Did I know she was crazy? Sure. The day she stabbed herself in the arm with the sharp tip of a compass for no apparent reason was probably enough to alert me of that.
But when she wasn’t cutting herself and telling me it was my fault, I liked the attention that Christine and I were getting. For example, Christine liked to have me wear a spiked dog collar, to which she’d attach a leather leash and tow me around the school building. Technically, there was nothing in thepost-9/11 rulebook that stated you couldn’t walk your boyfriend at school and I liked the stares we’d get from our classmates. During that particular phase in my life, it was great to imagine that people were paying attention to me for any reason, and I felt like we were a couple of rock stars.
On the topic of rock stars, I might add, Christine accidentally on purpose let it slip one day that she might or might not have had sex with Peter Steele, the tall dark lead singer/bass player from Type O Negative.
“It was no big deal,” she said. “But sure, I’ve been on his bus before.”
No big deal? I disagreed. Christine and I hadn’t done it yet. If this was true, I didn’t know whether to be jealous or impressed. Peter Steele was my idol. He’d posed in Playgirl magazine. Ladies loved looking at his pictures and obviously a lot of men did too. The word on the street was that Pete had very big shoes to fill. (Many years later, I learned that Peter Steele routinely gave out his telephone number to many of his fans. He was just a friendly guy that way and liked to be accessible. Christine likely portrayed a version of her encounter with Steele that she would have preferred to be true. These sorts of lies became a big theme in our relationship, but at the time I completely took her word for it. In fact, the very thought of this obsessed me.)
If she really had done it with my favorite front man, I wondered, how was I going to measure up when my turn came around?
The night it happened I wasn’t prepared at all. In fact the whole evening started very badly.
“Son, why do you let her walk you around like that?” asked Christine’s father. We were standing in the doorway of her house and I was on the leash so to speak, except this time she’d brought her dog, too.
Dr. Frank-N-Ferter was a French Poodle. He wasn’t a sweet transvestite from The Rocky Horror Picture Show like his name suggested. He was a real feisty fucker. The whole time Christine’s dad was talking to me the little dog was up on his hind legs humping my shin. Christine tried to separate the dog and I by yanking on his collar, but she accidentally pulled on mine and choked me in the process.
“We’re just going out for a quick walk, sir,” I said between coughs.
“Yeah, like hell you are. Hope you two brought a rubber.”
“Shut up dad!” Christine yelled, marching Frank-N-Ferter and me out the door.
This was not feeling like so much fun anymore. In fact, the look her dad had given me was downright embarrassing.
“Where the hell are you taking me?” I managed to sputter.
“It’s a surprise,” said Christine with the wink of an eye. “You’ll love it there.”
The surprise was waiting at the top of a steep grassy hill. There were a number of electrical towers up there, as well as a view of the surrounding Tenleytown neighborhood. It was the place that kids where Christine lived went to be alone.
“Wait one minute,” she said, and tied Dr. Frank-N-Ferter’s leash around the trunk of a tree.
Before I could say anything, she’d lain down, slid her pants off and removed a wrapped condom from her pocket.
“Come here and give it,” she said.
Half-heartedly, I slid the strange rubbery object over my erection and lowered my skinny frame onto her massive body. That being said, here are some reasons why it didn’t work.
First of all: If you haven’t seen a vagina before and the first one you see is completely shaved and enormous, it’s not a good way to start. My initial impression of Christine’s area was that it looked like a big Bermuda triangle. And going into it with that attitude, it was kind of hard to find my way around.
Secondly, I tried not to think of Peter Steele. Tried not to think of him singing “Be My Druidess” while he sank his Playgirl-magazine-sized penis inside my girlfriend time and time again.
Thirdly, Dr. Frank-N-Ferter was watching. The whole time I lay thrusting over Christine I could hear him panting by the side of the tree. Once Christine wrapped her legs around my back, I got nervous that I wouldn’t be able to free myself if the poodle broke his leash and tried to lick me around my balls or my asshole.
Fourthly, some stoner kids wandered up several feet behind us. “Hey look at that skinny guy dickin that fat chick!” I heard them yell.
My junk did a disappearing act inside the raincoat. She had me pull the thing off and try cramming my flaccid dick inside her again, but it was useless. We were finished.
“I’ve seen worse first attempts,” she told me while we dusted ourselves off.
I felt bad on so many levels. Who was I being compared to anyway? Peter Steele? The rest of the rock stars in her little black book? George W. Bush, who was always on TV, threatening to dick all terrorists to shreds? With that in mind I let her take Frank-N-Ferter home. I broke my leash and veered off in my own direction.
(Part 2 of 3. First part here. Final installment tomorrow.)