Page 9 - Asheville NC Revised2

The distant past...
Maybe part of the reason I became a semonog is that things often seemed so stacked in my favor. Good grades, obedience and athleticism rated the highest status in my school days. I embodied those traits. I was always chosen first in long ball and usually out last in dodge ball. Kids would too often holler: “red rover red rover send Dan right over.”
Soon I thought I was a prince of the royal blood, honest to God. Might as well have been. My parents were so well respected and my ability to please authority so strong that I was assaulted by unrelenting positive feedback.
In the sixth grade, reality began to nibble. For one thing I stopped loving only virtue in women. Madison Avenue had done its amazing deed on my brain an converted it to Hollywood beauty. Three girls conformed best to this stereotype: Paula, a small green-eyed cutie; Carol, a blond, brown-eyed California girl; and Becky, a tall and sultry brunette with long straight bangs that brazenly covered the tops of her come-on eyes. She chased me. I dreamed of playing football in front of all cheerleading three. Dr. Dad said no, my growing bones weren’t yet fused enough for football.
Yet the taboo against fraternizing with the cootie-clad was stronger than any love fantasies I had. For instance, several of us read Hardy Boy books by the six-pack. In one, Frank Hardy kissed his long-time girlfriend Sally. I gathered friends to show them the sordid sentence, the only vaguely sexual action in about forty books, and I was embarrassed for days that one of the Hardy’s had done such a disgusting thing.
Meanwhile the brazenly-banged brunette had been writing “Dan Loves Becky” all over her notebooks. I ordered her to erase them with increasing anger. “To hell with you,” she laughed wickedly one day. “You love boogers more than you’ll ever love anyone.”
“You’re one to talk,” I said, quickly pulling my finger from my nose “You made a “d” on that state capital geography test.”
“Thirty out of fifty ain’t bad,” she said.
“I was forty- eight out of fifty.”
“Maybe all that nose picking pricks your brain,” she giggled while going over to
gossip with Carol and Paula. Strong attractions wafted me toward these three loves. Svelte, Mata Hari Becky. Golden Carol, a Diana-like goddess who was as fleet afoot as the fastest boys. Cuddly nymphet Paula, every move achingly dainty. Just in time I remembered they were my mortal enemies. Instead of socializing I retreated to the restroom to let loose a stream of nervous pee. One of my best friends went in with
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