But Teacher, I Am Trying (My Best)

I suppose it’s true what they say. You can’t see the forest from the trees. And so, I suppose I never assumed that I would be where I am now, or if at all possible, I never thought there would be a “now,” at least, not when I was alive back then.

There is no future.
There is only this moment.

I see the world like a tiny ball of mercury, which I held in my hand once. Shimmering. Mysterious and odd.
Daring in some ways, and simple in most regards.
It is what it is, is what we always say.

And sure, I held the little ball of mercury in my hand because I was told “not to.”
I think that’s what made me do it . . .
I was told that holding mercury could kill you or give you cancer—to which, I say, bullshit.
I’m still alive
(somehow.)
I am alive, despite my best efforts.
I am alive despite the crazy moments and despite the landmines, which I somehow dodged  both consistently and persistently.

I am still here, still walking on my own two legs and while I am not in the same shape I used to be—I can say that I do not look too bad for a man in his 50’s.
But either way, and no matter how it happened.
Here I am, World!
Middle fingers up and pointed with defiance. Although, I’m more tired than I used to be.
I don’t stay up late anymore.
I am here though, and I am alive and somewhat well despite the predictions from those who told me that I would be gone, or dead and buried for some reason or another.

I was told lots of things.
I was told that I am ugly.
I was told that nobody likes me
Everybody hates me.
I was told to do the world a favor and end it all.
I was told this and more but worst of all; I was told this by the people who I assumed loved or cared about me. On;ly to find that love and care does not always come with the same definitions that we assumed.

Either way, I’m still here.

I have to say this to prove my breath.
You never forget the most hurtful things that took place.
Then again, there are other things that happen in our life that no one ever forgets.

You never forget the things that make you tick.
You never forget the people, places or things that left an impression. And you never forget the moments when you dared the edge or went too fast, nearly falling off the cliffs of our everyday existence.
More than anything, I swear that you will never forget where you came from. You never forget the kids from the neighborhood.
You never forget the places you used to play or the people that you used to play with.

You never forget your first kiss
And you never forget the first parties that happened in your teens.
No parents were on-site to watch over us.
Somehow, someone was able to get beer, alcohol, or liquor of all kinds.

You never forget the first time you get stoned—and I mean really stoned to the point where you might get scared or beyond paranoid.
I remember this well.

It is strange to me.
I often drive through my old neighborhood. And I often drive down my old street and pass my old house.
So much happened there. I am fortunate and happy to say that I grew up before technology took over and there’s a camera at every corner or on every doorstep.
There were no cell phones or cell phone cameras.
This was called evidence and to the best of my knowledge, there is no evidence that any of my claims actually exist.
And I am happy about this too.

My old truths are safe and sealed, just like a document that was mutually agreed upon and somehow, my secrets are safely in the past.

I was thinking about my first time . . .
I told you about this the other day.
Ah the ideas of losing my virginity.
None of my assumptions came close to what my real experience was like.
Nothing came close.
Of course, I was far cooler and braver in my fantasies.
This was not so true to my real life experience.

I was far from clear-headed when this happened. She was a girl from the town and I was one of the wild kids who never seemed to stay out of trouble.
I recall how she asked me to come to her house and help her with her homework.
I recall my confusion because none of this made any sense to me.
How could I help anyone?
I was failing every class and on the verge of being thrown out of school.

I asked her with surprise, “You want ME to help you?”

She wanted me to help her with her math homework  because we were in the same class.
I was failing math.
In fact, there was a girl in my math class who used to do my homework for me. She was a nice girl, but more of a goody-goody. Either way, she saw that I struggled and she did my homework because otherwise, I’d never do it myself and otherwise, I would be failing worse than I already was.

I still couldn’t understand why anyone would ask me for help.
  I informed the girl who wanted me to come over, “You know I’m failing, right?”
“Yes,” she told me.
“But I think you can help me.”
“You know I’m probably going to get thrown out of school, right?”
“That’s okay,” she told me.
“You’re good.”

We started walking to her home after school, which was fine. However, I was in the mid-swing of a long eight-hour trip that happened after you take a popular psychedelic known as mescaline.
And it wasn’t just one dose either.
I took a few.
I think I took three, or maybe four.
Either way, words made no sense to me.
I was out of my head.
The world around me took on a bizzarro fascination with both audio and visual hallucinations.

I often compared this feeling to being locked inside of a pinball machine with the bells and whistles and swirling lights, —and no, I was not in any form or shape to be introduced to anyone else, especially someone’s mother.

I was not prepared for this. I was not prepared to meet a woman who walked out from the bathroom, unknowing that there was a young man in the house of mainly girls.

The mother came out without a robe. She was holding a towel that was about to be wrapped around her.
She was the first time I ever saw a grown woman naked.
I heard my girl yell, “MOM!!”
And the Mother might (or might not have) yelled about bringing a male home without warning.
I think (and I cannot be sure) the only words she said to me as I gazed at her full-frontal view was “Oh, hello,” before she closed the towel over her voluptuous figure.

She was tall to me.
I remember that.
And of course, the world was odd to me because of my state of mind. But nothing was odder than walking up the stairs and turning to see a grown woman leaving the bathroom with no clothes on—she was huge chested, which sagged and with dark nipples that appeared almost purple. Her pubic hair looked dark, like a large V-shaped pie at the center of her legs.
 
I was too high to process what was happening, let alone deal with what was about to happen.

We went into the room.
Apparently there were no rules about closed doors in this house, which was fine for me.

I remember the room looked strange to me. There was a fan blowing some of the posters on the girl’s wall.
I was way too high for this.

“What do I get if I get the answers right,” she asked me.
“What do you want,” I asked.

At first, I assumed she wanted me to give her some of my stash. And why wouldn’t I think this?

I sold mescaline and LSD at the time, along with weed, but more of my business was concentrated on the psychedelic business.
Psychedelics were easier to carry and far less bulky. For example, I could carry several hundred dollars of mescaline in my pocket, but weed, not so much.

I assumed this is what the girl wanted.
I assumed this because I never assumed that anyone would want me in any way, other than to use me.
And maybe she did use me for something.
But this kind of usage was not so bad.

I remember her asking me what she’d get if she got one of the answers right.
First, I was too confused.
I was so bad in math that I wouldn’t know if her answer was right or wrong; and secondly, my vision was so scattered by the effects of the drugs that I could hardly read the numbers in the math book.

I responded to her question and asked, “What do you want?”
And she showed me.
She showed me with a kiss, which I was not expecting.

I kept moving forward. And she never stopped me.
I never knew the politics or how things like this worked.
When do you try?
When do you move forward?
When do you advance and how do you remove a girl’s pants and make it all look cool?

There was a movie from my youth in which the younger brother asked the older brother how to move forward with something like this.
“Just keep going,” said the older brother.
“She’ll tell you when to stop.”
I thought this was sound advice, and so, that is exactly what I did.
I kept going . . .

In fairness, I doubt that anything I did looked cool.
I doubt that anything I did was romantic or passionate.
And lastly, everything happened so fast.
We began with clothes on but I quickly removed her pants.
Her shirt was shoved up to the bottom of her neck, exposing her chest, which was large and directly inherited from her mother’s well-sized breasts. All her curves were beautiful and all of this was hereditary, down to the dark, almost purple-like nipples.
Her pubic area was not quite as hairy or bushy. At least, not like her Mother’s. But I remember the hair being dark—or almost jet-black.

And in all fairness to the lower region, south of the waistline; I think I miss this look—and I get it.
Everyone is landscaped these days, —and no one has hair down below anymore.

But like I said, I think I miss this side of a woman’s personal fashion.

But there I go, digressing again.

As fast as it all began was as fast as it all seemed to end.
I can’t say I know what happened or how.
I just know it happened.
And I won’t ever know how I looked or if anyone else enjoyed what happened that day.
But I can say this –

I can say this is how I know youth is wasted on the young.
I can say that hindsight allows us to see the clearer picture. I can say that at this age, I never want to rush anything when it comes to an intimate moment.

That was then, of course
and this is now.

I never had much luck with women when I was younger. I suppose I assumed this would be a one-time-only thing without the option of a long-term opportunity.

I know that no one can undo what was done or unsay what was said.
And I know that I can never regain my virginity.
I get that –
But thinking this way, I have come to a special conclusion.

I can redo my life at any given moment.
I can go, stop, turn around and start over.
However, and adding spice to this entry, I understand that women are the most beautiful gift to this world.
I know all about my fascination for curves, a nice smile, hips, legs, toes, and all that goes on above.

I understand the beauty of everything, which is not just a girl’s face or the swerve of her body parts.
No, there is so much more.
I think a girl should be appreciated from head to toe.
Literally—head to toe.

I think love-making and the discovery of pleasure should be life-long and furthermore, I promise that when my time and “my person” is at hand, —I will not miss a drop and there is not a part of her that I would not lick, kiss, or suck on for as long as time allows me to.

I want to redo my life.
I really do.
I can’t and I know this. . . 
but no one can stop me from redefining myself.
No one can prevent me from  reconditioning my life so that despite the fact that my virginity has been gone for a long, long time, —I can recreate “my first” time and have “her” be my last first kiss ever.

I like that line . . .
“My last first kiss.”

No one can ever be my first again
But my last first kiss?
I say that’s a great thing to be.