I went to a private middle school in Coral Gables, FL, so obviously there were a ton of Jews. In 7th grade I was invited to over 27 thousand bar mitzvahs. They were a lot of fun, and thinking back, I’m sure they were even more fun for the parents because they were all drunk. I don’t remember whose this particular one was, but at the dance party, near the end of the night, around when our parents would come and pick us up, I asked the girl I liked if she wanted to dance. She was the star soccer player on the girls’ team.
She accepted, and as we slow-danced, awkwardly I’m sure, the whole time I was trying to muster the courage to ask her out, to ask her to be my girlfriend. As the end of the song neared, I uttered the words everyone used at the time to become a couple: “Will you go out with me?” She immediately said yes, which was a relief, but also not surprising, because at that age you don’t ask someone out unless one of her friends leaks the secret to you that she likes you. Then we went and sat down at a table.
Full of confidence because I had a new girlfriend (a real cutie), I put my arm around her as we sat there. No less than a minute later, her father came up behind her to take her home. I remember feeling embarrassed that I was “caught” with my arm around his daughter, and I doubt I even made eye contact with him or acknowledged him.
So that’s how I came to be in a “relationship” with Monica. I put “relationship” in quotes because although she was my girlfriend, I don’t think I said more than a few words to her throughout the “relationship”. I actually don’t remember ever having a real conversation with her. One thing I do remember is seeing her at a soccer tournament, not saying anything to her, and my mom pushing me toward her telling me to go talk to her. I didn’t go talk to her. I was too shy, and understandably self-conscious about going and talking to her under the smiling eyes of all four parents. That’s a lot to handle for a shy 12 year-old.
I don’t know about you, but I remember feeling much older and more mature than my age back then. It was embarrassing and offensive to me that adults would observe my antics and think they were cute, when I knew exactly what I was doing, and exactly what was going on. Now it’s the opposite. I have no idea what I’m doing and I have no idea what’s going on. I used to think that was a bad thing, but now I don’t really see the point in “growing up” or being “mature” (re: boring).
penis
lol
Back to the story. We all hung out at the house for a bit, as we were going to the movies to see the first Beavis & Butthead movie ever. I think it’s called Beavis and Butthead Do America.
I don’t know whose idea it was, probably my friend Alex, a suave Cuban/Spaniard who could grow a mustache before anyone else could, but at the end of the movie, I was gonna kiss Monica. Not just a peck, but a real-life French kiss.
Holy shit that was scary. I’d never done it before, and I knew you were supposed to use your tongue, but I legitimately had no idea what I was supposed to do. This was before we could google these things.
What if I didn’t do it right, then Monica stopped liking me and told everyone I was a bad kisser, that I didn’t know what I was doing? Holy shit my whole life would be over.
The theatre was sold out, actually oversold, and people were sitting in the aisles. Beavis & Butthead were the shit back then. Monica and I were sitting together, alone, while our friends were behind us. We were in plain view of everyone. Worst seating arrangement imaginable.
I wasn’t able to fully enjoy the movie because of the stress, and I’ll never forget the last scene, where Beavis and Butthead are walking down the street, off into the sunset. I knew this was the “romantic” final scene where I had to make my move. I felt the eyes on us. The expectation and anticipation were tangible. Monica knew I was supposed to kiss her, and she was waiting, probably as nervous as I was. Then the credits came, people started getting up, and my heart sank because I failed to make my move. I pussied out.
Oh well, it wouldn’t be the last time I fucked up with a girl…not by a long shot (laughed as I typed that).
We left the theater, held hands as we walked with our friends through the stores, out of the mall, and I remember wondering if she even liked me anymore. How could she? I felt like such a pussy.
I don’t remember how we broke up, why, or when. I think we just didn’t really talk much after that, and it got to the point where it was just assumed that we were no longer going out.
I wouldn’t get my first real French kiss until high school, drunk, with a less-than-attractive girl who was also drunk, but that’s another story.
And now? Well now I’m not afraid to fuck on the 1st date. As a matter of fact, I prefer it.
