her.

***

In other news, my blog continues to increase in popularity.  I’m currently at 223 blog followers and have received over 30,000 total views since I’ve started this blog in January of 2013.  I broke 3,000 monthly views in September, after coming really close in August.   In fact, check out for yourself how my view and visitor counts have increased from month to month:

Untitled

Thank you all who read and follow and comment!  I never thought anybody would take any interest in this little blog of mine, so to have received this much attention is flattering.  And the best is yet to come.

Coming up next: The Story of How I Met One Of My Fellow Bloggers.

Stay tuned…

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Tits

Shorty wasn’t inside for more than a minute before she launched herself at me and started kissing me.  I gladly reciprocated, grabbing her hips and mashing my crotch into hers to make sure she felt how hard I was.  I could taste the hunger on her lips.  That went on for about ten minutes before we finally broke for air.  “Now how about that movie?” she asked with a grin.

The only TV I have is in my bedroom, and the only way you can watch it is by sitting on  my bed.  I joked that I’d planned it that way as I led her to my room.

“So what are we watching?”  I showed her:  Fast and Furious 6.  She made a face.  “I stopped watching after the second one.”

I laughed.  I hadn’t even known there was a second one, let alone a sixth one, and the only reason I knew about it is because my 70yo mother had recommended it.  Besides, it didn’t really matter what I put on, because I knew neither of us was actually planning on watching anything.  Sure enough, no sooner did I perch on the end of the bed and take the DVD out of its case did she straddle me.  She was wearing an open button-down shirt over a tank top, so I took off the first item, pulled her hair out of the way, and went to work on her neck.  I swung her around so she was lying down and I climbed on top, my lips continuing their journey down her neck and across the top of her chest.

After another ten minutes had gone by, she took my hand and put it where she wanted it: on her breast.  I started massaging gently as I planted kisses all over her neck and shoulders..  Then she gasped, “okay, that’s enough.”  She sat up and put her shirt back on.  I put the movie on and we cuddled together and started watching.  I think we got as far as the DVD menu before we started up again.  This time she was on top of me running her hands through my hair and kissing me like her life depended on it.  We rolled around a few times and then she whispered, “I want to feel your hands on me…”

I started feeling her up again, but she took my hand and placed it inside her shirt and inside her bra.  I got the hint and started gently caressing her nipple.  Her head rolled back and forth on my pillow and she made all sorts of noises.  Earlier she had slapped my hand away when I put it up under her shirt, but this time she didn’t stop me.  But then she got skittish again and sat up and once again said that was enough.  I knew she was worried about having sex too soon, but as I propped myself up on my elbow and gave her my best come-hither glance, she came at me again.

This time it was her turn.  She ran her hands up and down my arms and under my shirt and over my chest.  “Do you like my hands on you?  Just imagine my body pressed against yours and my breasts would be where my hands are now…”  I was nearly convulsing at her touch and my breath came in ragged gasps.  She started teasing me as her fingertips kept delving inside the waistband of my shorts and running up the insides of my thighs.   Then she put her hand all the way down my shorts and touched me for the briefest moment and  I nearly lost all control.  I rolled her on her back and focused on her chest once more, but this time I put my hands anywhere but directly on her breasts.  I teased her for a good twenty minutes and she was going bonkers.  Finally she couldn’t take it any more and climbed on top of me and dry humped herself into an orgasm.  She collapsed against me afterwards in a quivering mess and muttering, “oh my God, what you do to me…” I simply grinned.

Unfortunately it was time for her to leave.  She had to go to work. Meanwhile, she couldn’t believe that the movie had been running for over 90 minutes and we’d barely watched more than a minute.  “I’m just impressed we made it as far as the DVD menu,” I said.  “Besides – car chases, explosions, guns going off… it’s not like we missed anything.  We live in NY so we already see that every day.”

Anyway.  Needless to say, there will be a third date.

PS – I never really knew what “blue balls” was, but after an hour and a half of fooling around with no release, I was in agony.  Actually doubled over in pain.  I had to jerk off and take a nap before I was able to walk again.  Ugh.

First dates:  19
Second dates:  2
Third dates:  1
Cancellations:  3
Stood up:  2
First kisses: 1
Sexual experiences:  0.6

Lips

I was nervous about meeting Shorty, more so than any other girl I’ve met thus far.  It didn’t help that the evening was off to an inauspicious start and I hadn’t even arrived yet.  Instead I was stuck in traffic.  I ditched the highway for the service road, which was only marginally better.  Finally I passed the source of congestion: there was an accident.  In the shoulder.  All three lanes of traffic were clear, but everybody – including those on the service road – had to stop and look.  Why?  Because people are stupid motherfuckers and that’s what they do, no matter how long I laid into the horn to express my displeasure.

Once I got back on the highway I did my best to make double time.  Unfortunately I ran into another rolling roadblock, i.e. a driver from Virginia.  Every asshole from Virginia that comes to NY decides to get in the left lane and go 60.  Tip: when you’re in NY, don’t get in the left lane and go 60 when the speed limit is 55.  You either go 75-80 or you GTFO of the way.

At some during all this hubbub I managed to call Shorty and tell her I was running late and why.  Thankfully she was understanding.  I only got there 15 minutes late.  She met me outside and we hugged.  First non hand-shaker in a while.  However my physical attraction to her was a bit “meh.”  Nonetheless I had resolved to give her a chance.  That was despite the fact that she was such a fussbucket trying to find an appropriate restaurant to go to.  She Googled every one of my suggestions and changed her mind every time she offered one of her own.  Sheesh.

Anyway. We were seated, we were wined and dined, and between my glass of red and the three hours of sleep the night before (too keyed up) I was getting rather silly.  Enter offensive jokes.  Fortunately she was of the same mind I was, and not only that but she was the first girl I’ve met that didn’t want kids either.  Home run!  Score!  Schwing!

Dinner was over, and afterwards we somehow ended up at a Starbucks.  Sigh.  Even though I’ve sworn them off, they still seem to find me.  And even though we’d been together for two hours at this point (JBlondie, take note), we were still a bit nervous and awkward around each other.  It was also getting a bit late so I suggested that I walk her to her car.  Smooth.

Soon we were standing next to her car, and I shuffled my feet a bit and asked whether I could kiss her.  Indeed I could.  So I grabbed her and pulled her close and we kissed.  And kissed.  And kissed some more.  She tossed her pumpkin crappuchino or whatever the hell it was so she could grip me better, and I heard it splatter somewhere in the parking lot.   Our vertical wrestling match went on for several minutes until we finally ended it and said good night.

It was a bit… underwhelming.  I dunno, it felt like I was kissing myself, I don’t know how to describe it.  But she just about told me that things are only going to get more physical from here on out.  So needless to say, we’re going on a second date.

First dates:  19
Second dates:  1
Third dates:  1
Cancellations:  3
Stood up:  2
First kisses: 1
Sexual experiences:  0.5

Fourplay

I’m really slacking here. I’ve gone on four dates since my last update and I still haven’t written about them yet. So I’m pushing this post out because I have at least three more dates set up for this week.

Date #15 – The Jokester
She was a cute 20yo blondie. Yes, 20 years old. The youngest girl to date I’ve gone out with. I’m not neglecting women my own age, but I’ve been unashamedly pursuing younger ones as well. Because let’s face it – what guy wouldn’t want to get with a 20yo? Not to mention that I’m turning 30 in three months and this is my last chance. It’s going to be infinitely harder to reel one in; 29 is more palatable than 30.

Anyway. She mentioned on her profile that she liked corny jokes and pizza, so after a few messages I proposed an outing where we could indulge in both. Game on. I met her at the pizza place and she was even better-looking in person. Wow. And she greeted me with a handshake, and gave me the same when we parted ways. Interesting. Hugging had been the standard greeting on all prior dates up until then, so I wasn’t sure what to make of that. Then she threw me another curve ball when we went inside. We ordered our food and I took out my wallet to pay, but she waved me off.

“Don’t worry, I got it,” she said. I assumed she meant she was paying for herself, but she repeated herself when she saw I was still taking bills out. I looked up at her.

“Oh! Are you sure…?”

“Yeah, it’s fine.”

Well, if she insisted. It was only pizza and drinks and I wasn’t going to stand there and argue with her. There are some girls who like to pay for themselves. I even have a couple of female friends who refuse to ever let a guy pay for them. Besides, at the time I was fresh from reading this post by Dating Fresh and this post by Tarnished, so I didn’t think much of it, even if she did take it a bit further by paying for the whole date. Perhaps that was just the sort of girl she was.

However, JBlondie was horrified when I told her about this: “Don’t ever let the girl pay on the first date!” she admonished. Now I’m not sure what to think. Out of everything in this post, this is the subject I’m most curious to hear your comments on, so have at it.

Anyway, we got our food and sat down and started our joke exchange. Eventually the conversation turned towards more serious matters like work/family/etc. After about an hour she called it a night. As I’ve said before, it’s never a good sign when the girl calls an end to the date. Especially when it’s only 9 o’clock. I walked her outside, and then I asked her straight-up how she thought the date went.

“It was very nice meeting you and I had a good time,” she said. A very diplomatic answer. Stupidly I’d forgotten to come prepared with a second date idea. Dammit. But I told her I liked her and asked whether she’d like to see me again.

“Potentially,” was her response.

I’ve been on enough dates by now to know what that means. Anytime a girl says, “maybe” or “that sounds nice” or “we’ll see” or anything of the sort, it actually mean “no.” Then she told me that she was probably going to stop talking to people on OKC because she was going back to grad school the next week, and between that and work and driving 50 miles each way every day, she just wasn’t going to have the time. Sure enough, a week later she took her profile down, but not before viewing my profile several more times in the interim.

And that was all she wrote.

Date #16 – The Puerto Rican
My first Puerto Rican girl. She made me blush when she kissed me on the cheek. Very affectionate. However, I wasn’t attracted to her and she was a lot heavier than her pictures indicated. Sorry, not my thing at all. We still had a fun time nonetheless. We met at Starbucks and sat and talked for two hours. Two hours! I didn’t think we were that long, so obviously we had an even better time than I realized. She thought I was very funny and I made her laugh a lot. But sadly I wasn’t interested. So I finally called it a night. I’ve decided that from now on I’m going to take control of the date and be the one to end it. I walked her to her car, gave her a hug and kiss on the cheek, told her it was very nice to meet her and wished her a safe trip home. And that was that. No talk of a second date. No problem.

Date #17 – Bella Dancer
Another goddamn coffee date. I know I’ve said this before, but I’m definitely done with coffee dates now. Food or activities from now on. But we met at another Starbucks. It was close to where she lived and easy to get to, and it was also in the mall, so after we got our beverages we walked around and checked out some of those gadget-and-gizmo stores and whatnot.

After an hour we ended up back at the Starbucks where we had started from. I was about to wrap things up, but dammit would you believe she beat me to it? However, she said she wanted to see me again and said we should definitely go on a second date! Forward… I like it! How about dinner on Friday, I asked? Game on. I promised to get back to her the next day with the details. Then I was out – but not before hugging her and planting a big fat kiss on her cheek. Wow. Real daring.

After I got home I sent her the cursory I-got-home-safe-and-hope-you-did-too text. At least that seems to be what people do these days.  I also reiterated what I good time I had with her.

No response.

Whatever. I shrugged it off and went to bed, and when I awoke Tuesday morning I sent her a “good morning” text.

No response.

Now this was getting really odd. In the days leading up to our first date, we were texting constantly.  And she would respond to my texts almost instantly, no matter what time of day it was. Now she went from instant response to no response. What was going on? Finally I picked up the phone and called her later that evening. Two and a half rings, then straight to voicemail as if she had hit the “ignore” button on her phone. I left her a pleasant message, telling her I’d had a nice time the previous night, and asked her to call me back so we could work out the details for Friday.

Friday came and went and still no word from her, and I took to OKC and saw that she actually updated her profile to complain about what a waste of time the site is and how hard it is to find a gentleman. You’ve got to be fucking kidding me. This is how you treat people, and then you want to complain about what a rough time you’re having on the dating scene?

Needless to say, I was kinda pissed.

Date #18 – Honest Girl

True to my word of “no more coffee dates,” we met at Panera Bread. Before now I’d always assumed it was just a bakery and all they had were bread and rolls. I didn’t know that they served, you know, like real food there. Sandwiches and whatnot. So I pleasantly surprised, and even more so when I met her outside. She was very cute. And another one that greeted me with a handshake. Uh oh. This again? I let it pass without comment. When she later told me that she’s fresh from a 10-year relationship and has only been single for two months and I was only the third guy she’s been on a date with, I simply chalked it up to that.

We had a good time, and the conversation really hit its stride once we discovered our mutual love of reading and writing. My phone vibrated in my pocket at the hour mark, and a couple of minutes after that alarm I called it a night. I explained that I had an early morning and I had to drive back home yet. And this time I came prepared with a second date idea. That coming weekend I was performing with my dance group at a festival that was right in her town. I invited her to come out and watch, and afterwards we could enjoy the rest of the festival. It was perfect.

However, she said she’s had to check her schedule because she worked two jobs and didn’t know yet whether she’d be free. Right. I could see where this was going, especially when I didn’t even get a handshake when we parted ways. She just waved goodbye and walked to her car. Uh… okay then. Sure enough, after I sent my hope-you-got-home-safe-blah-blah-blah text, I received the following response:

“I did, thanks, you’re an interesting guy but I think I’m looking for someone a little more rough around the edges. Believe it or not I’m a pretty intense character.”

I knew I wasn’t imagining her apparent lack of enthusiasm. But I wasn’t going to let this go without comment. I wrote back that I thought it was a little premature to say that, especially when we’d barely gotten to know each other. Case in point, she told me was a pretty intense character but I didn’t see any of that in her at all. Hell, I didn’t even like my ex when I first met her, but six months later we were boyfriend and girlfriend.

Long story short, we discussed it for over an hour. Fast forward a week and a half and we’re still talking. If nothing else, perhaps I’ve simply made a new friend. I’m cool with that. But she was the first girl I’ve met that finally gave it to me straight. Quite refreshing for a change. The only thing that would have impressed me more would have been if she’d told me all this in person rather than after the fact. But no matter.

***

I’ll come back later to fix grammar and make other revisions, but I’ve dawdled on this post long enough and I really wanted to bring everyone up to date. And like I said, I’ve got three more dates lined up. Wish me luck!

First dates:  18
Second dates:  1
Third dates:  1
Cancellations:  3
Stood up:  2
Sexual experiences:  0.5

Dragon

My date counter has been climbing higher and higher, but before I can get to those tales, I was given something else to write about instead.

My old elementary school caught fire the other day. And it couldn’t have happened to a nicer place.  And here’s why:

***

Once upon a time, there was a clubhouse in the backyard next to the big shed. It was a veritable gold mine for our young imaginations; the possibilities were endless. It could be a spy headquarters or a meeting place for a game of cards or a quiet respite after a wild summer’s day. But most the time it lay dormant, filled to the ceiling with Dad’s scaffolding brackets, rolls of tar paper, piles of roofing shingles and crates of tools.

Dad was a packrat. After he filled his truck and the garage, he built two sheds and two stockyards for the rest of his equipment. He always needed more room for his reams of lumber, roofing materials, vinyl siding, latticework, attic vents, old bathtubs, toilets he found on the side of the road, unused windows, extra doors, dozens of empty spackle buckets, stacks of bricks and blocks, wheelbarrows, cement tubs, kitchen cabinets, crates of plumbing and electrical parts, garbage cans of aluminum scrap, and hundreds of jars and cans and containers of unsorted bolts and nails and screws.

Now he was invading our play space. He took the slide off the jungle gym so he could slide in more lumber to rest on the ladder rungs, and hung his extension ladders from the posts we connected our swings to. The spaces in between were filled with sawhorses and pieces of PVC pipe. The clubhouse was our last outpost in the wilderness, and now it too was taken over. I gave up trying to make room in there; everything was too heavy for me to move. My oldest brother Patrick usually emptied it for me, but he saw me struggling one day and decided to take matters into his own hands. He organized the entire backyard, stacking everything neatly in the Dad’s stockyard and removing everything from the clubhouse. We had space to play again!

Dinner time.  We always tried to wait for Dad but he usually came home late, and never called to say he would be. He must have went into the backyard first because a few minutes later he stormed into the kitchen where we were eating. His eyes flicked over each of our faces in turn, finally coming to rest on Patrick’s.

“Did you move my stuff in the backyard?” he demanded. Patrick sat up straight and looked right at him.

“Yes I did.”

“Who told you to do that?”

“I did it because Tommy couldn’t play back there. It’s a clubhouse, not a goddamn warehouse,” Patrick said.

Dad took a step closer and jammed a finger at his face. “Don’t ever touch my stuff again…” he said. His voice was deadly. Then he turned and went back outside, slamming the door behind him. The next thing we heard were loud crashes as he went into his stockyard and started throwing things over the fence. We resumed eating dinner in double time so we could finish before he came back. By the time I went to bed, the swing set and clubhouse were loaded up with Dad’s equipment again.

***

Wham!

The noise jolted me awake. What the hell was that?

Wham! Wham!

I rolled out of bed and padded down the hallway in my footsie pajamas in search of the ruckus.

Wham! WHAM!

I went into the kitchen and the noise got louder. I was getting close. My mother poured me my morning bowl of cereal.

WHAM!

“Mum, what’s going on?” I asked, as a vaguely familiar-looking piece of wood soared past the window.

“Patrick’s taking down the clubhouse,” she informed me. WHAM!

“What!? Noooo – why?” I cried out. My mother only shook her head sadly and turned back to the sink. I ran to the window. Not the clubhouse! But sure enough, there he was smashing the hell out of it with a sledgehammer.WHAM! Occasionally he paused and reached into its shattered remains and pulled out more of Dad’s equipment, which he flung across the backyard.

By the time I left to catch the bus, the yard was littered with construction detritus and Dad’s tools, and what was left of the clubhouse sat in a sad heap at the curb. I paused on my way to the bus stop to gaze forlornly at that broken piece of my childhood, knowing it would never go back together. I didn’t know whether to be angry at my dad or my brother, but my worries were dashed when the bus arrived. I was on my way to kindergarten, where bigger problems awaited.

***

“Can I borrow a purple crayon?” asked the stumpy kid next to me. The hell you can, I thought. I looked at him. Snot hung out of his nose and it looked as if slugs had crawled up and down his sleeves. But I dutifully scanned my selection and saw one labeled “Violet (Purple)”. I handed it to him and he held as if I’d given him a worm.

“That’s not purple!”

“Yes it is,” I said impatiently. “It says ‘purple’ right there in parenthesis!” He made a face at me. The dumb kid probably didn’t even know what “parenthesis” meant.

“You’re stupid!” he said.

“I’m not stupid!” I shouted back at him.

The kindergarten teacher heard the commotion and came over to investigate. “What’s going on here?” she demanded.

“He gave me a crayon and said that it was purple, but it’s not!” he complained.

“Yes, it is!” I said, again pointing out the word “purple”. The teacher snatched the crayon up in her hand and examined it.

“It’s not purple. It’s violet,” she told me. I started to argue with her as well as she kept telling me I was wrong, and I whined in protest until I couldn’t take it anymore and started crying.  The boy and the teacher simply looked at me with disgust.

I was disgusted too. Since day one, I had loathed leaving the comforts of my toy-lavished bedroom to come to this strange building filled with these dumb people I didn’t know and – quite frankly – didn’t want to know. Especially since they all thought I was the dumb one. The teacher was convinced I was slow and needed remedial studies. Remedial my ass. As soon as I could be propped up at six months old, my mother sat and read to me. Many times she heard, “Why are you bothering with that? He doesn’t even understand.”

My mother declared, “Yes, he does! Look at him!” as I followed every word on the page. None of the other brats in my kindergarten class could read. As far as I knew, I was the only child in that room capable of reading anything of consequence. And probably the only one there who knew his address, how to call 911 in an emergency, and how to write and spell.  Regardless, within the first couple of months of kindergarten, the school district sent my parents a letter requesting permission to examine me for “special placement.”

In other words, they thought I was mentally retarded.

In the meantime, I had the clusters to worry about.  We were divided into “clusters,” or groups of students such as the “apples,” the “oranges,” and so forth. I was busy daydreaming about my toys back home while we were divvied up, so when the teacher asked me what kind of fruit I was, I responded with a blank look.

“Huh?”

“I said, what kind of fruit are you?” Her false smile slipped a few notches. “Are you a banana?”

I was confused. “I’m not a banana. I’m a boy.”

“You’re a banana!” she snapped impatiently. “Now go sit down with the other bananas.” I started to cry again, and I went over to the other bananas and sat there with my arms on the desk and my head on my arms. I couldn’t face the other kids staring at me and whispering amongst themselves. I sat like that for a long time, ignoring everybody until I finally looked up and saw that the room was empty. The class was out in the hallway and the teacher was calling my name. It was story time in the Big Room. I got to my feet and trudged after them, staying half a hallway length behind the group. The teacher finally came and yanked me into the Big Room because I was taking my sweet time getting there. I sat on the floor by myself in the back. The other kids gave me a wide berth. None of them wanted anything to do to with me.

I don’t remember what the teacher read to us. Undoubtedly it was some silly shit about a dog driving a car or a mouse making cheese for his friends. I just sat there playing with the laces on my sneakers, staring at my classmates’ backs and willing myself not to cry again. The clubhouse, the crayons, the clusters, being called “stupid,” everybody ignoring me, the teacher looking at me like I was a bug – everything whirled in my head and burned at the corners of my eyes and seared my throat and boiled in the pits of my stomach until I finally couldn’t take it anymore and pitched forward and unleashed a torrent of bile at the class.

Out and out it came, hosing down those snot-nosed ignorant fucks who couldn’t even tie their own shoes or recognize a goddamn purple crayon. It spread over the floor like lava, and those whom I hadn’t puked on were scuttling backwards on their hands and feet like crabs on Ecstasy. The book read to us was long-forgotten, flung into the furthest corner of the room as the teacher jumped to her feet and screamed. I started a chain reaction as a couple of the other kids got sick and started puking on the floor too.  The Big Room would never be the same again.

Dad came to pick me up. He found the teacher and two assistant principals standing around me in a semi-circle. He laid into them immediately: “You called my son a banana? Do you even know what a banana is? On the streets it means you’re a moron, an imbecile. Like you people. You’re all bananas,” he ranted, waving around an arm still partially cast in plaster (he’d recently fallen off a roof at work). I stood next to him bouncing on the balls of my feet, buoyed by happy feelings and wiping the last remnants of sick from my mouth with my sleeve. Finally we left, not before Dad called the assembled adults “a bunch of assholes.”

It was time to find me a new school.

***

A little trip down Memory Lane for ya…