Saturday, November 12, 2005
(Frog Hospital accepts submission from talented and interesting writers -- so far it's been all women -- so, c'mon you guys!)
By Judith Beckman
I was prom queen. (Don't vomit.) It was an accident, I didn't mean to be. I thought the whole time that it was just a joke and that they had elected me out of pity. There's a Tiara in the attic and a dress. Samantha talked me into getting them down in hopes of borrowing them for her upcoming birthday party.
The tiara is wobbly, I must have placed something heavy on it. (Yearbooks?) Strapless yellow silk, the dress is too sweet.
I must have worn a corsage. The boys favored the kind that pinned on so they had an excuse to feel our boobs while our parents snapped pictures. I had the same boyfriend throughout highschool so he had a bit of experience with mine. But still I don't think he would have missed a chance. That night he had plans to advance our pre-sex experience a bit and we tumbled about at the beach for a while. The grunion were running. Silver and scared they spawned on the sand. Their presence both enthralled and frightened me. Poor Bob, I wonder if he has ever had to endure three years of foreplay since.
I had dinner with a friend from highschool a few days ago. It seems like it has been a million years ago and yet we laughed like it had been a month. He said I looked the same, and I accepted his lie graciously. He poured blood orange martinis in my glass (they were served up) either enjoying the silver shaker or hoping to get me drunk enough to tell stories.
In highschool I was good. Too good. This same guy, the one with the cocktail shaker, once offered to pay me five dollars if I would say to him the f-word. It took me all day, but just before going home I whispered it in his ear, "fuck". It was the first time I ever said it.
I have always been fun to corrupt.