Food For The Exorcist

I was way too young to be having sex.
Even though my body was ready
to begin scattering sperm
like Johnny Appleseed,
and creating mini-me carbon copies
to fill the hungry gene pool,
at the age of thirteen,
I was as emotionally prepared for sex
as a cuttlefish studying physics.

And at not quite thirteen,
my bleeding'n'needing lolita girlfriend,
with only one little toe
dipped in the ovulating end
of the swimming hole,
was like a baby with a box of matches
locked in a room full of newspaper and gasoline.

But this was, after all,
late seventies middle class America,
an era of gratuitous, almost mandatory hedonism,
a suburban Sodom and Gommorah,
where the new alpha males and females
behaved like junior high rock stars;
long-haired pubescent bundles of flesh and hormones,
throwing tv sets out of windows
and puking on the carpet.

And so, driven as much by the
High Times-Hustler-party-on-dude zeitgeist
as by the stirrings of our own natural juices,
we tentatively navigated each other's
newly-hatched-chick-fuzz pubic areas;
her smooth sideways smile
topped with a dandelion puff,
and my shiny pink worm,
poking it's head through the soil
to firmly greet the dawn.

In tool sheds, garages, and locked bedrooms,
we played an x-rated make-believe dress-up game,
like little kids impersonating grownups,
but incongruously strapping on
dildos and cock rings
instead of mom's high heels
and dad's hat and tie.

It was the first time
I had ever slid my eager fingers
up into a girl's vagina,
that clinically mysterious,
much-speculated-upon tunnel of delights,
and I was startled by the huffing and puffing
and brood-mare snorting it brought about.
And she likewise tugged at my freshly-scrubbed penis,
flushed and proud and beaming
at it's newly found trick
of inflating into a swollen salami
and brewing up batches of could-be baby cream,
experimenting with her rhythm and pressure
like a middle school marching band cadet
practicing on a new and unfamiliar instrument.

Her breasts were still just proto-cupcakes,
little mounds of flan
with a nipple raisin garnish,
but apparently big enough and loud enough
to demand all kinds of licking, lapping,
slobbering attention from me.
And like foals trying out their new legs,
we flopped around her big sister's bedroom,
listening to records
and slipping hands under shirts and zippers,
briefly lighting up erogenous zones
like bumpers on a pinball machine.

All this teasing stimulation
appeared to be preparation
for the big event;
that feared and desired initiation
that crowned you
king and queen of the locker room,
the act itself taking a back seat
to the dominant primate status it conferred.

And so, the moment arrived for us
while babysitting on someone's
darkened living room sofa.
Little did dining-out mom and dad suspect
what their nubile neighbor girl
whose training bra breasts barely dented
her prematurely purchased tube top
was getting herself up to.

Unfortunately, the mating behavior instinctual
to every skunk and hedgehog in the forest
did not come naturally to us that evening.
It was like trying to fit tabs into slots
without an instruction manual.
Just how the hell were you supposed to
get that thing in there?
Okay...move your leg...wait...
no...put it up there...shit!
Some cooperation on her part would have been helpful,
but instead she lay still and motionless
as a petrified log,
then jumped up and flounced off
hissing into the kitchen,
like a siamese cat turning up it's nose
at the wrong brand of canned food.

What did she expect?
I was, after all,
only a virginal child of thirteen,
a sexual neonate.
I had barely had time to examine pictures
of this wobbly, gooey activity,
let alone master it
within the first thirty seconds
of genital introductions.

I can't think of words strong enough
to describe the dissonant trumpet-blare derailment
of my journey into the dna timetable
of ejaculating manhood.
I saw myself as a self-replicating spiral corps washout,
a monkey mating game runner-up,
trudging home alone with nothing but
the home version board game and some crusty kleenex.
And our little teasy licky nibbly
dry-humping finger-fucking dalliance
came to an abrupt halt.

Her trailer-park-princess tantrum
was like a knee in my groin
that knocked me to the ground
and effectively crippled me
for the next three years of high school,
expanding to include
promiscuous whore-in-training girlfriends
and blue-collar glue-huffing mongoloid boyfriends
to castigate and humiliate me
like a demonic bad seed teenage greek chorus,
and shriveling my poor shame-faced penis
like a wrinkled, twisted pea pod
left out in the sun.

Of course, I eventually figured it out,
and discovered I was pretty darn good at it too.
Still, I'd like to go back in time
and rewrite that sad slapstick sex scene,
casting some other girl in the leading role;
someone with a bit more patience
and the right sexual schematics,
someone who'll just grab ahold and stick it in
and let nature's lubricated momentum
take it's course.

It's said that a person's first sexual experience
sets the emotional tone
for the rest of their erotic life,
branding one's libido
like a sharp pointed stick in the eye.
Well fuck! That explains a lot...

David Aronson
March 2006