My mom worked the night shift back in the day, which meant that my brother and I had rule of the house while she was gone. We took full advantage of it, too. Most nights, our combined friends would hang out at our crib, (yo) and we would all either get stoned or drunk, sometimes both. (If we had enough cheddar.)
I think my mother knew about this to some extent. Kids were always at my house. I suppose you could have called it a party house.
A gathering place, if you will, for teenagers to act like complete idiots.
I figure the way she saw it, at least she knew where we were. I was always the one who answered the phone when she would call and check in, because I was excellent at maintaining.
“Merry? What’s going on over there?”
“Nothing, ma. Just hanging out, watching a movie.”
“Sure. Be good, don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”
What does that mean, anyway? How do I know what she would or wouldn’t have done? I’m no mind reader. (I think it was a trick.)
“Gotta go mom, the pizza guys here!”
Have you ever watched a teen movie, and have it enter into one of those 10-15 minute long party scenes?
That’s what our house was like. We had our cast of regulars, but every now and then, a new face would pop up. Usually they were boys, friends of my brother. The only females were myself, my friend Julie, and her sister Becky.
It was pretty much a sausage fest.
I remember one time, for some reason I decided to shave my legs. (12:30 am. is a great time for hygiene rituals.)
Our bathroom was off of the kitchen. I would sit on the toilet seat, with my legs up on our kick ass, claw-footed porcelain tub. I would lather them up, and then shave carefully, so as not to nick myself.
I was doing just that when the bathroom door opened. (I didn’t bother to lock the door, because who actually just barges into a fucking lavatory unannounced?)
It was two of my brothers friends, and they were shitfaced. (So was I, but I was still able to shave. Youth, go figure.)
Both of their jaws dropped, I shit you not.
I don’t know what came over me, but I started performing for them.
“You have uh, really nice legs, Mer, ” one of them said. (He thought he was gangsta, if I recall.)
“Thanks,” I replied, shaving away as sexily as I could muster.
One of them took a few drunken steps closer, to get a better look at my wet, slick gams.
‘Uh, can I touch your leg?” he asked hesitantly.
His friend gasped audibly, then chugged his Colt 45.
I shrugged. “Sure, go ahead,” I said in my phone sex voice.
He reached over and touched my upper outside thigh.
“It’s so soft,” he breathed.
Of course it was, I moisturized every day.
Beads of sweat lined his brow, and his Adam’s apple bobbed nervously. (Okay, I might be fibbing.)
A bunch of others came bursting in at that moment, and my impromptu performance was cut short. The spell had been broken, and my admirer had now started belching loudly, his wigger pants down to his knees, skid marked undies in full view.
I doubt the guy even remembered what had happened. I saw him around a few more times, but like most of them, he had moved on to a better party house in the neighborhood. (We never did anything stronger than weed.)
I can’t help to think that I lost a shred of my innocence that night, and that it was just a precursor to what happened next.