Monday, October 12, 2015


I met her Halloween Day, 1974 in the school smoking area. She suddenly appeared right beside me in her miniskirt and rabbit fur jacket. Out of the corner of my eye I could see her put a cigarette between her lips. I continued to stare straight ahead, not looking for any trouble. I could smell her Herbal Essence shampoo though, and another glance out of the corner of my eye determined that yes, this chick was really stacked.
But its hard to stay out of trouble for long. Suddenly, this chick slugs me in the arm, and in a fake French accent asks:
“Mon amie, are you not going to light my see-ga-rette, oui?”

That was the start of a years-long relationship, a weird relationship that started that night. Come to find out her mother was French, barely spoke English. I went and picked her up that Halloween Night, and whoa, she had a friend, and they wanted to go parking. And I spent the next two hours hopping from the front to the back seat with these two girls, neither of which would let me, you know,  but I got to tell you I was having the time of my young life.

Over the next two years I would almost bang this chick, but not quite. And the thing is, all my buddies were banging her, and when we would gather around, and they would talk about her, they would always say “Bulletholes knows. He does her all the time” and I would have to try to claim that no, I wasn’t "doing her". The implication being that I wasn't near as big a slut as they.
They didn’t believe me, but it was the truth. It was the truth mainly because for some reason every time we nearly made it, it just didn’t happen, usually because she would up and decide we ought to wait. 

Wait for what? I don’t know. 
And as far as I know, she was doing the same thing to these other guys, they just didn’t want to admit it.

But anytime anyone brings up “The Owl and the Pussycat” my mind immediately goes to the night I took her and a bottle of Annie Green Springs to the drive in to see Barbra Streisand and George Segal. It was pouring down rain, and you couldn’t even see the screen. There were no other cars there. Had the place to ourselves. For 95 minutes I tried everything I knew to do, and some other stuff I just made up. In the end it was no joy.
To this day I still run into guys that want to talk about her ("You fucked her ALL THE TIME") and when I tell them the truth, they just laugh. They don’t believe me for a minute.

"Sorry honey, not tonight"

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