I am so fucking excited!! I have to use that word now because it may not be deemed acceptable in my new "Humor Writing Level I" course that I just started Tuesday.
Long story short (because I'd rather get to sharing all about "Operation Heterosexual" as titled above), I've been experiencing writer's block since May. I bitched, moaned and complained about it. The Universe intervened via the suggestion of a dear friend to sign up for a writing class. I did. It started. I have my first assignment due and, as promised, I am sharing it with all of you.
The assignment is to write about an aspect of my life with humor and exaggeration. That's not exactly difficult given my sarcastic ways, but I'm jazzed nonetheless. So, here is what I submitted; God help this poor Professor.
My youth was every teenage boys dry dream. Awkward stages happen, yes, but these were awkward decades. Think of the movie “Weird Science” being edited by a team of baby dykes. I played the starring role of Wyatt Donnelly and, to be clear, the nerd version not the cool version. Go ahead and Google Ilan Mitchell-Smith’s character. It’s like looking at a male version of me circa 1990 minus the braces and signature mullet.
It started right out of the womb when I was born bald and remained that way for the next two years. My Mom would slap the nearest bow on my head in hopes to steer the comments away from “Oh, I love your child’s pink dress. Did he pick that out himself?” and more towards “Your daughter is the most beautiful little girl in all the land.” I was adorable regardless, but that never seemed to be enough. The stray neighborhood cat looked more feminine than I did.
Fast forward to Elementary School where one morning was spent wailing because it was school picture day and, come hell or high water, I was going to look as pretty as all the other girls in my blue doily dress, white tights, and brown shoes. I am convinced that those tears were less because of the dress and more because even I knew that brown and doily was not a good match. The underlying issue, however, was that I wished I had the language and knowledge then to just say to my Mom, “Look, putting me in a dress isn’t going to change my desire to look up other girls’ dresses.”
Now here I am in Junior High School and, not only am I willing myself to like boys, but I am trying desperately to fit in. Cue the dreaded “P” word, “pocketbook”. This is what my Mom called it and I was told that I absolutely needed to carry it. Apparently hauling maxi pads in the front pocket of my jeans was beginning to make people question what was really happening “down there”. I couldn’t fight it any longer. It was time to start acting like a lady; not only did that mean carrying a purse (another vile “P” word) but it also meant war paint. Known by some as make-up.
I slathered on baby blue eye shadow, velvety red lipstick for ladies over 80, and blush so perfectly round and pink that it looked like someone dipped my cheeks into frosting filled cupcake tins. I was what one would consider a HOT. MESS. That did not stop me from trying though. I was almost there. I had the perfectly coiffed mullet, the handbag (different name, same dirty feel) and the war paint.
One more final step before “Operation Heterosexual” would be complete. Kiss a boy.
The mere thought of this event still triggers my gag reflexes. Since I cannot conjure up a winning way to describe the anguish of this kiss, I am just going to lay it all out there for you. The kid reeked! To my knowledge, soap and deodorant were on the market back then. Toothpaste and toothbrushes were not novelty items either. Once he strategically placed himself firmly on the rock to meet me at eye level, he moved in for the kill and I honest to God threw up in my mouth (and no, not because he had a penis.) I swear I tasted leftover liver and an onion with a side order of what I believe was asparagus. I’m not entirely sure, but it’s a great educated guess based on what I could gather looking at his braces.
In the spirit of giving this smooch the good ole college try, I mustered on and our tongues touched. I can only imagine how bad it was for him because I sure as hell wasn’t doing any favors for our passion when my tongue decided to go limp. I willed that sucker to move around a little bit and show some signs of life, but it wasn’t happening. We remained there in an awkward lip-lock until he slipped off his pedestal and into the tree behind him.
Sweet Jesus, there is a God and He loves the Homo! My beau honed in for more but I simply couldn’t go on. I threw in the proverbial towel and just flat out said, “This isn’t for me.” As expected, he didn’t handle my rejection very well which was evidenced by the nasty note that fell out of my locker the following morning which said, and I quote, “Your tits are too small. I’ve seen bigger lumps in oatmeal and you can’t kiss for shit!”
For starters, my tits have always been awesome. Even now they enter a doorway before I do, perky and ready to party. Other key points to consider; he was standing on a rock, hands in his pockets, and still chewing last nights chow. Not to mention, prior to this revolting encounter, I had already made out with my pillow, my elbow, Tender Heart Care Bear, and a picture of Jo Polniaczek in Tiger Beat magazine, without so much as one objection.
For those still wondering, “Operation Heterosexual” was a bust.