It was the first day of kindergarten and I was staring into the most beautiful eyes in the world. All the other girls looked like boys compared to this queen of all supermodels and she was talking to me!
I was speechless. I stood there in a trance. My jaw hung open like a broken mailbox. She smiled, knowing well the power her feminine wiles held over me. She owned me and I didn’t care.
After school, we walked hand in hand until we reached my home. Still unable to talk, I pointed at my front door.
“Is this your home?” she asked.
Somehow, I managed a nod. She led me up the porch steps and knocked on the door. My mother opened, and my heart sank. How could I tell her that she no longer held first place in my heart?
“What is your boy’s name? Does he talk? Can he come to my house and play?”
“His name is David and usually he never shuts up. Yes, he can play.”
For weeks, we spent our every moment together. She dressed me up in skirts and made me wear makeup. We played with dolls, skipped rope and I ate mud pies. I didn’t care because I was her slave.
Then one day, the sky came crashing down.
“GO AWAY, YOU ICKY BOY !” She said.
I was devastated. It’s no wonder my life spiraled downward into a blur of self destructive behaviors like drinking, knife fighting, driving recklessly and tearing the warning labels off of mattresses. I became a mercenary, volunteering for every suicide mission. Life didn’t matter anymore.
And then I started first grade...