It all started with Joan. Her nickname was "Hawk," and as she told it, it was because of the wide racing stripe between her legs. Here she was in 1985, when we were seeing Adam Ant playing Radio City Music Hall with The Romantics. It's the one picture I have of her.We were in high school together. We never had sex per se, and we never quite made it to the grrlfriend/boyfriend stage, but we had enough sexually-charged fun and got along so scandalously well that the memory of her stands out for me to this day. We would skip class and take the subway throughout the city, hanging in Chinatown, the Village, and Soho. We mused about punk and metal bands and checked out urban graffiti together.
I took her to a Japanese restaurant for her birthday, where I discretely gave her a box of deliciously sexy goodies that she adored. A copy or two of Penthouse Variations magazine. Massage oil. Her first vibrator. I was working at New York's famous (and touristy) Pink Pussycat Boutique at the time, so the goodies were easy. I remember though that it was a simple box of collected seashells that pleased her the most, which surprised me at the time, but the look on her face warmed me to the core.
I gave her her first slow dance at a school event, something which she adored me for long after. "I'm truly glad you're with me," she wrote on the back of this photo. "It's a chilly nite out indeed, but here we are warm in each other's arms, with this nite slowly dancing its way into our memories! Enjoy!"
Looking back, we must have seemed hysterically anachronistic: she the leather-clad punk grrl and me the denim-jacketed metalhead. After the dance, we strolled along the Brooklyn Bridge with a discretely-hidden bottle of wine, marvelling how the yellow lighting on the bridge made everything appear to be in black&white. We necked in the alley near her apartment building, where during passionate kisses, she stroked my cock over my jeans as I caressed her denim-covered ass and made her cum with my hand. She locked her head over my shoulder when she came. I was entranced.
I could have easily fallen hard for Joan. In some ways I did. In some ways I still am. But I later met Diva at a renaissance festival I later worked at, and found myself whisked away to eventually move in with her in New England. I remember when I told Joan, but I don't remember much of her response. I know I regret not getting closer to her, of the missed opportunities, and how I'd dearly love to make contact with her again if I could. I really blew it when I moved away.
I often wonder what became of her. Searching through our high school's alumni services and the net haven't yielded any results. I wouldn't be at all surprised if she became a punk rocker lesbian somewhere. More than 20 years later, I miss her.
She was an amazing tomboi who started me on my lusty path. Maybe, in a way, I'm still searching for her.
Moo moo, baa baa. Moo moo, baa baa.
1 comment:
I reallt made a huge mistake in not pursuing things further with you, Joan. I shouldn't have moved to Massachusetts. I wonder how life would have unfolded had I stayed in New York, and became your boy.
I can barely remember what it was like when I told you I was moving, but I wonder now if part of you wasn't a little crestfallen. Me, I was blinded, I think, with the idea of Finally Getting Out... but now that leaves me asking myself What Could Have Been.
I've tried to track you down, with no success. I wish I could. I'd love to know where life has taken you, and I'd be thrilled to the bone to see you again and still be your friend.
I miss you. I've been missing you. In many ways, perhaps some of the women in my life have been there because, latently, inwardly, subconsciously, it's still you whom I've sought out.
I really hope you're well, wherever the hell you are.
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