tonsil hockey with my metal head

“Oh, Ricky!”

“Let me just….”

“No, I can’t.”

“Not all the way. Just a little.”

“You feel so good.”

“Come on, Melissa.”

“We shouldn’t.”

“Just half way.”

“Oh, God!”

“You will if you love me.”

“Not all the way.”

“No, just half way. I promise.”

“It doesn’t count if it’s not all the way.”

“Of course it doesn’t count.”

“Oh, Ricky!”

“Yes, baby.”

Steve and I listened as zippers slid open, followed by moaning and sucking and slurping. The noises were similar to those I had heard on forbidden late-night cable channels.

Melissa and Ricky were sealed away in her brother’s tent on the basement floor, while Steve and I were on the couch watching MTV. I concentrated intently on the television, trying to ignore the animal grunts and groans escaping from the tent. All of the muscles in Steve’s body tensed next to mine. I was a defenseless jackrabbit about to be pounced on by a salivating puma.

Steve’s lips lightly kissed my neck. My shoulders relaxed as I melted into the couch. Closing my eyes, I leaned my head back as his soft kisses traveled up and down my neck. His fingers tugged at my shirt and tickled my belly button. I removed his hand and placed it safely on my knee. His fingers quickly crawled back up my belly and once again I swatted his hand from the forbidden land. It was a constant tug of war to keep his hands in their proper place. Eventually, I relented and found a compromise. Surely no damage could be done if I let him feel my boobs over my shirt.

I underestimated the power of my boobs. The minute I let Steve squeeze them over my shirt, he became a starving man sitting down to a feast. His teeth tore hungrily into my neck. Fearing the telltale sign of a hickey, I hunched my shoulders, limiting his access to my naked neck. He nibbled on my earlobe, licking up and down my chin, moaning and writhing against me, trying to get inside my skin. He pumped my breasts with his fists in time to Whitesnake’s “Is This Love?”. Even in the heat of passion, he still had rhythm. I was impressed.

It suddenly sounded as if the ocean were inside of my ear. A deafening vacuum noise consumed me, as I realized with horror that Steve’s tongue was burrowing into my brain like a slimy slug. It reminded me of trips to Aunt Eileen’s house in Massapequa. We would run around her yard barefoot, sometimes stepping on sticky slugs. Our remedy was to pour salt on the slugs and watch them melt into the grass. I wondered if I’d have to sprinkle salt on Steve to extract his tongue from my ear canal.

“Mf mff mff.”

Steve had finally pulled his tongue out of my ear, but I couldn’t make out the words he was whispering. Saliva was still floating in my ear, making it impossible to hear.

“What?” I asked, too loudly.

“Mf mff mff. Mff mf mff.”

I tugged on my ear and yawned, the way I would on an airplane. Finally, there was a popping sound and my hearing was restored.

“Say it again,” I whispered.

“I love you. You’re so hot,” Steve breathed into my ear.

“I love you, too,” I replied.

“I love you, Melissa.”

“I love you, Ricky.”

Declarations of love were lost in a sea of slurping and sucking and moaning and groaning. Steve’s tongue was an Olympic gymnast, somersaulting off my tongue and tickling the roof of my mouth. No tooth was left unexplored. I was mildly disgusted by the thought that his tongue, which was previously sucking my eardrum, was now tangoing with my tonsils.

Every molecule in my body was vibrating. My arms became heavy and fell to my lap. Steve’s hands traveled up my shirt and tugged at my bra, and I let it happen. I was sinking into a warm bath, letting Steve’s hands wash over me.

I felt a pull on my jeans and woke up from my make-out stupor. Steve was trying to unzip me. My hands shot back into action, protecting my zipper from Steve’s persistent fingers.

“No.”

“Come on. Just a little further,” Steve pleaded.

“No. This is far enough.”

“Melissa lets Ricky go further.”

My father’s voice, unwanted as it was in that moment, found its way into my head: “Don’t be one of the sheep. Be the herder.” I didn’t want to be a sheep. I especially didn’t want to be a pregnant sheep.

“I’m not a sheep,” I declared.

“What?”

“Nothing. I say how far is far enough.”

I crossed my arms in front on my chest. What kind of a house was this that left lusty teenagers, unattended, in a basement with a couch and a tent? We all knew exactly what kind of a house it was, which was the reason we wanted to hang out there every weekend.

Melissa’s parents were divorced. Her dad was rich and wore toupees. He didn’t visit very often, but he sent fat checks every month. Her mom insisted we call her “Alexandria”, but Melissa had confessed to me that her real name was Dolores. Alexandria wore too-tight jeans and Melissa’s tiny halter-tops, even in the dead of winter. She smoked with the boys, leaning over to light their cigarettes so they could drool into her cleavage. She showed us her diaphragm, explaining how it worked and urging us to get fitted for one as soon as possible. I marveled that her diaphragm was kept in a case identical to the one that housed my retainer.

“Ricky!”

A sudden slap sounded, and Steve and I strained to hear what was happening in the tent.

“What?”

“That was more than halfway.”

“It was not!”

“Yes it was!”

“How do you know? Did you measure it?”

Melissa burst through the tent flap. Her shirt was on backwards and her lips were Kool-Aid red. Several hickeys stained her neck like an island chain on a map.

Ricky poked his head out of the tent, panting like a puppy. Melissa stomped over to us, grabbing my hand and whisking me away from Steve. We settled into the corner, pretending to sulk, while Steve and Ricky smoked on the couch.

“They’re so disgusting.”

“Pigs.”

“They only want one thing.”

“Totally.”

“I’m so mad.”

“Me too.”

“Then why are you smiling?” Melissa asked.

It was true. I was smiling. And I couldn’t stop. Melissa wouldn’t understand. How could she? Boys had pawed at and pursued her since the fifth grade. The confident jiggle of her walk and the knowing glint in her eye told me so.

But this was all new to me. I was on a double date. I had just spent the better part of the night fighting my boyfriend off of my girlie parts. My boyfriend. He loved me. He thought I was hot. He had said so after taking his tongue out of my ear. What was there not to smile about?

Most days with Steve were like a photo shoot for Seventeen Magazine. We walked hand-in-hand through leaf-strewn parks and did our homework together on the bus. We carved pumpkins and decorated Christmas trees and kissed at midnight on New Year’s Eve. There were movies and snowball fights, ice-skating outings and touch football games.

All of our friends combined to form one large khaki-clad and loafered clique on the bus each morning. My friends – Tara, Kris, Jackie and Melissa, were joined by Steve’s group – Shadow, Professor, Russell, and of course, Ricky.

I secretly referred to Steve’s best friend Eric as “Shadow”. My sister openly called him “Elfman”. Shadow had pointy ears and a prominent chin. Pale peach fuzz clung to his chin and above his lip. He wanted to play drums in Steve’s metal band, but he sorely lacked any real rhythm or skill. He mimicked Steve’s every move, eating Steve’s favorite foods and singing his favorite tunes. He even accompanied us on dates, insisting that he needed to sit next to Steve in the movie theater.

Professor toted a briefcase in place of a school bag. He had a five o’clock shadow by seven in the morning, and he read The Wall Street Journal on the bus every day. He used words like “superfluous” and “decadent” in casual conversation. At 16, he had already presented his girlfriend Lilith with a promise ring, and they had a twenty-year life plan in place. Professor didn’t throw house parties – he gave dinner parties where proper attire was required.

Russell was still a mystery. He had recently moved to Hoboken from Chicago, where he had lived with his mother. He now lived with his father and his “uncle”, who shared a bedroom. Russell’s easy charm and sly smile made him a friend to everyone. He knew karate, and helped me with my algebra homework.

Ricky and Melissa spent most of the bus ride stuffing their tongues into each other’s mouths, or arguing loud enough for the bus driver to threaten them with a long walk to school.

Steve and my friends and his friends formed a protective barrier around me. I had somewhere I belonged, people I belonged to and with. It was the feeling I had always been chasing.

Each night in bed, I replayed the events of the day as Steve played guitar and sang me power ballads over the phone.

“I have a confession to make,” he whispered into the phone one night.

“What?”

“I really want to be in a metal band.”

“I know.”

“Yeah, but I think there’s something holding me back.”

“What is it?”

“I just don’t have the hair for it.”

It was true. Steve could wear all the tight spandex pants and torn t-shirts he could find. He could smoke a carton of Marlboros and practice air guitar, but his hair would never make the cut. The moment his corkscrew curls hit his collar, his mother insisted he get a haircut. He had the least metal hair of anyone I knew.

“Maybe you could wear a wig,” I suggested.

“Come on! Metal heads don’t wear wigs.”

“Sure they do.”

“Yeah? Like who?”

“I don’t know. Probably all of them. Their hair is way too perfect to be real.”

“You really think so?”

“Or course! They all have the same exact hair. I bet they even have their wigs made by the same guy. No one talks about it cause they’re all wearing wigs. I bet it’s true.”

“I never thought about that. Maybe you’re right.”

“Of course I’m right. Trust me. You can definitely be in a metal band. Your voice could shatter glass.”

“Thanks, baby. You always know what to say.”

There it was again! The hummingbird in my heart that took flight whenever Steve called me “baby”.

“Noreen! Off the phone.” Mom demanded.

“Just a sec!” I screamed back.

“I gotta go,” I sighed into the phone.

“Do you have to?”

“Yeah. My mom’s bitching.”

“Okay. I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

“But I really love you.”

“I really love you, too.”

“Okay. You hang up first.”

“No. You hang up first.”

“You.”

“No – you!”

“Okay. We’ll both hang up on the count of three. Ready?”

“Yes.”

“One. Two. Three!”

Silence on both ends of the phone. Steve’s deep breathing broke the quiet.

“Are you still there?” I whispered.

“Yes!”

“You were supposed to hang up!”

“So were you!”

“Hang up!”

“Never. You hang up!”

“Okay, let’s try it again.”

“On the count of three.”

“One….”

“Two….”

“Oh for God’s sake Noreen. If you can’t hang up the phone I will!”

Mom pressed her finger down on the phone and the connection went dead.

“Mom! Why would you do that?”

“Your sister’s trying to sleep, and you’re making all this noise.”

“You’re the one screaming, not me!”

“Enough. You keep up this phone nonsense and I’ll yank the cord out of the wall.”

Mom clicked the light off and waited to see if I would answer her back while I sulked in the dark.

“Mommy!” Erin called out from the bottom bunk.

“What is it, Erin?”

“Noreen wants Steve to wear a wig.”

“Shut up!”

“What is your sister talking about?” Mom asked.

“And she really loves him!”

“I mean it, Erin.”

“That’s it. The two of you go to sleep. Now!”

Mom closed the door behind us as Erin and I breathed into the dark.

“I’ll get you back,” I promised Erin.

“I really really love you, Steve. I want to kiss your hair and wear a wig with you.”

“Shh. Erin. Did you hear that?”

“What?” Erin asked, her voice suddenly small.

“I don’t know. A scratching sound. Sort of like the boogey man trying to get out of the closet. I’m going to sleep before he gets out.”

“Mommy!” Erin screeched.

Satisfied that I had sufficiently terrorized Erin for the night, I drifted off into a peaceful sleep. I dreamed of hair bands and spandex pants.

The sun had not yet risen over the Manhattan skyline. The sky was the color of a creamsicle. My scarf was wound tightly around my face, protecting my cheeks from the wind and the world from my skin.

“Babe, what’s the matter?” Steve asked as he approached me on the corner.

I burrowed deeper into my scarf, but I couldn’t keep from crying. I had begged Mom to let me stay home. I pleaded and kicked and threatened to run away, but she wouldn’t relent.

“We’re not paying all this tuition so you can stay home because of a pimple,” she said, packing me off to school.

But it wasn’t just a pimple. It was the single worst breakout I had had since coming off of Accutane. My hairline was littered with acne, and two persistent pimples jutted out of my chin like horns.

Steve kissed the spot between my eyes, the only skin not camouflaged by my scarf.

“Why are you crying?”

“My skin,” I whispered into my scarf.

“What?”

“My skin,” I repeated.

Steve pulled my scarf down below my chin but I couldn’t meet his eyes.

“My skin. It’s terrible!”

I buried my face into his shoulder and cried into his coat. Before I knew what I was doing, I spilled out the entire ugly story – the doctors and their treatments, the side effects and the names I was called. Humiliation burned like a fever throughout my body.

Steve squeezed me tight to his body. I assumed he was doing it to avoid looking at my face while he thought of a kind way to break up with me.

“You’re beautiful,” he whispered into my hair.

“You’re not grossed out by me?”

“Nope.”

“Never?”

“No. Never.”

Steve bent down and kissed my cheek.

“I love this zit,” he assured me.

The word “zit” coming out of his mouth hurt like a jellyfish sting, but the pain dulled with each kiss.

“I love this zit and this zit and this zit,” he said as he pecked each and every pimple. “Okay?”

“Okay.”

“Let’s go before we miss the bus.”

Steve rested his arm over my shoulder and we walked to the bus together. The sun had come up, and with it, a little extra warmth.

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