Day 81: Turning the key in the Subie’s ignition last night, AC/DC’s “Highway to Hell” blasted from my speakers. This resulted in immediate arousal and memories of playing Jill’s Black in Black album when she wasn’t home. As I drove the curvy country-esqe road leading home, Marilyn Manson’s cover of “Personal Jesus” played:
That did it. Kenny tore through 25 years of memory membrane like high school football players through big paper banners. I met him in high school but he was no jock. Shaved head, piercings, classic black attire: leather jacket, combat boots, studded collar, tattered jeans. Hot, at least to this 17-year-old drama freak in Guess overalls who felt a church camp dance the appropriate place for her first French kiss (at 16).
We “met” at some cast party, I think, by drunkenly making out in a friend’s basement corner. He was the closest thing to a boyfriend I had in high school. Not one for small talk, our dates consisted of driving to his well-appointed house in a tony neighborhood (strangely appropriate, like a John Hughes movie), turning on the TV and attacking each other on the couch. Hands and mouth favored my breasts while my hand rubbed his hardening cock through black denim. Remember when that was enough to produce a heavy ache between your legs? And that was enough?
At another party in another friend’s basement (this was senior year after all), we barely made it to the stair landing before seeking each other’s mouths, bodies pressed together as people walked by for another beer, cigarette, or the bathroom. Raging hormones trumped shame or embarrassment.
Alas, physical attraction alone proved too little reason to stay together for me. Then, there were the knives. Kenny stashed an impressive, if unsettling, collection of knives in his bedroom. Bad boys = sexy. Bad boys who played with knives while wearing a Jack Nicholson grin = moving on.
Still, wherever you are now, Kenny, thanks. Just thinking of you brought back that heavenly ache. It hurt so good.