I remember the unofficial start of summer. I remember the trips out east and to the Hamptons and the nights when I slept in cars because I couldn’t get a place to stay or I didn’t have enough money to pay for a room.
I remember the beaches which were always beautiful. However, and in all fairness to the awkward stages in young adult life, I remember fears.
I remember the discomforts I had and the insecurities behind taking my shirt off because I was way too thin and way too small in comparison to the other friends in my group.
Everyone I knew went to the gym, not me though.
All of my friends were in shape. They all flexed and compared muscles. They talked about their reps or how much weight they put up. I remember the ones on steroids too, and they were huge. I mean absolutely huge.
All the girls loved them and wanted them, but not me.
I was puny.
I remember me in my quiet resistance, trying to create my own validity. I was trying to be desirable, yet I always assumed that I was the friend on the fringe.
I was the one on the outer layer who was less-than, or more apt to land the girl who was either similar or on the outer fringe herself.
I was unprepared and insecure.
I struggled to be me. Better yet, I struggled to be myself or to stand alone because I didn’t want to be pushed out or excluded. I knew this wasn’t right or fair to myself.
However, I saw being with the wrong crowd was better than not being with any crowd at all.
I never saw the things that most young men see.
As it was, I missed on too many things. I never had the basic rites of passage that come with an everyday teenage life. I never had a college experience. I never had a good spring break experience. I’ve never been to Vegas or to Cancun.
Everyone else seemed to have this experience.
But not me.
So, rather than miss another opportunity, or instead of missing out on another chance to go wild or to be wild with a group of young knuckleheads, I accepted the trades and the discomfort that I felt.
And why not?
Discomforts and all, at least I could say that I was in the mix.
At least I was out.
At least I didn’t miss anything (again).
I acted and portrayed and pretended like I was part of the whole scene. I did what I could to perfect my look. I tried to perfect the way I dressed. I practiced my lean against the wall and the way I would retrieve a cigarette from my pocket and light it up.
I remember when I had long hair, which was fashionable at the time. I remember the silvery hooped earrings in my ears or the way I wore my lapel opened. I tried to stand like I was tough or mysterious. I tried to act like I was a challenge, like I was always going to be “the painful poet” who no one knew about.
I tried.
Yes, I tried hard.
I tried to coexist and be part of the darkness of blue fluorescent lights which hung over the awnings in the bars across the cobblestone streets in SoHo, or Downtown, New York City.
I put on my brave face and pretended that rejection was not painful. However, the key word is pretended. I laughed at the insults about being too thin, as if to defy them, as if to act like a statement or as if to say, “You wish you were as good lookin as me!” But again, this was all pretend.
I tried to laugh about the jokes that came at my expense. I laughed that I was too pale or not strong enough to be “wanted.”
I had a wild side. And I embellished that wild side.
But to what avail? To be crazy?
Unpredictable?
I had my share of good times and yes, I have good memories.
I had fun. I had my share of victories, and I can laugh about the lies, like the weekend I was in the Hamptons and there was a girl who assumed that my name was Sal. Far be it from me to correct anyone. She was drunk and for the record, she must’ve really liked Sal . . .
I remember meeting someone at a place called CPI’s. I remember how we took my beat-up blue Chevy to the beach.
I remember the aftermath and how she slept in the backseat, if I’m not mistaken.
I remember sitting on the hood of my car. I watched a beautiful sunrise while smoking one of my Camel unfiltered cigarettes.
I thought I was cool.
I scribbled down a few notes in a tiny notepad.
a poem, perhaps . . .
I remember how I could smell the drink that was splashed on me. I could smell the cheap perfume from the unknown girl in the backseat of my car. She was sleeping like an ugly sleeper too with her mouth opened, passed-out, and loosely covered in her unbuttoned white shirt and a short skirt that was wrapped awkwardly around her hips.
These were the days before cell phones and pictures or video evidence.
I remember watching the sunrise and looking at the colors in the pre-summer sky. I remember wondering if I would ever be chosen or seen — and I mean really seen and chosen for real.
I was so young. I had a beeper or pager, which was going off with a number that I didn’t seem to know. This is how it was before the days of cell phones.
This was the early 90’s, and me?
I had no experience with relationships. My first, real, so-called girlfriend was beautiful but unfortunate. She repeatedly lied and cheated on me. She called me another man’s name in the heat of passion. and the bitch about this is it happened twice.
I was hurt and humiliated to the point where I swore that I would never allow myself to come forward or to be vulnerable again. I would never allow myself to worship someone both physically and emotionally, from head to toe. I say this because this is how I believed you should worship a woman — from head to toe.
A man should never miss a spot. There should never be a place that a man would miss, and when the moment strikes, nothing should be ignored. There should never be a spot, from head to toe, that a man would not lick, kiss, or suck on for any lengths of time.
I never dared to tell anyone how they made me feel. I never dared to stand up or come forward or tell someone how their curves drove me crazy. I never thought about the feeling or the victory that takes place when a girl’s so-called imperfections were perfect for me. So, I kissed these parts as if to make love to them and prove to “her” that she is absolutely perfect.
I hid everything, including my heart and feelings. I hid my smile. I hid my truths and desires.
I hid my aspirations, my hopes, and my dreams.
I tried to hide my insecurities, but to me or to when you see yourself as awkward or unattractive, I tried to compensate for my unsightliness and the roughness of my jagged edges.
I tried to pretend that I didn’t care if I were to end up alone.
I tried to act cold, or emotionless, and just be cool with “what is.”
I have never met anyone more insecure than me.
No one is more unsure of their own beauty.
No one is this mistaken or misguided by the lies and deception of self.
No one is this, more than me.
Or, so I believe.
I had secrets and truths and moments when life or people imposed their way, and sure, even if my scars were imprinted or imposed on me as a child, still, I knew they were there.
Even if the dysfunctional memories came from the distortions of my childhood, I had invisible scars which I swore everyone could see.
Especially you, which is why I hid or defied you with outrage.
I never wanted anyone to see “this!”
As if to say, “here I am!” your next victim, clear as day.
But here’s the question I have about my days from way back when –
What would I do if this was then or that was now?
I wouldn’t know because I wouldn’t be there.
I understand the need to be involved or to be part of the crowd. I also understand that always being involved and including myself meant that I never had the chance to feel the compliment of being invited.
I never looked at how humble or how beautiful the gesture is to be invited and included.
I never knew the beauty behind what it means to hear the words, “It’ll just be us,” or “it’s just gonna be you and me!”
That’s fine . . .
I could dance to a million songs like this. I can smile a thousand smiles and record the memories and store them in different sections of my heart.
I could do this all without the need to jab or tally or go back and forth with insults and sarcasm.
Just fun.
Just laughs.
That’s all!
I know exactly how I would spend my time now.
I know I wouldn’t fear the beach or be afraid to take my shirt off.
I’d love to see the sunset in your eyes or better, I would love to see how the sun left its magic on your tanned skin. I’d love to see you smile and ask me, “So, what do you want to do now?” after the sun went down.
Anything, my love.
Anything at all because nothing else matters
when I’m with you.
I know — let’s put you in a dress, a long one, like the one I dream about.
You can tie your hair back in a ponytail.
We can walk along the beach or wait –
let’s walk by the restaurants and let the moon be full, please.
I want to see the moonbeams in your eyes.
And just so you know, if asked, I’d take this over any crowd, anywhere, and any day.
I swear.
I wonder what the night will look like tonight on Lincoln Road.
Don’t you?
The Written Addiction 