(WARNING: ADULT THEMES!)
Late into the 1980s and flowing on through the early 1990s we had some laughs, my friends and I. There were times that our experiences rivaled those of characters on TV comedies (“Seinfeld”, “Friends”). It was mostly the nightlife that carried us…and, as experiences often do, these often became a part of our everyday living.
I have mentioned previously about how I did not actively seek this life, but was drawn to it and, inevitably it seems, championed it. I would have much preferred a steady relationship as I had had back home (as particularly noted in Entry 0002 Introduction; Entry 1987 Being An Allegory Of A Flooded Basement). But despite my best efforts it was not gonna happen, so—to use a well-worn cliche—when life gives you lemons you—well, you know. So it was lemonade that I had, in the form of seemingly (looking back now) endless one-night couplings with women willing to also have that same lemonade.
There seemed to be no end to the young women I could attract and do with as we both would. And, as I was funny and warm and personable I seemed to be very good at it, which wasn’t helping the argument that the tiny angel-winged me was nagging me about every time. I guess had I not had such success in this coupling, I would have sought some other way to seek companionship.
One of these young women in the early 1990s was named Jenna. No, that was not her real name, and there are many reasons for that, but let’s just say that for the purpose of this Entry I believe she should remain anonymous.
I met Jenna through mutual friends that frequented the nightclubs and bars in Tucson, AZ, where we lived. There was a mutual attraction, conversations were had over the course of the next month and a half or so whenever we would encounter each other, all with my eventual goal to end up like nearly all of the others, naked and sweating and attempting to exhaust and extinguish our passions, satisfying our basest of curiosities. Still, that it took so long meant something I would only know later on.
(Sidebar: several years earlier I had met a girl I found attractive in a nearly-empty bar. After some conversation, it was clear that neither of us were overly ambitious to pursue a sexual encounter—until we learned that we lived a block or so apart. From my second floor apartment I could see her place, and she could see mine. Suddenly we couldn’t wait to get out of there and to her place where we had amazing sex, but that was only sustainable for one encore performance some time later. Funny how those things work out.)
So no—in a strict definition, this was not like the others. There was no drunken dancing, making out and inevitable disrobing—sometimes even just partially—over the course of the nighttime hours, the deed done, ending with a departure. This one smoldered on for weeks.
She was a bigger girl—not really full-figured but very much like Kate Upton. I am tempted to use the word “voluptuous”, except it has been overused to describe such women. She was in her mid- to late 20s, had large breasts, a slimmer waist and a nicely shaped butt, bigger but all perfectly proportioned. She drove a Jeep with a bumper sticker that said “Silly boys, Jeeps are for girls.” She had blond hair and was a tremendous flirt and could say things that made you think she couldn’t wait to get you alone.
A mutual friend noticed my interest and inquired. I said that I thought she was an interesting person and that yes, I would love to spend some time with her. I learned later on from this person that Jenna had always had bad luck with men, she was attracted to the wrong kind of men and always seemed to get hurt and/or the bad end of the relationship. I was encouraged to keep trying to win her over. I later learned that Jenna was also being encouraged to get to know me better, that I was a good person and that I would treat her well.
I don’t recall a lot of phone conversations, at least very long ones. I kept trying with little success to spend time with her outside of our group. Around this time some new music by a favorite artist leant material to this to-and-fro-ing thing that we were doing:
“Living in exile ain’t no way to go
It’s just another way of dying
A whole lot of faces that you call your own
All those faces are crying
You either run or you hide
Now you slip now you slide
You say you will, but you won’t
You either do or you don’t
Living in exile, just gotta let it go
You know that it’s true
Just like a little child, you’ve got to crawl away
It’s the last chance for you
You either run or you hide
Now you slip now you slide
You say you will, but you won’t
You either do or you don’t
Somebody’s got to see this through
All the world is laughing at you
Somebody’s got to sacrifice
If this whole thing’s gonna turn out right
You either run or you hide
Now you slip now you slide
Now you will, now you won’t
You either do or you don’t
You either do or you don’t
You either do or you don’t.”
Eventually she relented and we did have some time together, several dates I guess you could call them. There were goodnight kisses and hand-holding and, much later on, mutual groping, but for a time it seemed like it would be true what Jerry once said in “Seinfeld” about George and his expected “consummation” of a dating relationship—to paraphrase, I didn’t know if I had enough material.
One evening she came to the apartment that I shared with my close friend Thom and made us an amazing spaghetti dinner. Alone in the kitchen with her, I could not make the move I wanted. While she was standing at the stove stirring her homemade sauce I came up behind her and kissed her softly on the neck several times, she moved in a pleasured way and cooed that she liked that. More than anything else then I wanted to get my hands around for a couple of handfuls of those magnificent large breasts and some gentle massaging, but someone walked in before I could.
As for those breasts—she was quite proud of them. She said they were all natural; she claimed that they passed the “pencil test”, which I had not heard of but involved putting a pencil directly underneath each one. If they are firm enough, there will be no sag and the pencil will fall away. I was anxious to obtain my own results.
Despite how it might have appeared, she was not a bimbo, a stupid girl. She was more than capable of intelligent discourse. Our conversations, while admittedly not frequent enough for my liking, might not have been of great depth but were enough to sustain my interest, at least.
My mother and I were planning a Saturday visit to Jerome, AZ, which for me is a magical and favorite place. I asked if she wanted to come along, and she squealed with delight. It was a pleasurable day and we all had a great time, but my most vivid memory of that day was when she saw the sign for the Jerome exit—State Route 69–and she giggled and laughed at that number’s sexual meaning.
My mom was often very outspoken, and she said, “So you like that, do you?” Jenna nodded enthusiastically.
“But what I really like is sex”, she said, matter-of-factly. “Really?” I asked.
“What’s it like to have sex with you? I mean, other than the obvious reasons, what in particular makes it so great?”
“It’s like driving a Ferrari”, she said.
My mother was amused.
Eventually, as fate and whatever cosmic force you want to name would have it, one night we ended up together, just the two of us, going from bar to bar, drinking, dancing and flirting—teasing and tempting me. The sexual tension was at a particularly high pitch, and if I had anything at all to say about it, this was going to be the night when my Material would be put to the test.
At one point our lips were locked together in the front seat of my car and I was finally able to explore those wonderful globes. It was okay and they felt nice and all, but it was not quite the glorious experience I was expecting. She had bragged before that she was very sensitive to touch in her lady parts and that she could climax quite easily, and having what I considered a certain mastery of that I moved in. Soon clothes were loosened and I was at it. I was enjoying myself and she certainly was, but again there was something…missing. I pulled her together afterwards and we went into the bar where we were parked to visit a friend that worked there.
Inside, she was very touchy, very affectionate, very sexual. After a few minutes it was obvious she could not wait to get me out of there and into someplace private. So, in a manner that I can only describe now as moving with the careening force of something like a roller coaster headed for a deliberate destination, we drove to my apartment and my room.
I vaguely recall much of what happened there. I’m certain alcohol played a part, as well as my anxiety to Finally Get This Thing Done. I recall an actual demonstration of the Pencil Test, but I don’t recall having any feelings about it and even just the barest memory, which is surprising considering how much I really had wanted to see them exposed. I recall clothes coming off, and wanting to demonstrate my half of the 69 performance, but she declined because she wasn’t “fresh” (yes she said that), so instead I used my fingers to satisfy her, as before. Afterwards I asked her to get on top for sex so I could have another go at those Pencil Droppers, but she had fallen earlier in the evening whilst dancing and said she hurt her knee, so she couldn’t bend it very well.
She assumed her part of the Missionary Position and so did I, but we had a problem.
She was as dry as, well, sand. She wasn’t like that a few minutes ago, at least where my fingers were…but lower down where I really wanted to go, she was.
The Ferrari had developed an Oil Pump problem. Obviously I would have to repair it if I wanted my Test Drive.
Meanwhile, alcohol having the effect it does on men, my flag was at half-mast, so I asked if she’d perform on me to get things awake and alert again.
Now, I have had many experiences receiving oral sex, but none like this. She was sucking so hard that it was—no joke—as if she was trying to pull my insides through my urethra. While at first that was pleasurable for a bit, after awhile I honestly began to fear for my safety. AND, her head was rocketing up and down, like a mechanical bull that was on 10, broken and could not be shut off.
I didn’t want her to stop because after all this was flirtatious Jenna starting to make good on all the fantasies I had, and it did feel pretty good—especially her great and obvious enthusiasm for the task—but I recall thinking “Who was it that told her this was enjoyable?” I gently asked her to please slow down and go a little easier.
I talked to her while she was pleasuring me, told her how hot I thought she was, how pretty she was, how I really wanted her. Whatever I could think of to get her juices flowing again.
She moved her lower half up the bed toward me. My talk must have worked because I reached down to gauge the situation and VOILA! Get in the car and let’s hit the track!
Because I always practiced safe sex, I prepared myself while she got on her hands and knees. I guess the knee injury wasn’t so bad after all.
I got behind her and initiated the Dance of Love, which is really just Sex. I recall at one point almost losing consciousness, but fighting it off. I was able to close the sale.
By all indications, a splendid time was had by all.
Afterwards there is often that awkward moment when you must own up to what you’ve just done, individually and collectively. This isn’t made any easier when the individual that is the guest suddenly feels like there must be an immediate departure, as if a bank robbery has just been committed.
This was one time when I would have wanted more time…to appreciate what happened, show some tenderness, if just for a few minutes, and then we could leave if we must. But she was rapidly getting dressed and so I had to do the same.
My friend Bram was staying with us that weekend. He was aware of the Jenna situation, as he was often present when we were all out together. What he was NOT expecting was Jenna and I to emerge from my room, obvious in what had just happened.
The dawn was minutes away when we got in my car and I drove her to her Jeep, in the parking lot of one of the bars we’d visited. There was a deep kiss of good night, a mutual thank you for a great evening, and a farewell. And then she drove away and this song started playing in my mind, then just like it does now:
“Just say we’ll meet again
When the sunset spell is gone in the wind
Please say we’ll meet again
Everyone sees the tear in the seam
But talks about the weather
Everyone pays a price for these dreams
So why not dream these dreams together
Just say we’ll meet again
When the sunset spell is gone in the wind
Please say we’ll meet again
That was a dream, that was a time
But nothing lasts forever
Sooner or later we all must go blind
But we can dream these dreams together
Just say we’ll meet again
When the sunset spell is gone in the wind
Please say we’ll meet again.”
That was our last communication. Phone calls were made but not returned. Some months later I saw her driving on the street, but she did not see me.
I have spent some time thinking about this over the years for an explanation of what happened and how it affected me. There have been other girls I’ve kind of obsessed over before when I was younger, but this one was different, perhaps because it seemed mutual. Most obsessions for me aren’t—or they probably wouldn’t be obsessions.
In the retrospect of the nearly 30 years many things have occurred to me. That here were two people high on a sugar rush of sexual excitement, with no plan for what happened when that was over—instead of trying to make a foundation for a real relationship, if that’s what each really wanted.
That it was a clear case of overpromising and underdelivering, of two people trying to make something work that could not and would not exist on its own volition. It was not sustainable. Sadly: it was like trying to keep a fire in the pouring rain.
I would continue to drink the lemonade I was forced to make for about a year, when I met a girl who we will call Kasey. Again, that is not her real name. We were together for just over five years, in a relationship that too often was as sour as lemonade.
But these are stories for another time.
***
“You Do or You Don’t” and “Say We’ll Meet Again” from the 1992 “Out of the Cradle” release by Lindsey Buckingham.
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