Duncan's Diary (3 page)

“Ma’am, do you need help with your bag?” I asked her politely.

“Yes,” she said. “That red one right there.” She pointed her veined bony finger above my right shoulder. I grabbed her bag with one hand and braced it with the other, as I navigated it over the heads of the two people standing between us. “Thank you,” she said, and then turned toward the front. We waited expectantly for the doors to open so we could be released from the stuffy confines of our plane.

I trekked down to the baggage claim, picked up my bag rather quickly, and headed off to the Hertz car pick-up. They mixed up my reservation, thinking I would be coming in at 9 a.m. versus 9 p.m. This forced me to go through the process of verbally dealing with the counter girl instead of just grabbing my car and leaving. No SUV. Still winter in Boston, and I got stuck with a large American-made car that some might say fits my age and status. “American Made.” I hate that phrase. It means so little nowadays. “American Made” might just be another way of saying “crap pieced together as quickly and as cheaply as possible in order to maximize the profit companies can suck out of the American people.”

The trip to Meredith, N.H., (where my company’s office is located) is about two hours north of Boston. It is a straight shot up Interstate 93 to exit 23. Unfortunately, I am not sure that I will ever forget the exit number. The only reminder of civilization outside of Boston on the drive to Meredith is Manchester, which you don’t even pass through. The rest of the drive is shrouded in darkness. There are no street lights, few cars, trees on both sides of the roads as thick and endless as the ocean, and very little sign that people actually live there. My journey was an endless jaunt through a state about the size of my thumb. I searched for a radio station every 20 minutes and weeded through the static-filled airwaves. “Live Free or Die” is the New Hampshire motto. I think it’s appropriate only if you are allowed to exterminate the people who deserve the latter. “Die”—do they really know what they are saying?

I did remember this time to call in my dinner order to Giuseppe’s, the Italian restaurant associated with my hotel. They have one of the best seafood pasta dishes I have ever eaten. Spicy, yet not too hot, full, flavorful with bits of lobster, crab, and prawns (I usually hold the mussels so the dish is not overwhelmed by a fishy taste). It comes with a Caesar salad if you remind them several times and bread, as well. The entire town closes at 10 p.m. If you forget to order anything for dinner, you go to bed hungry or are forced to eat the greasy tasteless options at the local fast food establishment.

I got to my hotel (it’s really a bed and breakfast) and walked through the hallway to the check-in counter. It’s not a typical place to stay on a business trip. Older couples often come to enjoy a weekend getaway at the best spa environment a small town can provide. This is the kind of place where puzzles rest on tables in the hallway, quilts hang on the walls, and a fresh bowl of bright red apples in an oversized bowl sits on the wood laminated counter.

The slightly overweight, yet somewhat attractive, lady at the counter checked me in. She had a bright, warm smile that you would expect from a small town girl.

“Hello. How are you?” she asked. She had soft straight brown hair and brown eyes to match. She wore a frumpy hotel outfit. It is odd that places of business can never pick out clothes that flatter their employees. Her tight-fitting grass-green blazer must have been made of the finest nylon and synthetic material that $20 could buy.

I wanted to say I was feeling great now that I saw her, and would she be interested in a quick romp in my room? Instead, I only managed “Fine. Just tired and ready to relax in bed while masturbating as I look at porn on my computer.”

Okay, admittedly, I stopped at the relaxing in bed part. No need to freak out the simplistic check-in girl. I go through the registering process, put my bags on the window seat, and grab my dinner from the restaurant downstairs. I then settled down with my computer for a night of
Seinfeld
and Seafood Frivoli.

Going forward, I anticipated my fantasies being different, as I contemplated my dream on the airplane and the feeling of life that it had instigated.

I awoke the next morning slightly jet-lagged, not wanting to get out of bed, and still lamenting how sad my life was.

What road did I take that led me to this end? I remember as I was growing up, my goal was to retire when I was 55 with a great nest egg. I would relax on the beach, sip drinks with umbrellas, and shit like that. What the hell happened to me?

I don’t hate my life or who I am. I don’t hate my actions or what I have become. I just think by society’s standards I am the definition of a loser—or at a minimum, I have some serious issues.

My idea of a great evening is eating a salad, watching a little TV, and looking at all the porn on Craigslist, lamenting that I can’t even afford a car date for $80. That is the going rate for the cheap ones now. Interestingly enough, I am not even sure that sex is the most important thing in my life. At one time, I thought I was a sexaholic. Okay, that might be wishful thinking. Sex is about all I ever think about. Probably has something to do with my upbringing, which was anything but traditional.

My family background is a mess by
Leave it to Beaver
standards. I’ve tried to explain this on dates and still, to this day, have no idea why I don’t just say I have a few brothers and sisters, and I talk to them infrequently.

My mother was married before she married my father. She had a son in this original marriage (Peter), which would make him my half-brother. She, then, married my father, had me, and in a few short years they divorced. I originally went with my mother; but my father did not think that was the best idea, so he took me away from her. He informed my mother that he would beat the shit out of her if she ever attempted to contact me in any way.

My mother seemed to follow the rule fairly well, as I never saw her again after I turned one. I have had contact with Peter, who must be as messed up as I since he also has some dysfunctional ideas about appropriate sexual behavior. This probably helps support genetic dysfunction versus environmental influence on deviants I would assume.

My mother remarried after she divorced my father, (which I learned from my brother Peter) and had several kids. I’m not sure how many, as I don’t have contact with any of them. Meanwhile, my father married a lady when I was about nine. She had two children from a previous marriage. This is important in the grand scheme of things, as my stepsister played a vital role in my sexual growth. Her name was Sarah.

My father was only married to Colene for a short time, and then they divorced. My lasting memory is the two of them having a heated debate, her in the kitchen and he in the living room. Colene was hurling plates and obscenities at him while he played duck and cover. My stepsister Sarah and I hid in our bedroom, but sneaked a peak now and then to see the show. My father would later marry another lady named Elizabeth, who had a child before she married my father. She was stepsister No. 3. This opens a question that nobody has really ever answered for me. If your parents marry and then divorce, is you stepsister still considered your stepsister? I don’t really know how to answer that question.

That is the end of my family tree. My father is still married to Elizabeth, and they will be celebrating their 30th wedding anniversary on October 31. Who in their right mind gets married on Halloween? It seems unbelievable to me, but congratulations to them. I don’t know that I could define the marriage as happy, but it seems to have worked for their lifestyle, so who am I to judge.

I lay in bed, not wanting to force myself into the cold frigid air of the hotel room. Preferring the warmth of the overstuffed down comforter, my mind traveled back in time to my first kiss. Sharon Gillmor was her name, in the small town of Desoto, IL., where I grew up. That was the beginning of my obsession with the opposite sex that would later lead me here (today).

I was eight years old, and it was the summer after my third grade year. Sharon was a decent looking girl with the kind of hair that you might think of from the ’60’s. You know, the kind that doesn’t really move. Just stays in place and remains that way for her entire life. Her facial features will grow old, her body will deteriorate, she will move into adulthood and then into old age. Her hair is most likely the same now as it was then – immobile.

There was just something about Sharon. Still can’t place my finger on the button, but there was something special. Teachers liked her; she was bright and answers flowed from her rather easily. It was simple for her to overachieve. She had the ability to look wonderful in a dress for a school function, while still being athletic enough to hang with the boys—we would chase each other through the streets of our small town, which had a population of 1,600.

Our town was the kind of place where everyone knew everyone and were related to most of the people you saw on any given day. Kids could ride their bicycles to school, go to a friend’s house in the afternoon, and parents didn’t have to worry. We hung out in fields and played down by the river. Everything seemed simplistic. One didn’t hear of drugs or alcohol at all in our little town--not in grade school and middle school, anyway.

It was a bright day with the sun shining and a slight breeze rolling through the manicured lawns. Sharon and I were running and playing. Chasing each other seemed like a way to gain physical contact without the issues of what physical contact might mean. We were kids who still had the innocence of not knowing what we were doing or how fucked-up the world was outside of our little town. That’s simplicity for you.

I chased her through the grass, finally catching her behind her house, as we both fell next to a hay bale that was sitting in her backyard. Hay was littered all around the large brick that had been slightly pulled apart. Somebody had used a small portion of its contents to insulate plants.

As we lay there, a few strands of hay in her hair, we were close enough to touch legs. I still remember the electric feeling of her body slightly making contact with mine. I wish that I could say I took my hands and gently cupped her cheeks, as I slowly pulled her close, gently pressing my lips to hers as she met my kiss and closed her eyes, slightly purring as we engaged in our first romantic moment.

Instead it was more of a quick in-and-out peck that lasted less than less of a second and was over before it even really started. We never spoke of the kiss or of that moment again. As we grew up and went to high school, we moved into different crowds and went our separate ways. I will always count that as my first kiss and, therefore, always remember Sharon Gillmor as the girl who started me down the path of sexuality.

Sharon might have instigated these feelings, but my formal education, as with all kids, occurred in school. My dad was not the touchy-feely kind that exists today. He was more of the “don’t talk about it and keep your deviant desires hidden” type of father. Most of my sexual education began in school in the sixth grade. As with most good sixth graders, we had the pleasure of gaining our formal sexual knowledge in the middle of health class or when I was a budding child in my twelfth year.

The process is easy really. Like most subjects, you are given a book. You then read the chapters that are assigned. You go to class the following day, and you then discuss the topic. Once this process is completed you are given a test on the subject to ensure that you did not screw anything up. The goal is to enable you to firmly grasp the concepts you were charged with learning.

My roadblock was the discussion section. I truly could not grasp how the parts of the opposite sex worked. My sexuality was relatively easy to understand. I had a penis, and at times it would get hard. I would get excited, and then shit (not a good choice of words probably) would fly out of it. Life would feel wonderful for a few seconds. Somewhat like the Fourth of July when the fireworks reach their finale, the lights spray throughout the sky, and everyone around you “oohs” and “ahhs.” There’s nothing like the feeling of ejaculation.

Mrs. Johnson was my sixth grade teacher. I don’t remember the names of all my teachers, but I do remember her. Not because she was smoking hot, or anything. That would have been Mrs. Reynolds. She was hot, her daughter was hot, and everything about her family was hot. Not the kind of hot where you are stunned by her beauty although she was very pretty. Hers was the kind of hot that oozed sexuality in a way that made her movements fluid and graceful. I would have definitely loved to have a mother-daughter encounter with them. She is most likely still hot to this day although my guess is she would be in her 60’s.

Mrs. Johnson had the arduous chore of trying to teach my class and specifically me the process of how our bodies were made. How they worked in the reproduction cycle. In my defense, I don’t think there are very many males that truly understand how the female body works. We might have several of our group that get the mechanical specifics. Very few of our kind truly understand the overall functioning physics of putting all the pieces together to a female-satisfying conclusion.

I dutifully went home, read my assigned chapters in my health book, and came to class not knowing what the hell was happening. Completely mystified by the entire make-up and functionality of my sexual counterpart, I was prepared to ask specific questions. I would not go through life unsure of the instrumental aspect of the opposite sex.

Mrs. Johnson started her speech. She explained body parts, and how things worked both separately and together. She dutifully explained the interactions of how an erection occurred and where the penis would be placed in the process of intercourse. Intercourse naturally was for the purpose of procreating, but it could be a source of pleasure, as well.

The tricky part for me was the process of ejaculation, penis penetration, orgasms for woman, and how all of this occurred without accidentally getting urinated on. I continued to ask the question how could there not be inadvertent urination, while in the process of intercourse, since the parts were used for both purposes. This had the effect of annoying my teacher to no end up to the point where I heard her talking to another teacher. She stated the class overall went very well, and she was really only disappointed in one student.

I took the honors for disappointing, but it would be several years later before I truly understood the concept of how things worked. I say that from a man’s point of view, as again I don’t think any male truly understands the inner workings of the female anatomy. Who the hell knows what’s up down there?