The Rec Room

Some say a man is a crude thing. A course thing. A crass thing, even. Lacking finesse and personality. Or a finished persona. Like a bull in a China shop charging hither, thither, and yon without thought or reason. Charging everywhere. Breaking everything. Signifying nothing.

This thought is without merit, methinks.

Perhaps a man just thinks… differently...,

Perhaps…,

Perhaps he just thinks with his nose.

There once was a girl. And I loved her.

A girl named Diana,

Though she wanted to be called, ‘Diane.’

I called her whatever she wished,

Men always do. To please her.

The girl I loved in high school.

My first love.

My only love, perhaps.

We met in a mutual friend’s house.

Her name was Cheryl and she knew my friend named Gary.

We were in different high schools,

They were the exotic girls from the next town over,

Close but distant,

Like all mysterious things.

We met by happenstance.

Cheryl had a house with a rec room in the basement, a favorite of 1950’s houses at the time.

Lots of things happened in rec rooms back then.

Wonderful…,

Things…

Gary and I were invited over to a party at Cheryl’s house.

Cheryl had a friend named Diana, pronounced ‘Diane.’

Cheryl had Diana over for the same party.

We played a game called spin the bottle.

Perhaps you’ve heard of it?

It was a favorite in 1950’s rec rooms,

In the half light of candles and posters of the Beetles on the walls.

You take a bottle of Moxie or Coca-Cola or something or other and drink it.

Then you gather a group of boys and girls in a circle and place the empty bottle in the middle.

One boy or girl takes the bottle and spins it.

It spins,

It stops,

It points to some boy or girl in the circle.

The spinner of the bottle then kisses the one pointed to by that bottle.

Or the nearest person of the opposite sex. Let’s be real, now.

It was quite simple, really.

Brilliant, even.

Clever.

It was responsible for many surprising things happening back then, which was the 1960’s by my time.

Wonderful…,

Things…

In Diana’s and my case, it was love at first spin.

It was wonderful beyond belief.

The first time I kissed her I was terrified.

I gave her a peck on the lips.

Barely above what you would give your mom on her cheek.

Pathetic, but what did I know?

Songs of innocence…

…It progressed…, …I learned…, …I improved…,

…And experience.

I don’t remember kissing any other girl that night. They wouldn’t have, well, held a bottle to the girl I did kiss.

Cheryl would take my bottle spin and turn it toward Diana…,

To kiss her only…,

Cheryl took my hand…,

And placed it gently…,

…Gently on Diana’s left-

It was lovely beyond belief.

Every woman I loved since then was a chore,

Or a burden,

Or a thing,

Just a thing.

A thing I did by rote.

Because I had to, I guess.

I was supposed to.

Maybe for sex, maybe for obligation, maybe for the tedium of it all.

Maybe because that’s what I ought to do, even if badly.

And pretend it was what I wanted…,

Desired…,

Beyond all others…

I was a man, after all.

What society and propriety demand of men:

To be a mule to bear his load for hearth and home…,

…To work the fields, dig deep the mines…,

…To go down to the sea in ships and bring back all riches…,

…To build cities and govern them…,

…Then to be a stallion upon demand to your woman back home…,

…You had better satisfy…

…And to go back to being a mule when the servicing is done.

That’s is a man’s role in life.

Or sex as pastime. Sex as something to do.

Or maybe because sex demands it.

Sex for sex sake and no other,

Just to pass the time,

To fill the void,

To make full what was empty with some other empty person as filler,

A person…,

In a place…,

To satisfy a need…,

Of loneliness…,

And glands.

It is a slog in the park,

A plug to stopper up a need.

Why not?

Biology is, after all, biology,

Nasty bits gonna do what nasty bits do.

The magic was gone.

No more spinning bottles,

No more tender left breasts,

No more first kisses, awkward and sweet.

It has all become dog fuck dog.

And yet…,

…In the back of my mind…,

…Just below the threshold…,

…In the sub basement…,

…Brewing…,

…Gathering…,

…Spinning…

…The bottle spins…,

…And it points to…!

In the scented back room of my soul,

The nostrils that want filling with a girl’s scent…,

The memory of a girl…,

Who wants her name pronounced a certain way…,

With braces on her teeth…,

And blond hair…

And a loose shirt…,

Where a hand passes easily up…,

And round breasts…,

And lovingly feels-

A girl’s scent.

A real girl, billowing natural perfume.

Not artificial scent.

No need for make believe.

I wanted a love affair.

One made from sinew and bone,

Muscle and flesh,

Soft flesh…,

And soft breasts,

And yielding…,

And perfumed.

Even if just for the scent of a woman.

No, a girl.

And I a boy,

In a rec room,

In the near dark,

Just dark enough.

Perfect.

With posters on the walls.

And candles.

The fragrance of her body, her glands, her pours, her skin, her eyes,

Her mouth,

Wafting vapors.

Vapors, in my direction.

Lips that kiss and linger.

A subtle scent that hangs over the body,

The face,

The lips,

The skin,

The breasts,

The-!

The magic of it all,

Of her all.

The mystery,

The wonder.

It just lasts forever and tastes of ecstasy.

Forever, all in a moment,

And then it is gone.

You must know what I mean,

Otherwise, you are heartless.

The taste, the feel, the real fragrance.

Sex incarnate in a fragrance than no man can resist.

Certainly not a teenage boy,

In a rec room…,

With candles…,

And posters on the walls…,

With an angel.

No! Not an angel!

Angels are noncorporeal.

Diana, pronounced Diane, was as corporeal as it gets.

With the real perfume that comes…,

Not in a bottle. But in a body.

No need for Chanel number 5,

Or musk,

Or any Egyptian Myrrh or Frankincense no matter now sensual…,

Personal…,

Sexual…,

Or artificial.

The real thing is a perfume that a boy can drink in, luxuriously,

Forever,

And he knows the difference between the fake and the real.

The real thing is a perfume that he can and will make love to even before entering a girl’s body…,

Her sanctuary…,

Her life…,

Her soul…,

Your pilgrimage…,

Willfully…,

With her begging…,

Longing…,

As does he.

Even perfume free, no need for exotic French perfume, a woman exudes power.

Even just for her raw, naked body, the lusty want of trust and friendship, raw energy and sex. Willingness to give and yearning to trust. The promise of she for me and what I see and hear and taste and smell-and touch-is just for her…,

Us…,

We.

“If you want it.” She says. “Come and take it! I’m yours…!

“What do you have to give me in return?

“I’ll take it!

“If just once…,

“Twice more…,

“Thrice again…,

“And many more.

“Take it! It’s yours….

“I’m yours…

“Two bodies yearning, one for the other…,

“The other for the first…,

“And around again…,

“Always…,

“Just once…,

“Forever…,

“Now!”

Lust is such a strong word.

This is desire…,

Each to the other…,

One to its opposite…,

The opposed to the other…,

And equal.

That is enough.

Time enough later.

If only that later could be once more…,

The same as once was…,

Once again…,

When the rec room is gone and desire becomes…,

Something else.

We would write sentimental love letters to each other, Diana and I.

Sappy little things only teenagers in love could conceive of.

I made her a pair of sterling silver earrings in jewelry class.

The teacher thought they were sappy,

I suppose he was right,

But he let me make them anyway.

They caught in Diana’s golden hair, but she wore them anyway.

The beach.

Making out in the dunes, barely hidden from sight.

Sand got. Well. You can guess where sand got.

Everywhere!

Hanging out on the boardwalk.

Basking in the July sun.

And August.

Playing mini-golf.

Eating ice cream and playing carnival games, ten tickets for a nickel!

Splashing in the Long Island Sound.

Watching Diana’s bathing suit get wet.

Feeling a stirring in mine.

Belly flopping in the pool while trying to impress my girl,

What a sop!

She came to comfort me,

What a girl!

Diana filling out a bikini with all the right padding.

All natural.

Me feeling inadequate, but quite willing to play along.

Lucky me!

Snoozing in the back seat of her mother’s car as she brought us home.

I wonder what she thought watching us doze in the rear view mirror?

Diana’s head on my shoulder?

My arms around her?

Occasionally kissing her head?

Her mother was young once, though at the time youth could not believe such a thing was possible.

I broke up with Diana when I went to college and she stayed home.

It was a mistake.

Big.

Mistake.

But life marches on…

Even if the loins want each other for no more than pleasure…,

And the perfume becomes no more than mere pheromones…,

Why not?

Tomorrow, we grow up.

The bottle stops spinning,

The posters are torn down…

We become adults…,

Big mistake!

All becomes stale…,

Sex smells dirty…,

And compelling…,

And unavoidable…,

And plain…,

And pedantic…,

And something to do, no longer something to desire.

If only…

If only for once more…

The rec room lived.

I loved Diana…,

As far as I could love anybody…,

As far as I knew how to love anybody…,

“Youth is wasted on the wrong people,” said a wise old man in a movie.

“The short kisser,” she called me,

With a wink and a tease. That’s what she did.

And I loved her for it.

Somebody…,

A woman…,

A girl…,

With goofy earrings catching in her hair…,

Her golden hair…,

And her head on my shoulder…,

And my arms about her…,

Like a protector…,

Which I saw myself to be…,

A girl in my life…,

No!

The girl in my life.

At the sound of a bottle jangling…,

Rattling…,

From far away…,

And long ago…,

In a 1950’s rec room…,

A love of my life,

Little. Frail. Gentle. Fragile…,

Strong. Powerful. Determined. Sexual…,

Loved…,

And as sexual as she was…,

How I loved her,

Love her,

And love her still.

In my memory, I guess…,

Every room is a palace…,

Every space is sacred…,

Every word is scripture…,

Every girl is a goddess.

Every rec room is a temple, spectacularly so,

Holy, even.

In the minds and emotions of youth, the rec room is heaven.

But rec rooms never last.

Goodbye, Diana.

After all these years…,

I miss you.