Smut. It’s what they caught me with, age 15, at sleepaway camp for fat kids. I was then lectured by a man who asked me if I thought I knew a lot about boys. Fellatio, as far as I was concerned, sounded like a flavor of gelato I might like to try. You know, like stracciatella.
A man with a knuckled chin lectured me about porn when my nickname was still Moose. Mind you, he did nothing wrong, and he certainly wasn’t a pervert. But I
was am. I accidentally caught a glimpse of his manly bits and have forever thought of them as his golden oldies. Just thought I’d share. Excerpt below.
“I asked what your parents would think about all this.”
I didn’t think the word “porn” would trigger any feelings of surprise on my parents’ behalf. Poppa referred to me as “Little Miss Hot Hormones,” a term that still bothers me today. Hearing “hormones” coupled with “hot” from my father makes me want to run down the halls of my house with my arms flailing, chanting “go away go away go awaygoawaygo” until I can hear nothing but the sound of my own voice. Certainly my parents wouldn’t have been surprised by a phone call alerting them that I still had raging hormones. If anything, perhaps they’d find it reassuring that I was still the very same daughter they’d last seen through a tinted bus window in a Yonkers parking lot.
I wanted to say this to Doc, tell him that my parents would mostly be pissed that those bastards rummaged through my belongings and stole from me. But I wasn’t certain how they’d react. If Mom answered the phone, I’m sure she’d have just apologized and replied with tsking sounds. “I just can’t believe it,” she might’ve said as if she were told I mutilated a finch. Instead of answering Doc, I just sat there, trying not to notice his oldies.