NOVEMBER 21, 2002
MY SUMMER WITH THE MOVIE STAR
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Phil Godland called on Thursday and asked me out on a date, which I accepted. We had hamburgers at a popular drive in--Delores--where I wanted to go because all the crème de la creeps at my high school hang out there, speed shifting, and showing off how smoothly they can depress their clutches.
Naturally, I didn't see anyone I knew when I rolled down the window and peered around. That's because I was dressed up and sitting next to a good-looking boy in a sharp late model car. If I had been in my rags, and sitting on my personal bus bench, the whole world would have waved as it tooled by.
After we ate, we went to the movies. He held my hand the entire time, and right after the two features, took me home. But we stayed out in the car for a while. This time, when he kissed me, he put his tongue in my mouth to a certain extent, but not in a vulgar, suggestive manner, not half way down my throat like some girls I know complain about (not about Phil, about boys in general). All I can say is that Phil Godland was clean, even when he did some fancy French kissing. I wanted him to at least touch my breasts, or make an attempt to locate the site, but he didn't. However, he did put his hand on my thigh when he asked if I would like to ride down to Tijuana with him sometime--not to see the bullfights because he thought they were gross--but just to mess around the shops, and eat tacos, and have Mexican beer. He said he thought Tijuana was colorful, dirt included. I told him I had never been south of the border because the Santa Monica Bus hadn't extended its route there, as yet.
Much as I hated to--things were going so well-- I had to remind him that I was working for his father every single weekend so we couldn't make the trip for a while. He took it rather well, actually, and just said maybe I could arrange to take a day off from summer school. Frankly, I think his spirit was broken on the whole matter of me and his father, and he had thrown up his hands for good. I said, O.K., maybe a weekday, but I would have to check it out my parents. I had never been that far away from home, and I explained to him how they both were about highways, and everybody's defensive driving abilities.
I know I sound retarded for sixteen, but, unfortunately, that's just the way it was. Except for all the new developments, such as wearing his father's initials on my ass, as casually as a monogram on a purse, my experience was vastly limited. (Maybe it wasn't all that casual, after all; even after it healed that tattoo burned, and never stopped, burned right into my soul. If you ask me.) When Phil said goodnight, he mentioned he might see me that weekend at his father's, if he could stomach it for five minutes.
***
I've been telling you every last thing I can dredge up just to avoid the part about what happened at Ezra Godland's house that weekend. Obviously, I can't go sailing by it, because it is the reason for all the things that happened afterward, and the whole point of this tawdry expose I am writing.
(to be continued)
