Youre Still Young

You're Still Young

That's your fault

Yes, this is a line from a Cat Steven's song. It's a line that's often misinterpreted. In fact, I used it in one of my other stories, and the editor corrected it. When I asked why, he said, "You can't possibly believe that being young is a person's fault." He missed it, and I think it often gets missed. These days, with information about literally anything at our fingertips, I doubt a lot of young people could even accept it, let alone misinterpret it.

That was a Stevens' trademark. In the context of the other lyrics, Stevens is saying "you're still young, lacking wisdom, and experience, and of course, that's a fault of being young."

I don't think he means, "You're unwise, lacking experience and that's your damned fault."

So one day, I was thinking about something that happened to me when I was young, and then about a plot for a new story. Instead of people who've been married for twenty-plus years, it's about young newlyweds, plotting and scheming, no real harm intended, and the consequences.

Copyright 2023, all rights reserved.

Relax; it's just a story, people.

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The real-life story, as related by a friend, which prompted the tale that follows:

I felt heartache for the first time, when I was eighteen, at the hands of a girl in high school, while we were both seniors. I'd met her two years earlier at the local roller rink and we were together ever since that night. Being the same age, we'd both spent plenty of time on the phone getting to know everything about each other, until we finally got our driver's licenses.

Dana, my girlfriend, had three cousins - a twin boy and a girl - her age, and another a year younger. The twins were the ones who'd introduced us. I was approached by her cousin Daniel about getting a bunch of tickets for the upcoming Bob Seger concert. Back then, he was just coming into fame. We went to the box office, carloads at a time, and staggered ourselves in line buying six tickets each and then reselling them at school.

The concert was awesome. The first of three was on a Thursday and I went with friends from school, but I was looking forward to the Saturday with my girl, Dana. We went in Daniel's Chevy Nova. 'We' included me and Dana, Daniel and his girlfriend, and his sister, Vicky, and her boyfriend Jeff. Jeff also went to Dana's school.

On the way home, with Daniel and his gal up front, and the four of us in the back, we were talking about all we saw and heard at the concert. At one point, Vicky and Dana gave each other a look - a signal I soon found out - and Vicky shuffled under her cousin as my Dana climbed over her.

Within seconds, Vicky was basically in my lap, and Dana was on Jeff's.

Vicky gave a sultry look - or something resembling one - and leaned in to kiss me. The kiss was hot! She didn't hesitate to give me full tongue, and was really into it. I don't know why, but as a teenager, I always kissed with my eyes closed. Suddenly I had a thought.

As I opened my eyes, I could see Dana, right there over Vicky's shoulder, her tongue dancing with Jeff's, just like Vicky and I were doing. Jeff was also getting a good feel of Dana's tits with both hands.

For reasons unbeknownst to me at that tender age, I quickly threw Vicky off my lap, which interrupted Dana and Jeff, who were looking at us with questioning gazes. Dana could see the anger written on my face. I looked up at the rearview mirror and saw Daniel had been watching the entire time.

"Take me home first," I ordered him. The car erupted, Dana was back on my lap saying "sorry," and from the others, there were "it was just a joke" and "just a game," and my favorite of all-time, although I'd need to get much older to understand, "It didn't mean anything."

The fruitless pleas turned to demeaning and derogatory comments, as the group tried to turn their stupid idea back on me. "Come on, Brian, stop acting like a baby. It was just to see what both of you guys would do," said cousin Vicky.

Those comments turned to "Little bitch, fucking pussy, and asshole" when I would not relent. I tuned them all out, just staring out the window. I knew I was the odd man out, and this got out at school, I'd have to endure more hassle. After all, it was the five of them against me. Dana kept trying to turn my face towards hers, but finally, after fifteen or so minutes she stopped and just sat in silence next to me.

Jeff was the one who finally pushed it too far, as Daniel entered my neighborhood. "Fuck dude," he said, "you're bullshit cry-baby attitude ruined a good time. Your chick deserves better." I didn't get any punches in with both girls basically between him and me, while they tried to grab my arms. I think I may have hit one of them in the shoulder, but Daniel had seen it coming and raced up and into my driveway.

"Fuck all of you!" I screamed getting out. Jeff was laughing, basically mocking me. I told him to watch his fucking back.

I thought hard about my actions for the next few days. I learned then that I was a one-woman man, and would always be. As much as Dana's actions hurt, I also realized that the lessons I learned about myself were valuable and life-long. Besides never wanting to share my partner, I knew I would always be the kind of man that wouldn't fold to peer pressure.

Dana called all that evening and for the next several days. It was all landlines back then, so eventually, my mother just took the phone off the hook. When I finally did take her call, five days later, she was apologizing profusely. She claimed it was a spur-of-the-moment idea while she and Vicky were in the restroom at the concert, and she promised to never do anything like that again. I did accept her apology and we stayed together until we both went our separate ways to college.

Thirty-two years later, Dana and I reconnected after first marriages, raising our kids, and divorces. Ironically, when we first recalled the event, she told me she'd later learned that both Daniel and Vicky had planned the entire thing. Vicky wanted to 'steal' me from Dana, and since she went to my school, she must have thought she had a good shot. Daniel never liked me much, but he did have a crush on his cousin. Vicky only went to the concert with Jeff with the intent of making me jealous. Now, in our sixties, we can have a good laugh about the incident. Dana knows that she doesn't have to be 'in touch' with the old me - the young me showed her that being with another guy, in any way at all, would be devastating to our relationship.

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I don't know how it had turned to shit so quickly. I've wondered over the years, what if I'd handled things differently? Could I have, and still looked myself in the mirror? Highly unlikely. I am who I am. Of course, being unbending and unbreakable has its drawbacks. I've lost a lot of friends over the years, but then again, were those people ever really friends to begin with? Looking back, and tallying things up, I have to say 'yes,' when asked, "Was it all worth it?"

Emma, formally, Emily Jensen, nee Morrisette, was relentless. Her fiery red hair matched perfectly her personality. Both things were a result of her Irish lineage from both parents. Sadly, her mother had passed at an early age, one year before I met Emma. That had only inspired Emma to live life to its fullest. Her father, named Robert, just like me, seemed okay with me, although he was buried under the weight of being a widower with a teenager at home.

I met Emma because of my job. The restaurant I worked at from age nineteen to twenty-one was part of a three-unit group. Two were in the Detroit area, and one was near Flint. I'd already worked my way to shift lead and was hoping for a promotion to assistant manager. The restaurants were owned and operated by three brothers, about ten years older than me, and ranging from twenty-eight to thirty-two at that time. Lance Peters, was the oldest, and the one I worked with most at our Warren, Michigan store. The other two were Michael and Russ.

Lance tried to maintain a family atmosphere since it was a family-style restaurant. Two of the main cooks were childhood friends of the Peter's boys. The youngest, Brian, was married and a few years my elder. We also had twin sisters working the front counter, who were eighteen then and just getting ready to graduate, introduced me to Emma at a high school Co-op work program banquet. Emma was also eighteen at the time.

Emma was far more into me initially, and she pushed the envelope. When I didn't ask her out after the banquet, Emma would show up as a customer and sit at the counter with a melted bowl of ice cream for hours, trying to make small talk when I wandered over there. The twins were always laughing, and making little comments under their breath. When Emma wasn't there, either of them would constantly bother me about asking their friend out on a date.

Finally, I did, and by our third date, I was having real feelings for Emma. I began to see her as someone that I could spend a lot of time with, and over the next several months, my feelings grew even deeper. Eleven months after our first date, I asked Emma to marry me. She excitedly accepted.

A few things nagged at me though. Her 'all-out' personality could get her in some trouble if she wasn't careful. I talked to her about it a few times. When I told her to think before rushing into a situation, she was slightly placating, which pissed me off. We argued that night and she said she loved me and didn't want her personality to interfere with our love. I relented slightly. Okay, I simply relented, but I told myself we ended up in a stalemate. I wanted her to start taking a 'look before you leap' approach.

Her father and a cousin that we spent a fair amount of time with, named Cathy, always used her Irishness as an excuse for her persistence of being 'right' all the time. I actually think part of her attraction to me was that I didn't just fold when she argued her point as gospel. We got married in a small ceremony. My mother and younger brother had moved to California the year I met Emma. She and my father had divorced when I was fourteen, and neither had recovered financially. My dad lived in Texas, and we rarely spoke.

Emma's dad offered to front us four grand to get started after our nuptials. Emma and I had been tipped off to a single-wide mobile home in a nice park, twenty minutes north of the restaurant. In 1979, that area was still very rural too, which suited us. Brian, the cook from the restaurant, and his wife, Darla, had told us about the mobile home, which had been on the market for only eight thousand. With the money from Emma's dad, we put half down and ended up with a two hundred-ten dollar per month mortgage.

Life was good. Emma got hired at our other location in East Detroit, and we were making decent money for not having gone the college route. When we weren't off exploring, going to concerts, or getting used to domestic life and chores, we were with friends from the restaurant or her cousin Cathy, and her boyfriend Ron.

The twins, Debbie and Lana, were Emma's bridesmaids, Debbie being the maid of honor. They were also frequent guests at our get-togethers. My best friend from high school was Doug. He and Emma got along great, and we had him over pretty regularly, even spending some Saturdays hiking, boating, or on Detroit's riverfront.

Brian and Darla were our 'go-to' couple for movies, dinner and dancing, and the like. Both were older by four years, and I was sure it was Darla who told Brian they weren't attending our little Saturday night drinking parties. It didn't bother me that much. Brian, although a good friend, had a next-door neighbor named Troy Carmody, who was twenty-seven and I hated the way he looked at Emma like a piece of meat. He never tried to hide his dark lust either, so I tried to steer clear of Brian's house.

Now Southern Michigan is a funny place to grow up. That has ninety percent to do with the long, cold winters, I'm sure. During our first winter together as a married couple, Emma was bored senseless. We compensated by starting the Saturday night parties. Of course, we didn't actually call them that. We were both Emma and me, and all the others who came over, also Michiganders. That meant we were all very familiar with these kinds of get-togethers from the beginning of high school. Lots of the parties from high school, including drinking games, dare games like spin-the-bottle, and of course the grand-daddy, strip poker. Since girls were rarely willing to play poker, guys were constantly trying to come up with easier games that would yield the same results.

I don't remember the exact night when we first played a version of truth or dare. I know it was well into autumn, because our friend, Ron got the worst of it. He had to streak to the end of our street and back, and he was still shivering an hour later, despite the heavy amounts of alcohol we consumed that night.

That morphed a few weeks later into the closet game. We didn't have a closet, so it was our spare bedroom, where occasionally, the twins would crash when they were too hammered to drive. You remember - two people spin and end up in the closet, and the others have to try and guess what they'd gotten up to when they came out two minutes later.

I was always of the mind that Emma would kill me if I even touched another girl, so it became boring pretty fast when it was my turn because everyone's answer to what I did with one of the girls was always "nothing!"

Things happen, and that year it was the holiday season that kept our little group apart. Brian had been asked to work in the East Detroit location, for training purposes. It was good for me, because most days, he could give Emma a lift home, and I wouldn't have to drive fifteen miles in the other direction. I didn't see much of Brian that month, but due to staffing issues at my location, I didn't even have time to see my best friend, Doug, except on Christmas Eve.

It wasn't until the last week of January, that the group got back together. As we sat around our kitchen table drinking, my wife shocked me.

"I found out about a new game we can play," she said nonchalantly. Most of us looked up at her.

"It's called suicide," she claimed. It was another card game that included dares, and as she described it, I thought I remembered playing something like it in high school, although with a different name.

The dealer turns cards - face up, to each player - and the person who gets the ace of spades makes up a dare for the person who gets the ace of clubs. It was pretty simple until we all started asking questions.

"What kind of dares are we talking about," Lana asked sheepishly.

"That's the fun part," Emma quickly responded. "The sky's the limit."

There were more questions all around before we decided to give it a test drive. I had to admit, there was an element of danger and taboo excitement that came along with the game, and not only the worry if you got the ace of clubs, but also to see what someone else may need to do.

"What happens if someone reneges on the dare?" I asked. "What if they won't do it?"

"Ah," my wife said, "there's a penalty, that we all have to agree on before starting."

We asked about that, too. I was wondering where my wife had learned about this game. Since we were playing 'light,' we made the penalty less dangerous too. A suggestion was made, by Doug that anyone who wouldn't complete a dare, should get completely naked and sit on the couch playing with themselves for three minutes. As much fun as I thought that might be, my mind went to the obvious 'wet spot' on my sofa. Debbie said we could streak, but we'd already done that. Someone else suggested pouring hot sauce on our hands and rubbing our eyes after only rinsing. That also seemed harsh.

It seems the punishment, or penalty has to be greater than any of the dares," Ron interrupted. "Since we're only giving this a test run, and the dares won't be extreme, why don't we just make the punishment that the person refusing the dare, has to sit here nude for the rest of the game? That should be harsh enough for tonight."

Ron didn't talk much, and I could say we weren't even really friends, but when he did, he was often the voice of reason. We all agreed.

The game was sluggish. If the sky was truly the limit, none of us wanted to breach it. Doug got Lana to kiss her sister, Debbie, who technically involved a third person, but no one but me seemed to notice. The Linda Lovelace movie was still in theatres then, so Cathy thought it would be fun to get Emma to deep-throat a banana. I had to admit, it was fun. Ron had to drop trou for 30 seconds. I didn't watch that. Emma reciprocated and made her cousin suck a hard-boiled egg and pretend it was a testicle. Cathy, always the life of the party, and very drunk by then, made a big spectacle of herself.

The next morning after Lana and Debbie left - they spent the night in our guest room - I started grilling Emma about the game.

"Who told you about suicide?" I asked, pretending to not care.

"Oh, just a friend," she replied with ease.

"And does the friend have a name?" my voice a little edgier.

"Just someone... at the restaurant," she stammered. "You don't know them. They're new."

To go further, I'd be calling her a liar, or at least made it seem that way, so I backed off. "Next time you come up with something like that, run it by me first," I finished.

Emma rolled her eyes at me.

It wasn't the first time, but she was definitely making a statement.

The following weekend found us all together again. The girls were sitting at the kitchen table discussing, well, 'girlie' things. Doug, Ron, and I were watching a hockey game, in the living room. As soon as the game ended us guys heard some hushed tones in the kitchen, and the four women came to join us, saying in unison, "Hey guys, let's play suicide again!"

We'd been enjoying the game and the conversation, but one by one we all relented. Doug told us all he needed to get going, but the girls guilt-tripped him into staying. Once again, we took our seats, and someone said we needed a penalty.

No one said things would escalate, but we all knew it was coming. A half-full pilsner of beer was placed in the bathroom. We all drew strips of paper, and a control strip was taped to the bathroom door. Over the next half hour, anyone who used the head was to compare the strip they drew with the control strip. If it was different, that person had to add some of their piss to the glass, but not say anything. Whatever was in the glass, along with the beer, was the penalty for the uncooperative player to drink in front of everyone.

That first night, I hadn't gotten either ace, so I was somewhat comfortable being a spectator. Lulled into a false sense of security was more like it. In the second round, I got the ace of clubs. Debbie was giggling with the ace of spades.

"I've been thinking about this all week!" she screeched. "Rob, you have to lick your wife's... feet. For two minutes." Others at the table seemed to like the idea.

I've never been for or against feet. They don't turn me on, like some people, but I'm not completely turned off by them either. Emma's were... smallish, I guess, compared to some other women. They were soft, and she often put her leg over mine while we slept. She had been in shoes and socks all day, so I asked her to go wash them.

"Nope!" Debbie exclaimed. "Just like they are. Kiss those stinky feet, boy!"

I knew it was a joke. She was only playing, but it was suddenly humiliating. It took a few minutes after Emma took off her shoes and socks for me to get my nerve up. They weren't really stinky, but I made a big deal out of it like they were the worst-smelling things on earth. That got everyone in an uproar.