Saturday, September 22, 2007

My First Experience with Pleasure

I was young, too young perhaps. It was the year 1989. I had a keen interest in playing in the fields, staring at the clouds, eating candy like they were about to close the Sugar Factory, dreaming of a future filled with joy and wonderment and bicycles and hi-fives and Kool-Aid for breakfast. But those dreams crashed one afternoon, and that crashing came courtesy of a Keds sneaker crushing my genitalia.

For the purpose of this little autobiographical piece, let's call the young lady that introduced me to this Realm of New Sensations "Kalista Kladams." Kalista was a girl in my Fifth Grade class, she was cute and pert, she liked Garfield comics, she had that kinky hair that made the boys shoot milk out of their noses. Kalista sat next to me in class, and I had a crush on her. We would tease each other: I would steal her pencil. She would draw on my arm. I would steal her backpack. She would rat me out to the teacher for doodling ninjas in my notebook. I would steal her lunchbox and throw it in the hall. In the end, however, it was she who stole my innocence.

Later in our complex relationship, I moved on to telling stories about her, defacing her belongings and throwing the ball at her face in gym class. (I was quite the charmer.) She had a fiery temper, and would throw the ball right back at me. But this 'playfulness' of ours got progressively darker. In Phonics class should started slapping me in the back for calling her Mother a "retarded bitch." She stomped on my feet. She confiscated my copies of GamePro. She poked me in the ribs with her My Little Pony pencil set. I didn't know it then, but this love was getting out of hand.

One day, it reached its apex. We were standing in line for the bus and she was in front of me. Being the upstanding gentleman I am, I stepped in front of her, claiming that men sit in the front of the bus while the inferior women sat in the back. This was too much for Kalista, and she stepped back, raised her white sneaker (with pom-poms, oh God I remember the pom-poms) and did a front snap kick right into my testicles. I fell like an old man on a skating rink filled with banana peels. It was a sensation I wasn't used to. My hands covered my special place, and my special place throbbed. In my eyes I saw the stars of the Universe, the rivers of Africa, the wallabies of Australia. I saw Christ himself, and he was giving me the thumbs-up. My body trembled and my knees felt weak. My forehead dripped sweat. What was this ... new feeling? Panicked, Kalista tried to pick me up from the ground, but I told that snatch to keep her hands off me. I needed to relish the moment.

I staggered home and iced my privates in the bathtub with a single ice cube. I ate an entire box of candy cigarettes, exhaling sugar dust. I didn't tell my parents what happened. It was like the soldiers coming back from World War II. How do I adapt to life now that I felt ... this? What would I say? My dream of those halcyon days of splendor in the grass were over. I discovered what real joy was, and it was my balls being slammed into by the shoe of a female.

The following day Kalista, realizing she made a mistake, apologized. I nodded, but didn't know what to say. She was really remorseful, too, because nothing else I could do to her could get her to kick me again. I prodded and poked, I mocked her in-bred heritage. No kicking. I made comments like, "I dare you to kick me there again!" But she wouldn't! I turned a sinner into a saint! Tired of this lack of cooperation, I had to look elsewhere, to other girls with attitude problems and a penchant for aggressiveness.

I basically broke up my relationship with Kalista when our desks got moved. We were three feet away from each other, but it could have been the universe. I would stare at her kinky hair and dream of damage done to my reproductive system. I was now seated next to Peter, who ate his own snot.

My quest for rare ecstasy of this kind continued. In Sixth Grade, I started taking karate and refused to wear an Athletic Supporter. I used to verbally goad in the girls in my karate class by telling them that all American females were bred to do was bleed monthly and bake custard pies. I used to try to step ever so carefully into their thrusting kicks, attempting to time it just so that their feet would meet my mid-section in just the right way. At home, I tried to slide down the railing hoping for the same kind of experience, and it hurt like a bastard, but it wasn't the same. Ultimately, I gave up the dream. There was only one girl like Kalista. She broke me in the best way she knew how.

And I never had the chance to thank her.