1980s Prom = Virginity Lost

 

 Yes. I lost my virginity on prom night. Can you say CLASSY? See that fantabulous white dress there in my wedding picture? (That would be wedding #1 for those of you keeping score at home.) That was actually my prom dress.

Yes. I got married "on the fly" so soon after high school graduation, I just threw on my prom dress and said, "Let's do this thing."

I've had that attitude about marriage ever since.  I've done it so many times by now, I barely run a brush through my hair before a wedding.



Here's how it went down:

The Boy: We'll call him Dweeb in order to protect his identity. He told me he loved me, he wanted to marry me and that we would live happily ever after. He drove a Chevette. It was ugly.


The Girl: Me. Der. As the oldest of 3 girls and the only one who still didn't know the joy of the intercourse, (Yep. That's right.) I was feeling the pressure. I also wanted to get married more than anything else. Didn't particularly matter to me to whom.


So weeks prior to prom, Mr. Dweeb had been laying it on pretty thick. "I want to marry you," became his mating call. It was very much like a duck call, except irresistible to virginal Southern girls. Once before he had taken me to his house while his parents were gone. He tried like no other to love on me right then and there. I said this to him....

"OUCH!!!!!!!!!!!!!" And then I followed up with, "OUCH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"

I decided I was content to live my life in complete celibacy as I could not for the love of Mike or money figure out why ANYONE would EVER want to have sex. I figured I'd wait until I was married and then, when we'd decided to have a child, I'd take a handful of pain pills, close my eyes really tight and let him get it over with.

But kids, prom is a magical time, fraught with pomp & circumstance and hormones. I got to stay out way past curfew and we were left unsupervised for a long period of time in the middle of the night. I was all decked out in that white dress and Dweeb in his tux joked with me that we should run away to South Carolina and get married.

Let's do the math, shall we?

Prom night + white, virginal dress + boyfriend saying he wants to marry you + lax curfew = OK, OK. LET'S JUST DO IT ALREADY!


After we had midnight "breakfast" at my friend Kaye's house, we left for him to take me home. On the way however, we made a pitstop at some land his family owned. We drove in weeds about as high as the door handle on the Chevette and he commenced to telling me how much he loved me.


Within minutes, he was crawling over the stick shift and the moment I'd been so afraid of was about to happen right there in that putrid green Chevy. I closed my eyes and hung on to the door handle, bracing for the worst.

It was over in 4.7 seconds and he headed back to the driver's side of his luxury ride, his smile indicating he was quite happy with his performance. I sat there staring straight ahead, burst into tears and said these sweet words to the boy I loved...


"THAT'S IT???? THAT'S ALL THERE IS????"


Now you know why someone else is in that wedding picture.

 


Copyright © Sherri Bailey
This blog may not be reproduced in whole or in part without the express written permission of the author.

I'm a Chicken Cookin' Mama

 My house is silent. I cannot begin to express the straight up awesomeness of it. It's so quiet, I could hear a pin drop - if I were to drop a pin for some reason I can't quite wrap my mind around. I don't sew. Why would I have a pin. Or is it pen? Why am I dropping my pen? Could be an early warning sign for something awful. I should see a physician at my earliest convenience.

Today, other than my walk and subsequent front porch sitting with my walking buddy, I have enjoyed alone time. It makes me a tiny bit giddy and whatnot. Lately I get almost NO time alone. None. Zero. Zilcho. Don't get me wrong. I loves the men who inhabit this space with me - but I would LOVE to know what it feels like to LOVE them from afar for a minute.

The smell of chicken breasts broiling after having marinated in Intensity Academy's Green Tea Gourmet Sauce for several hours is almost more joy than I can stand. I'm a terrible cook, as I've said here before, but I'm thinking given the way the house smells right now, I may have turned a corner.

PS: I have no idea what it means to broil something. I'm just using that word because I think it makes me sound fancy. What the chicken is actually doing is sitting in a tiny oven thing I have, sweating as though it's about to be asked to settle down and marry me. I can't even say for sure that it's cooking.

I have an O Magazine that just came in the mail today with my name written all over it (not really, but how cool would that be?) and roughly 4 tablespoons of Blue Bunny ice cream left in the freezer that the mens somehow missed. I'm going to eat my chicken, spread goo all over my face, and just be straight up girlie.

At least for the next half hour until one of them shows up here again talking 'bout, "That chicken sure do smell good," and "Can I have that freezer burned ice cream?" and "Why are you sitting around with Cool Whip on your face?"

Argh. 












Copyright © Sherri Bailey
This blog may not be reproduced in whole or in part without the express written permission of the author.

I'm a Therapist. Shut Up.

Download Google Talk and talk to Sher!

Copyright © Sherri Bailey
This blog may not be reproduced in whole or in part without the express written permission of the author.

That was some kinda scare

As you know, I asked some of my boy toys to answer a few innocent questions for me so that I might do important work by studying their answers. I've always seen myself as somewhat of a social scientist. Of course I've also always seen myself as twenty-one and gorgeous.

Thus the saying, "sometimes you can't believe your own eyes."

So as I was kicked back in the recliner enjoying a fabulous dinner of Viactiv and Diet Dr. Pepper, I began reading through the answers that have been returned to me.

Holy testosterone y'all. I'm so in love with this, I can't even tell you.

Although all the data is not in yet because some of them are oddly fearful of what I am going to do with their info (and their manlies), I have to tell you that some of the stuff I'm reading has made me laugh so hysterically, the Yorkies went and stood by the back door so they could go outside where women don't laugh like longshoremen.

I don't even know what that means but in my head, longshoremen laugh very loudly. I suspect it has something to do with their proximity to the shore. And that they're long and all.

I'm reaching now.

Some of it is funny intentionally. Some of it is funny because it is so beyond insane to me how men think. But some of it is even funnier still because the writer has no idea how hysterical it is.

My favorite quote so far? "I showered for two hours just to get the scare off me".

I love men. When I'm rich I'm gonna own tons of them.




Copyright © Sherri Bailey
This blog may not be reproduced in whole or in part without the express written permission of the author.

I feel all dirty inside. But my back doesn't hurt.

I appreciate awkward situations more than most people. I tried to change early on in my life when various and assorted men didn’t appreciate my profound love of being wildly inappropriate, but resistance was futile. I yam what I yam and it takes a bigger man than me to make me feel uncomfortable.

Last week I met that man.

It all started when I jacked up my back upon lifting some rice cakes from the trunk of my car. Typically I would whine to Mr. Man until he rubbed the hurt away, but as he is currently a cripple, I found myself whining to a complete stranger.

A chiropractor.

As I generally have a pretty dim view of traditional Western medicine, you might assume that means I’m a big fan of the back-crackers. You would be crazy wrong. It is my considered opinion that chiropractors should be forced to wear wizard hats and mood rings and should never, in any situation, be referred to as doctor.

Unless you are a chiropractor, in which case I love them and want to be one when I grow up.

This particular practitioner of bone popping came highly recommended from someone who must secretly hate me. “He’s really good,” she said. It’s my own fault for not asking what exactly he was good at. For all I know she was referring to his mad tightrope walking skills.

So I walk in and immediately I’m freaking out because the OCD Chick in me noticed all his magazines were in a giant, messy blob on the table and it was first thing in the morning. That could only mean that he left the night before knowing full well his magazines were a disaster. What kind of person does that?

Evidently a chiropractor.

It was all down hill from there.

While filling out the papers his receptionist expertly explained to me by saying, “This un here is so he can treat you and this un here is so he can git paid by your insurance and this un here is about that new hippa,” I heard the unmistakable sounds of Peter Frampton coming from behind closed doors.

You’re thinking, Hey Sher…. Peter Frampton is all good. What’s the big woo?

I’ll tell you what the big woo is, Jack Leg. It wasn’t so much a Frampton Comes Alive CD as it was My Chiropractor Trying to Come Alive with his very own guitar. Yeah. I’m not even making that up. He was having a little jam session and playing so loud that had he been even a little good at it, I would have been inspired to flick my Bic and maybe even throw my panties on the counter.

When finally he put down his axe and came to usher me into his tiny pretend doctor room, I was anxious yet optimistic that despite the signs of unprofessional madness all around me, he would be capable of fixing what ailed me.

The fact that he grabbed me, whirled me around, tucked my shirt up under my bra and bent me over, all before we even said howdy, should have been an indication that perhaps I made a bad health care decision. I just figured it must be the international chiropractic hello much like improper groping is the way cops and dentists have always said hello to me.

“Climb up here and lie face down,” he said, obviously pleased he had chosen a profession that gave him the opportunity to say that to women on a daily basis. Like a good girl I complied, only to be thanked by having him pull my pants so far down it was clear he felt my back pain was coming from a freak vagina injury.

“Does it hurt when I do this?” I don’t want to kiss and tell, but that is a question I’ve been asked by every man with whom I’ve ever been intimate. All one of them. (Mr. Man likes it when we play the Pretend Sher Was a Virgin When We Met game.)

Always the delicate Southern petunia, I answered, “Sweet Jesus! Hell yes it hurts when you do that!”

So he did it some more.

“We’re going to put an ice pack on your back, but you can’t have anything between it and your skin,” he said as I tried to look fully at ease with my shirt around my ears and my pants around my knees.

“Won’t that give me frost bite?”

His answer, and I swear this is actually what he said was, “Maybe it will and maybe it won’t.”

Lying there listening to the sounds of his weird rapist breathing and inhaling the combination of Aspercreme and Patchouli, I wondered if I was actually being treated for back pain or being violated by a thirty-something who was losing his hair and could only get women by pretending he knew what he was doing.

Once my back was approximately the temperature of Walt Disney’s head, he moved in for the kill. He twisted me around in a position I’ve only been in one other time in my life and that involved Tequila, a much younger man and a series of pulleys.
He snuggled up so close to me I was certain that any minute the lights would dim, a disco ball would drop from the ceiling and Marvin Gaye would start singing, “If you feel like I feel, baby...then come on. Let’s get it on…”

He tucked my knees in his crotch, held onto my butt and pulled me so close and so hard that were my tubes not tied, I think it’s reasonable to assume I could have been impregnated with chiropractor sperm.

Suffice it to say that I did not return for my follow up appointment when he told me, “I’d really like to see you again this afternoon, but I’m going to be out of town. How about tomorrow?”

I think Blue Cross may have paid for the worst date of my life.

~*~*~*~*~*~
Sign Your Name Across My Heart. Remember this one? Oooo-eeeee. Gotta love those 80's boys who were so manly in such a girlie kind of way.




Copyright © 2004-2007, Sherri Bailey
This blog may not be reproduced in whole or in part without the express written permission of the author.

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