If you thought my cringe-worthy, unbelievably-embarrassing moments with the opposite sex started in high school… well then, you really need to rethink everything you thought you knew about The Hook, friends.
I’ve been a loser since birth: My mother once frantically raced a newborn Hook to our family MD after realizing I was orange. No, not a shade of orange… my skin had actually turned orange. Yes, I had the stereotypical Rockwellian childhood, didn’t I?
KARIN: What’s the matter with him? Did I break my baby?
(Yes, she did, but not at that point.)
DOC: Calm down. Karin. What have you been feeding him?
DOC: (Sighing. One would imagine.) Just carrots?
KARIN: That’s what you said to feed him!
I can only imagine the doc let out a simultaneous sigh and eye roll that lasted at least a full sixty seconds. But you get my point, right? Karin meant well, but from the get-go, women have always loved to mess with me. What’s that you say? From what you can tell I appear to be the architect of my own undoing? In that case, this next tale isn’t going to help my rep at all…
My years at Westdale Public School in St. Catharines were memorable for all the usual reasons, none of them academic in nature, of course. It’s not that I was a bad student (not that a bad student would admit to being one, or even realize it) but I was too socially awkward to be academically exceptional. Nowhere was my social outcast status more evident than at the mental hazings disguised as tribal rituals known as school dances.
I’ll never understand why school administrators didn’t streamline this process of mental degradation. It would make more sense to simply strap kids to chairs, tape their eyelids open and wheel one of those old school metal contraptions with a television on it over; I’d rather have watched five hours of car crashes and baby seal clubbings than have to endure three hours of a school dance. I hated the damn things. I’d stand against the wall and listen to good music while my fellow prisoners gyrated like ducks on a hot plate.
One dance in particular was especially traumatizing, though it certainly didn’t start out that way. I remember it well. (I just wish I could say that about every event in my life. Memories are like a fistful of sand sometimes.) A few of my friends were milling about on the sidelines as what passed for the beautiful/popular kids back then bounced around to some diddy by Jackson Browne.
Then she appeared. A vision of elementary school loveliness; so willowy an actual willow tree would’ve been jealous, hair as black as a Kardashian’s soul (which was pretty cool when you consider the Kardashians hadn’t been freed from Hell and unleashed on an unsuspecting populace yet) and eyes that, well, to be honest, it was too dark for me to see her eyes. Plus, I was too busy checking out her chest.
Well, technically, she didn’t have a chest – but I knew something interesting (two somethings, to be clear) was supposed to be there, so I kept looking.
She was an elementary school Olive Oyl who pulled me from the loser pile and into the sea of underage bodies just as the tempo slowed down…
You know what means, right?
Yes, I was slow dancing with an actual female. And not just any female (who smelled like whatever sex was supposed to smell like) but a female from an older grade! Yep, I was the cock of the walk, though I had no idea what the hell that meant. Sadly, my manliness was all in my head, and as you’ll soon see, somewhere else.
I was so overwhelmed with my newfound popularity that I failed to take into account two very important details:
- Young ladies don’t like it when you stare/search for their chests.
- Slow dancing consists of partners holding each other closely – not at arm’s length.
Yes, I had no idea how to slow dance. Admit it, you’re shocked, aren’t you? In what would become a pattern in my life, the girl took the initiative and readjusted my grip while pulling me in close. Veryclose.
I was shocked!
I was gobsmacked! (Quite a feat for a Canadian kid.)
I was being pressed against a girl! Who actually smelled like a girl! And who had real girl parts!
I was being pulled even closer to a set of girl parts and so my boy parts were… changing. To be clear, they weren’t actually changing, it was that suddenly, they were bigger. And throbbing.
Naturally, I had no idea what the hell was going on – turns that is my default setting- and so I attempted to make conversation with my dance partner but all that emerged was gibberish so I gave up on that pretty quick and succumbed to Betty or Whatever-The-Heck-Her-Name-Was’ plan. I’m assuming this broad lost one helluva bet, because she just kept pulling me in closer until my elementary school penis became a perfect fit for her elementary school vagina. At the same time, we were dancing (although it looked more like something you’d see on the Freaks of Nature Channel) and so our respective parts were rubbing against one another…
Can you see where this is going? Because I sure couldn’t. And I’m guessing she didn’t, otherwise I’m assuming she would’ve stopped before I began to convulse as though someone stuck a cattle prod up my young arse. I remember thinking, “Holy cow, this is weird… but so cool!” (It was the Seventies, remember, “awesome” hadn’t been invented yet.)
My dance partner just kept moving – for about another five seconds. Then a puzzled look came over her face [Insert dirty joke of your choice here]. She looked down between her legs. She then reached down and felt between her legs. (Which, I’ll admit I would’ve found hot if I was still aroused.) She looked back up at me expecting an explanation of some sort but all I had to offer was an expression that screamed, “Search me, sister! As far as I’m concerned, this is all your fault!”
Fortunately, the song ended and my partner beat it the hell away from me. (Appropriate, don’t you think?) I went back to my pals without giving a moment’s thought to the wet spot on my kid’s Levis. The gym was still dark so no one noticed it anyway. I spent the rest of the dance back against the wall until I went home and unstuck myself from my crusty jeans. Incidentally, there are twelve more equally eloquent pieces of imagery hidden throughout this blog, so you have that to look forward to.
My buddies all thought I was cool – until the next morning when the little temptress that had made me squirt like a can of pressurized cheese wouldn’t even look in my direction when we passed in the hall.
Oh well, it was fun – and wet – while it lasted.
TAKEAWAY: I’m sure you can’t wait for this one, right? To begin with, if you’re concerned about being so mentally overwhelmed by a situation you lose physical control and blow your top (in my case it was the midriff) it wouldn’t be the worst idea to add extra layers of undergarments. In my case I find four pairs are most effective.
Better safe than sorry, right?
Then there’s the matter of my “mannequin dance moves”. Regardless of what Steven Tyler advises, taking a big chance at the high school – or elementary – dance is in fact a terrible idea if you can’t back your play up with any actual skill. At that point in my life I could barely walk, never mind dance. And when you add the FYF factor (Fresh Young Female) well then, it’s no wonder everything went to hell in a hand basket. One dance lesson from my mom, regardless of how awkward it may have been, would’ve worked wonders for my rep. At the very least, it might’ve helped me build a rep.
Ah, who am I kidding? I could’ve put Travolta to shame on that dance floor and my not-so-little explosion would’ve been all that mattered the next day in the hallways and teacher’s lounge.
Which it was.
See you in the lobby, kids…