I've spent countless hours looking at the world through a viewfinder ever since I got my first 35mm film camera, many moons ago. I'm not a classically trained head shrinker but my ability to spot a trainwreck walking my way is uncanny and should at least get me college credit. Not that I listen to my gut as much as I should, mind you. Hell, half the time I never paid it any attention at all and the other half of the time I couldn't wait to see how gloriously bad this mistake was going to turn out to be. Much like my naughty kitten was turning out to be.
Distractions aside, the reason I bring it up is pretty simple. I believe that people get their kinks and ideas of what is pleasurable during intimacy within the first few experiences with sex they have of any kind good, bad, or ugly. There are exceptions, I fully understand that. Women that fall into that category are the most interesting to be with. For them, anything goes or at the very least they'll try anything once and maybe even twice just to make sure if they liked your goto move, or not, under the sheets. Not giving advice that you wouldn't use yourself is a smart rule to live by in my humble opinion.
I guess that's why my dad and I stopped talking to one another. The more I knew him, the more of a hypocrite he turned out to be in my view. Every day, I try to apply how I treated everyone I came into contact with and turned that treatment inwardly on myself. Just to see if I would judge my own skeletons or even my self morality in an honest way. That was when memories of Dawn started to bubble back up to the surface from the vault of long ago lovers. Sometimes you look back and just shake your head at missed chances, other times you just smile at how stupid you were at points with a former mate. With her, it was all of that and now some remorse that things ended the way they did. I was young, dumb, and the poster boy for being full of cum. (Laughing) The few old photos still around are bittersweet.
Almost as depressing is remembering my early teenage years living at home. When I mentioned I grew up in the middle of nowhere, it was accurate to a certain degree. There was a small town my parents moved us to when I was still in grade school. It was an attempt to placate my mother's desire to be back to where the rest of her family happened to be. My grandfather's family had worked the land outside of town for generations before the highway system was built and then helped to build it when the time came. It was corn fields and little country stores for miles around. That's just how boring life is there.
I laugh about it now after having been at invite only after parties in L.A., but when the younger you is stuck in the boonies and not much to do, you'd jump at the chance to hit the regional flea market, right? A bad influence I thought was a friend and later turned out to be a jealous douche, offered to take me with him and I wasn't about to turn it down.
Even as much of an ass as he would turn out to be later, his car at that point in time was priceless, and he had the keys to escape the monotony. Off we went to seek high adventure. Our destination could have been better then what it happened to be. The flea market is one of those places that is sort of hard to describe to someone that didn't know the joy of forced attendance every Saturday morning for years growing up. Imagine if you will a handful of large warehouse sized buildings that house the fairway of a carnival for a food court and the vendors hawking wares are a weird mix of Let's Make A Deal and American Pickers. On any given trip you could snag some counterfeit shoes, DVDs, and maybe that rear differential for a International tractor you never knew you really needed. All the while stuffing your face with elephant ears and all the Mt. Dew you could wash it down with. Thinking about it now makes me want to do a thirty minute cardio workout just to make amends to my poor stomach. It's quite a sight to see the herd of people grazing fried foods and bargain hunting.
And in all of that hayseed utopia, I meet her. A quarter native American, long brown hair, a cute face, and a body as enchanting as the smile on her lips that said 'I will eat you alive!' The first time she walked by we barely made eye contact. But that was all I needed. I told my cocky ass self right then and there if she came back by, she was going to be mine.
Promises to yourself are one thing. Making them happen is an entirely different game, shooter. The only problem, small in nature as it was, was the fact I had only had one serious relationship before and had no real game to win a damsel's heart... none... nothing. Plus, add to it that the guy I was there with saw the whole thing go down and was doing his best attempt to be Bill Parcels ordering me on to glory. Five, ten minutes goes by and no sign of her. Somewhat crestfallen, I went back to looking at nun-chucks, samurai swords, and throwing stars to put out the flames of romance that were crashing and fading all around me.
Wanting to lose the disappointment as quickly as possible I went back to scanning over weapons more likely to give you tetanus then kill anyone.
Some ethereal tap on the shoulder made me turn around. There she was. The gods had decided to give me another shot or they had a sinister sense of humor. Either way I wasn't about to let it slip through my fingers! I don't know why, I don't know how or where it came from, but a pickup line I heard somewhere popped into my mind, and all I could think was, 'Fire in the hole!' When you're that age, stupid ideas are quick to go up into mushroom clouds of failure... or become legendary. That day, for one shining moment, I was immortalized.
