Page 81 - Taming Your Gremlin A Surprisingly Simple Method for Getting Out of Your Own Way (Rick Carson)_Neat

By my junior year I had developed a fair to middlin’ Big Dog disguise,
dating, among others, Sally, our head cheerleader.

The first time I laid eyes on Sally was in a pep rally. She leapt in the air,
and as she did so I glimpsed her bright red cheerleader panties. In that

moment, a lightning bolt shot directly from Sally’s panties into my eye
sockets and down into my crotch with such force I had to untuck my
shirttail or appear obvious. I fell head over heels for Sally. She became the
focus of my existence. I lived to watch Sally walk, touch her, kiss her, smell
her perfume, and stick my lively tongue in her dainty little ear. Then, after
our third date, I experienced a new set of feelings. I started to like Sally.
Really like her. I even liked her wit and the wisdom with which she spoke.

I’d liked girls before, but this much like and lust all at once shook me up. I
liked everything about Sally, a response for which I was totally unprepared.
It threw me. I knew well enough how to kiss a girl’s lips, hold her hand, and
stroke her hair; in other words, I knew what to do with a girl’s parts. But I
hadn’t the foggiest notion what to do with a whole girl—so mostly, when I
was with Sally, I just flexed my neck.

Sally consumed my every thought for about six months. I consumed

Sally’s every thought for about six weeks. I remember the day Sally’s
feelings seemed to shift.

Sally was on her front porch and I was about ten feet away on a
walkway that led from her porch to the curb where my pink and white 1955
Ford was parked. It was lowered in front, pinstriped, and had a spider
painted on the dashboard. It must have been a warm day because Sally was
wearing shorts and I remember ogling her lovely, oh-so-strokeable, creamy-
smooth just-right thighs, the thought of which made me even warmer.

There I stood, drinking in Sally with my eyes, testosterone running
rampant. I tried to look cool as a cucumber while flexing my neck. I flexed
it hard. It wasn’t a first-class coil of muscle, but it wasn’t small, either.
Though it may have looked small compared to my biceps; I could make my
left bicep look like a Christmas ham by propping it up on the driver’s side
window ledge of my Ford. I know because I used to drive past store

windows to check it out.