Okay, so everybody thinks I'm a flake now, except Sunny and Becky and MG. Who I'd link to except I'm terribly lazy right now.

And I really don't have all that much to say.

I've been busy writing stuff for Large Unnamed Client all day. I played a little bit with tiny marsupial who just gets cuter every darn day, but otherwise not much of a day. Or afternoon, I should say, since I woke up around 2pm. bad me.

I now have many projects. Jez, we *must* get started on that sitcom. MG and Bot and I are going to write the Grate Amurkin Novul.

Turtleguy was writing about winter and snow and stuff earlier, and even though he's apparently gone off to some new floozy's diary, I will take that as a cue to bitch about weather which is the best I can come up with at the moment. Other than the fact that something seems to be wrong with my soft palette. What can go wrong with one's soft palette?? All I know is that it hurts. Ow.

On the weather front. My ideal weather? The absence thereof.

Not rainy. Not hot or cold. Not too sunny. If I could live at about 72 degrees, slightly overcast but not too much, no rain nor snow nor even hail, I would be happy. Outside, that is.

Well, THAT subject lasted a helluvalot less long than I had hoped it would. There were ambitions of writing about my dislike of sledding, skiing, sunbathing, and other weather-related activities, but I got bored with that even before you did.

There must be something else I can leave you with for the rest of the night. Thinking now.

I know! I never talked about losing my virginity!

Unlike legions of other girls (I like the word legions), I do not regret my choice of who to take my poor little maidenhood. I regret what happened afterwards, but not the choice.

I had been friends with C for a long time in school. We started making friends my second semester. We became closer friends in my third semester. He would come by my room -- he was quite a bit older than I and lived off-campus, and was friends with, and revered by, many of my friends -- and we would smoke and sometimes talk. He would drive me out to our truck stop in his ancient VW Fox.

To say C was odd is a serious understatement. C actually required a whole nother definition of person. C was bi, but masculine. Quiet, very. Not afraid of silence, not at all. Yet oddly enthusiastic at times. He made me sweet mix tapes, the conglomeration of music on which were stunning -- from Bach to Eno to Buttholes to a lot of other things I forget. C may or may not have had a mild form of Tourette's -- all anyone ever knew was that at times he hooted. But that happened also to be his laugh. So he may well just have been laughing to himself. He had a tongue ring when I met him, later, not. He quit smoking when he washed a pack of cigarettes by accident and just never bought another. He stank, but it was all right. He grew a beard in winter and shaved it in the summer. He was 6'5" and weighed close to what I did (ie, he was skinny, not the other way around). He was very sweet. The only thing I can remember him wearing ever was black old jeans and a red flannel shirt and boots.

In hindsight, I probably loved him. He would have been a good person to love. Also in hindsight, I think he probably loved me. He was strange, but we understood each other. And we cared about each other. He is one person I sincerely hope walks back into my life someday. I don't mean romantically...just at all. Another one words can't possibly express. All I can say about C is that he was one of the few genuinely good people I have known. I have known several genuinely bad people, an enormous number of some-bad-some-good people -- which is most -- and almost no genuinely good people. And he was one of them.

For most of the time I knew him he was with his girlfriend, B. B was a bitch. She was also very short. The idea of the two of them making love was a riot. They were well over a foot apart. But I get ahead of myself again.

My third semester was the most defining in terms of our friendship. C was not known -- well-known not known -- to go out of his way for anyone. And he would come down to the dorms to talk to me. We would sit in my room and stare at the walls until one of us thought of something worthwhile to say. And then we would say it. He showed me Evil Dead II (with Bruce Campbell, yes indeedy) while I was tripping (which is definitely the best way to see it). He got me hooked on Kung Fu and David Carradine.

When the Trucker happened (see menu on left) he was the one I called. He was the one that took me to his house and held me and let me throw up into his toilet and call my parents and he took care of me until they got there. He came to pick me up. He did not tell me I was stupid. He told me that that man was an ape. He stroked my face and he told me things would someday be okay again. He understood. He was there.

GodDAMMIT I'm crying again.

Okay, if I'm going to cry, then a silent weeping toast to C for being my friend for that time when I was so very hard to be friends to.

After I went back home, he drove a long ways back and forth to come visit me. Once we wound up fooling around. He felt a bit bad, told his girlfriend, apologized. I thought he and I were over as a couple until she dumped him for somebody else.

He never flattered me or anything like that. Once I asked him if he liked the way I looked, and he took my face in his hands and told me I was beautiful. At the time we were lying together on a futon in my tiny was a storage room in my parents' garage.

He would call me long-distance and not say anything. I mean, he would say hello. But then he wouldn't have much else to say. For a long time. Until I was forced to tell him that he could get the privelege of not hearing either of us speak for free.

When I lived in hell in Boston he came up to see me. To lie on the mattress on the floor with me and hold on. And to talk to me, and hoot.

After B dumped him, I think in winter, we started fooling around more. I remember him saying something about not being willing to have sex with me for the first time -- really for the first time -- in my parents' house, although I don't recall how that conversation came about. I remember that he didn't care about me being a virgin -- something a lot of boys do care about, they don't want to be the first. But that he wanted to take me to his house. Again, in retrospect, this more than anything I think maybe meant that he loved me.

But he had taught me not to expect more from him. I never asked him if he loved me. I never expected to be together with him. It seemed that I should not. It seemed somehow...verboten. Why do the Germans always have the best words for bad things? I felt like I needed something, some sign, something from him. Maybe he was making that sign in his own odd way, and I couldn't read it. I don't know.

So, we went to his house. We prepared. He wanted foreplay, I wanted to just get it over with.

The most amusing thing? First. C was Jewish, well, sort of. I mean in heritage. He didn't practice any particular religion specifically. The importance there is that he looked...well, Jewish. At the time he still had his beard. And he had a big, narrow Jewish nose. And long, brown, somewhat curly hair. Long as in shoulder-length. And very skinny, you may remember. He looked *exactly* like every single portrait of Jesus ever painted, especially in the dark, as we were. And no, my fascination with christian iconography, particularly crucifixions, started way before that, so don't even try.

I actually looked up during my own personal deflowering and thought, literally, "My God. I'm losing my virginity to Jesus Christ."

I don't know how many girls may have thought that precise thought amidst the removal of their maidenhood, but I'm willing to bet it's not many.

All that said. He was very sweet and kind and loving and tried very hard not to hurt me and my hymen too badly. My deflowering Jesus.

And the part that I regret? I don't remember exactly what happened, but I know he called me at least once and I did not return his call. And I think that was it. I don't know why, really. All I know is that I have not seen him since that night. The night Jesus took my virginity.

onehanded