The year was 1983.  8^th grade was upon me and my life was about to change.  That year a girl named Cindy let me round third base.  Up until Cindy, I hadn’t even been on the field of play.  Back then she was what was called a “dirt”.  They drank and smoked and wore bad ass denim jackets.  I didn’t really know what I was but I knew I was closer to a “jock” then a “dirt.”  I was lower middle class, I played football and track, didn’t smoke and hadn’t yet had that first sip of Mad Dog 20/20.   “Dirts” scared me up until I saw “The Outsiders,” which had let me know then, under that hard exterior all “dirts” had that Pony Boy in ‘em.

 I dunno why, but Cindy took an interest in me and let me know it.  Our first sexual encounter occurred in Brian Chestnut’s basement where my first (and I mean — my first) make out session took place.  Ginger haired, chubby cheeked Brian, whose parents didn’t give a fuck so we got to watch this new thing called MTV without parental supervision, Travis Cappelle and myself hung out that night.  Back then, MTV had literally HOURS of entertainment in a day!  Since Brian’s parents didn’t give said fuck what went on in the basement, we three friends found ourselves visited by Cindy and her two friends, Wendy and Rene.  Brian was the richest of us, (if you didn’t figure that out from the name dropping of MTV) and his basement had this amazing plush wrap around couch.  When the giggling cabal of soft skin entered, Cindy sat right next to me.  On the very couch, just a year earlier, we three friends had played Star Wars with Brian’s figures (oh yeah, he had EVERY one – even the Millennium Falcon!).  Not too long after Cindy’s thigh touched mine, her lips touched mine and I found myself having my first make out session — with a girl!  As our tongues wrestled, I realized the year before, as Travis, Brian and I played Star Wars, I clutched a Boba Fett action figure and declared girls gross and having no purpose in life.  But right then, with Cindy’s wet tongue dancing with mine, I was rethinking my position.

It was awesome!  My lips got chapped but it was sooooo worth it!

I was now dating.  Me, dating!  My favorite place I took Cindy was the side of Butte Des Mortes’ middle school.  We’d make out, my back to the bricks, pulling her in so her amble boobs where as close as possible.  Oh, man, and one thing I have to bring up – Chick’s butts!  Man!  I don’t know how to explain it but back then, they were just better than now.  Probably because all we had in 1983 were Levi’s.  Red Tag, which I always thought was for rich kids and the cheaper Orange Tag for us not-so-rich kids.  It took time and patience to work the stiffness out of jeans… there were none of these pre-wash, pre-stress shit the kids have today.  Those jeans would mold to perfection on those perfectly shaped caramel, candy apple asses of the women of the 80’s.  Still, to this day, the thought of making out while my hand’s cupped, squeezed and lifted a woman’s jean clad globes of heaven is the single most erotic/nostalgic/wonderful thought I can ever have.

Within a few weeks of dating, I reached second base with Cindy on the side of Brian’s garage one night.  I think I picked there because I felt safe in the darkness of night to shadow my boner.  Unfortunately, what I wore that night was my favorite pair of white, parachute pants and I probably should have just shined a spotlight on the boner and be done with the shame.  Regardless, I had my first free hit of crack that night called boobs and I’ve been chasing THAT dragon ever since.

I’d like to say that third base was easily achieved.  But I can’t.  It was a process, and not because of what you might think.  Cindy was not the problem, it was the fucking tight ass jeans I loved so much!  Cindy and I found ourselves, yet again, on the side of the school.  As I was “going for it,” I tentatively slide my right hand gently down betwixt Cindy and her jeans as we made out passionately.  I got just pass my second knuckle over the top of her jeans when I got stopped.  Again, not by Cindy but the fact my hand was stuck by the tightness of her jeans. And to let you know how tight they were – I even have small hands!  I gave up that afternoon to regroup and try again at a later date.

My second attempt, after much thought and crude drawings of ideas, had me using what I had worked out was the next best course of action — I unbuttoned her jeans (button fly’s weren’t invented yet).   This got me closer to the motherland, to the tantalizing feel of the top of Cindy’s laced panties… but then -stuck, again!  Damn it.  But today, I was not to be denied and in a fever of lust, I surmised that more ground could be covered if I unzipped her pants.

Before I continue, I need to bring up one thing.  This whole time we were together, Cindy was a ready partner BUT she was also not an enabler.  She never assisted with my endeavors, which I will point out was one of my pet peeves about her.  She never did the one thing I really, really wanted her to do, which was to play grab ass with me like I was constantly doing to her.  She kissed passionately enough, but for all of her our make out sessions her hands remained firmly planted in her jacket pockets, never to venture out and explore my body as I was exploring hers.  Her hands remained an unwilling participant to the taut, firm, smooth country that was the former Shaun.

As I said, I unzipped her pants and knew I was there — at the source of all mystery and desire!  Now, slightly less encumbered by the jail of her jeans, my fingers inchwormed past the lace and to the top of that glory that was her pubic hair.  Sensing victory was soon at hand and feeling slightly scared at entering this undiscovered country, I soldiered on to the middle of what my mind’s eye had remembered in the very few pictures I had seen in a stolen Playboy book — that lovely Bermuda triangle of soft, velvety pubic hair where the prize was nestled… and I didn’t find it.  My slight fear quickly grew as I padded (much like I do now when I have misplaced my glasses at night) in tiny increments to the right, then quicker padded back to the center and then to the left and realized — she had no Vagina!!!!!!   Confused and scared I quickly stopped and told her I had to get home.  I was disturbed and perplexed.  When I got home I had the luck of running into someone I trusted.  His name was John, he was a foster kid who lived next door.  He was a high school senior and had never talked down to me, so when I saw him sitting on the front stoop, I sat down next to him and tried to figure out how to broach the subject of what just happened.  There was no easy way of doing it, so I just kinda threw it out there.  He laughed his ass off.  I was so embarrassed I on the verge of storming off, which I think he could sense, so he stifled his laughter and told me how I was wrong.  John told me that those few pictures that I had seen, must of had the woman sitting down, but that when they stand up, just like a Transformer transforming, it moves and rotates underneath.    With a smirk on his face he informed me if I had just kept digging, I would have found it.

It was that weekend, on the side of the Menasha Goodwill (because that was where the traveling carnival always set up when it came into to town) that my finger struck Vagina oil!  Pink gold! (Sorry, present me just watched a bunch of Beverly Hillbillies.) I’d like to say I was cool about it, but as I rode my bike back home with my friends I told them what happened and asked if they wanted to smell my finger.  Man, I was a stupid, fucking insensitive kid.

I broke up with Cindy soon after, mainly because there was someone else I was interested in named Tracy.  I had been a real shit about it.  After college I found myself looking back more and more.  I felt plagued by all the shitty things I had done and when my 10 year reunion came up I went mainly to make amends.   I found Cindy and apologized for how shitty I had broken up with her.  I remember she had this quizzical look on her face and she then smiled and kissed me on the cheek.  Unlike me, she hadn’t probably thought of me in a long, long time.  I guess the two things I can say about this are; when you’re thinking it’s all about you, it’s not.   And vagina’s are like Transformers.

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Shaun Parker moved out to Los Angeles from Wisconsin at the tender age of 37.  If you want to hear some of his story go to npr.org and search under “Shaun Parker” to find the two part story featuring him.   Or find him here at: www.actorshaunparker.com.