Man’s Rants: from boy to Spencer Casey

Thank you for stopping by Man’s Rants! I’m on vacation and I’ve invited some of my Man blogger friends to write a post about their coming-of-age. So, we’ve heard tales of Lupe and Liz, and now writer Spencer Casey remembers…What was her name?

Let’s Call Her Tanya
By Spencer Casey of The Recession of Depression

Her name was Blithe. Not really. Let’s call her Tanya in honor of my favorite poster girl. (Tanya Roberts was Donna’s mom on That 70’s Show by the way.) Vroom, vroom.

Tanya was and is a year older than myself. Older woman, oh yes. As I remember it, she approached me to boogie at one of those dark, loud, echoing, sticky, stomach-fluttering, Hubba-Bubba-chewing, wallflower-standing, crepe-paper-draping high school dances.

I think (maybe poetically) that we had a bit of a fast dance first. Picture Dire Straits and Money for Nuthin’…and the chicks for free. Oh the education of popular music.

The slow dance came next. How about Faithfully from Journey. We stuttered a bit, then gave each other the why-not shrug and… gasp… touched.

I should note right here that I knew Tanya before this dance. We had a class together. I already adored her, but thought her completely and utterly unattainable. She was older, much more experienced certainly, and… well she was older.

Back to the dance. Where were we? Oh yes, we touched. It was slow and sweet and I remember the smell of her hair, the warmth of her breath against my chest, the pressure of her bits and my bits getting better acquainted.

I’m a touch foggy at this point and I don’t want to misrepresent, so I’m going to say that there was another dance, maybe a month later where we picked up. I can’t believe this all happened at once.

Our first kiss happened outside the cafagymnasitorium. I remember cold air and cold hands and warm wonder.

How we got back to my father’s home I cannot recall. But somehow, someway, I found myself in my room, the real (for a poster) Tanya looking on, the nom de plume Tanya sitting nervous on my bed.

Everyone was asleep, save us young lovers. Years before this night my dad had proudly shared with me his assumption that I probably knew more about sex than he did (HA!) so I believe he would have accepted a girl in my room at any rate.

The lights were very dim, but I think even with the light of the sun I don’t know if I would have believed this was The Night until we were both completely nude and… doing whatever it was we were about to do. Eventually it did become obvious, though I can’t say when or how that line was crossed.

And then the nerves set in. Oh god. What if, what if, what if? Oh no. How do I? What do I? What if she? When will she? Can I? Could I? Should I?

And my inclination, listening to every doubt flowing through my rapidly thinning blood, failed to… incline.

I slid to my knees, off my bed, hoping she hadn’t seen my lack. She had and was probably a touch more embarrassed to be lying there, fully exposed and without a partner.

“My first time,” I stammered out with something like a hiccup.

To her glorious generosity she said without pause, “It’s my first time too.”

Steaming pile of regurgitated bologna, right? Who’s to say now? I guess it doesn’t matter, except to know for certain this little bit of my past. Whatever. Those wonderful words from her and a couple of gentle kisses did the trick and before I knew it, billion-year-old instincts were having their way with me.

It was awkward and untidy.

And the most wondrous sensation of my short existence. Still is, come to think of it.

I gave some of the other stuff the college try but our combined lack of know-how was a definite no-way. Practice and outspoken partners are the only two things that make a man apt, then competent, then confident in the more obscure arts. Any guy who tells you different should get a job washing hogs.

For some reason, afterwards, I thought I should offer her a shower, which she accepted. Weird, huh? That went OK until I turned on the bathroom light and we both seemed to realize our nakedness all over again. In hiney-sight (sorry), should have skipped the shower.

I remember I bought her a Pepsi on the way home as well.

What a guy.

We had a relationship after that. I nearly lost my mind when she left me for an older guy. Could hardly blame her though. I was self-obsessed, a bit dull and (gulp) counting the number of times we had sex. Rotten dog.

She was with him for many years, but they never married. Still, I think they were happy for a long time. Or at least they loved each other.

Last I saw her, not to long ago, she was working the counter for the cable company in town. She seemed sad.

I felt strangely responsible for the way her life went, as if I gave her little raft the initial push and it was towards the rapids. I can’t say why… maybe ego, maybe affection, maybe stupidity… probably all three.

As unprepared as I was, thoughts of my little personal right of passage still fill me with all the honest wonder a memory of teenage life can possibly produce. And I can say with some wisdom now it would be years from that night before I could rightfully call myself an actual man. But I felt like one for the first time that night.

Barely.

Thanks, Spencer! Spencer (aka GC) did a hilarious free association two weeks ago that many missed due to problems with my feed. Check it out if you have a minute…