1999 never looked so good.
It was the summer of 1999, I was an awkwardly scrawny kid desperately seeking puberty. Fifteen at the time (ick, totally just dated myself), and still oblivious to my own raging homosexuality, I’d spend my summer days watching Buffy reruns, sneakily using the dial-up internet to search for “Jason Biggs pie humping clips” from this new movie I’d read about in my bible, Entertainment Weekly, and listening to Red Hot Chili Peppers’ “Scar Tissue” on repeat. Listening to RHCP made me feel edgier than I was. Overall, I was a nerd.
During these summer nights, I’d accompany most of my girl friends (Yuck! Strictly platonic, of course. I was still asexual at the time.) on their babysitting gigs. This was one of my favorite summer activities because it gave me the opportunity to raid someone else’s cabinets. My current high metabolism (Please don’t ever leave me) was even more like that of a hummingbird’s at the time. “Mmm, these guys have Oreos and Funyons. My mom sucks.” Whereas most parents wouldn’t allow the teen girls watching their children to invite boys over, it was a common neighborhood understanding that I was always acceptable. Maybe it was because I was a staunch goody-two-shoes or maybe it was simply that anyone with common sense was clued in on something huge about me that I had yet to realize. GaaaaaY!
Anyways, there were these two small brats, Jim and Jessie, who lived in my apartment building at the time. Their mom, Joyce (or pick any other name for a middle-aged woman that equally screams “crazy” and “alcoholic”), really enjoyed the Tanqueray …as well as the pole …and would spend many a nights out on the town. This one Friday, I was hanging around the building by myself as my mom always worked the evening shift. A new babysitter was in town. For legal reasons, I’ll call her Monica, but feel free to choose some other slutty teen name like Ally. Anyways, Monica had a reputation. She was from our rival neighboring town, Livermore Falls, and I
Girls are gross.
had heard a rumor that she’d messed around with my older brother a few years prior. She was a mature 17 in comparison to my underdeveloped beanpole boy body. I’m talking this girl had tits. And sadly, whether she had a reputation or not, I’m sure that these sandbags made sure that everyone thought she did.
I had met Monica in the building hallway late that afternoon and she’d invited me to come play Barbies with the kids. Not one to turn down the opportunity to rifle through Joyce’s Oreo cabinet, or the opportunity to listen to eight-year-old Jessie’s new Britney Spears’ cassette tape (Email My Heart for life!) I accepted Monica’s offer. The Barbie session went per usual; we created Days of Our Lives’ Marlena, Roman and John love triangle scenarios and then ended it off with a free-style choreography session to the Britney album. The four of us danced the evening away and looking back on it now, I believe little Jim’s enthusiasm for the day translates into future queer as well (This is not confirmed. I have no idea where little Jim is today and haven’t seen the little queen in at least 13 years.).
As the night approached Jim and Jessie’s bedtimes, and Monica’s she-beast sex eyes kept undressing me, I knew it was almost time to make my exit. I’d finished the bag of Oreo’s and had Britney’d out for the day so there really was no reason for me to stay. I tried for a swift exit, claiming diva exhaustion, but Monica shot at me like a Cobra springing towards a
rodent homosexual. “You’re not going right? We just got the kids to bed. It’s time for grown up fun now …Let’s watch a movie or something.”
My penis instantly shot up inside me, but my cat-like curiosity got the best of me, “Sure, isn’t 20/20 on tonight? I love that show.”
“Yeah, yeah, let’s watch Skinemax instead,” she barked.
I’m not gay, I swear! I’m just “sensitive.”
As I purposely sat as far as humanly possible from her on the couch, I couldn’t help but notice that every 3 minutes she’d be at least five millimeters closer. At this rate, she’ll be on my lap by 11:00. I began to sweat in places that puberty hadn’t let me know existed yet as I continuously got more and more uncomfortable. What did Monica want from me? This is getting weird, I thought.
“So tell me …are you anything like your brother,” she asked, interrupting my awkwardness.
What did she mean? I instantly thought about the rumor of her and my brother from a few years back, threw up in my mouth a little, and tried to change the subject. “Um, sure. So cats are cool, right?”
“Whatever. Have you ever even made out with a girl before?”
“Well, no, but ….” And then she was on me. Before I could get another word out her slug of a tongue was inside me. It tasted like Cheetos. I did the only thing I knew how to; I kept my mouth wide open and swiveled my tongue like the head of an electric toothbrush, letting her lead the way. I was certainly a little grossed out, terrified even, but like a nasty pustule pimple, I had to move forward with popping this gross beast out of sheer curiosity. So this is what making out’s like …am I supposed to move my hands at all? Even if I was, my frail arms were pinned beneath her goliath sandbags. I started to lose feeling in one of them for a minute. Monica kept tying to move her own arms towards my crotch, but I’d find some sort of eel-like swivel away from them. This went on for a good ten minutes, my tongue
Me, heterosexually acting out my favorite movie, SCREAM, just two years prior.
swiveling/her writhing, until my panicked mind thought about the exchanges’ next steps. Oh my god, was this going to lead to that creepy thing that all the kids in my school have been talking about and I’ve been ignoring for the past few years, fingering? This consideration was too much for my virginal mind to bear. I was UNQUESTIONABLY not ready. I quickly unhitched her heat seeking missile tongue from mine, shoved her off me faster than I had flipped the Britney cassette tape a thousand times earlier that day, and ran out the door, never looking back.
That night, while in bed, I replayed the evening’s events in my mind. Was Monica going to tell anyone about my less than stellar
performance? Even worse, would she tell people how I ran out screaming like a girl? These thoughts haunted my dreams for the rest of the summer of ‘99. And I NEVER saw Monica nor kissed a girl again.