I really didn’t talk to a girl until I was in college. I wasn’t completely hideous or anythng – well, I was a little too tall and thin and a little self conscious I guess. I had plenty of guy buddies, but girls – completely terrified of the entire species; and the pretty ones – well, it was a lot safer to look at them in magazines thank you very much.
They have pretty much classified every possible roadblock to happiness as a medical or physical abnormality (if your mind wanders a little you have A.D.D) – except this. The term ‘shy’ just doesn’t seem to cut it. In ninth grade one time I received some very clear signals that a girl liked me; and not just any girl but one who ran with the pretty and popular crowd. This was way out of my league and a disaster that sent me into full avoidance and denial. I knew my limitations, this had to blow over and of course it did.
Did I spend just about every minute thinking about girls? Oh yes, and I had a fully active sex life with myself. My imaginary but highly climactic sensual encounters were with people like Heather Locklear or Jenny McCarthy or Kirstie Alley (the Cheers version – not the DWTS version); pretty much any cutie in tight clothes I might have seen walking by earlier in the day, it didn’t take much. At-least a couple times a day though privacy could be a challenge. I didn’t learn to use my hand; I needed to be laying down on a bed, on a towel with the underside of my stick absorbing the friction. Wondering how amazing it would be if someday I could have unencumbered access to the real thing. That was way too distant a thought – it was in the too good to be true category. For now, I could imagine anyone I wanted. No girl with a tight shirt who crossed my path was safe from being burnt into my memory for an upcoming fantasy. I went to bed early a lot.