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Dawn upon me
Mar. 23rd, 2011 01:50 amSuddenly I find myself remembering Dawn.
Dawn Summerall, my first lover, who pulled her father’s shotgun on me after plucking my virginity with a straddle of hips across me tied to her mattress. Dawn, who got me into my first real fight outside the Cameo, with a skinhead twice my size rolling with a small Kommando Krew of ‘Aryan Yahoos.’ Dawn, who later licked my bruises obscenely while watching the cab driver watch her through the rear view mirror the whole ride back from Miami. Dawn, naked under the Christmas lights strung across the ceiling, reciting half-remembered Crowleyian poetry and initiating me into the profound mysteries of mispronounced gods. Dawn, chain-smoking away and doing her best to play along while I DMed her solo, with a GBH soundtrack blaring away as I tried to explain the intricate miracle of the Natural 20. Dawn, who left me for my best friend and vanished soon after into their own white trash version of Sid & Nancy purgatory chic.
She set the imprint on me. Madness, but tempered with the breath of wit and ignited by a fierce passion to grab life by the balls and never let go.Brown eyes flecked with grinded emeralds, often sharpened with a feral curiosity. Long hair, red as autumn leaves in an October dusk. Skin banshee pale and mapped with sumptuous curves; broad of hip, thigh and breast that were all backed up by a magnificent ass. “A black girl’s ass,” as she would purr to flirtatious strangers, drunk off her fourth beer at a kegger and trying to get someone laid or beaten up or ‘Goddess willing’ both. Mostly I remember her maniac smile and little girl’s laugh.
We were going to go down in flames and long before 18. Rimbaud & Juliet over here. High on our own self inflicted alienation, our twisted imaginations and the drama sparked off the rubbing of the first two together. Well, that and the vodka and the weed we stole from our parents. Once we ended up carving each others names into our forearms with the razor blade she wore around her neck as a seal of our love. Pain junky Dawn, blood fascinated and agony orgasm exclusive. Dawn electrified with my hands around her throat, me diminished in the shame of my satisfaction. Dawn, delirious and triumphant, raking my chest with black painted nails. Vampire hickeys, open wounds, scar sigils of affection. While the other fifteen year olds were losing their cherries in a manner worthy of a 1980s teen comedy, my sexual misadventures began as a John Hughes David Lynch mash-up: Enter Ducky walking onto the set of Blue Velvet and… Action!
Thankfully I turned out half sane despite her harrowing introduction to the life erotic. Still, I can’t complain. Without her to push me screaming off the cliff of my childhood, I wouldn’t have crash landed into the man I am today. Whether that’s for better or for worse, I cannot say.
Dawn Summerall, my first lover, who pulled her father’s shotgun on me after plucking my virginity with a straddle of hips across me tied to her mattress. Dawn, who got me into my first real fight outside the Cameo, with a skinhead twice my size rolling with a small Kommando Krew of ‘Aryan Yahoos.’ Dawn, who later licked my bruises obscenely while watching the cab driver watch her through the rear view mirror the whole ride back from Miami. Dawn, naked under the Christmas lights strung across the ceiling, reciting half-remembered Crowleyian poetry and initiating me into the profound mysteries of mispronounced gods. Dawn, chain-smoking away and doing her best to play along while I DMed her solo, with a GBH soundtrack blaring away as I tried to explain the intricate miracle of the Natural 20. Dawn, who left me for my best friend and vanished soon after into their own white trash version of Sid & Nancy purgatory chic.
She set the imprint on me. Madness, but tempered with the breath of wit and ignited by a fierce passion to grab life by the balls and never let go.Brown eyes flecked with grinded emeralds, often sharpened with a feral curiosity. Long hair, red as autumn leaves in an October dusk. Skin banshee pale and mapped with sumptuous curves; broad of hip, thigh and breast that were all backed up by a magnificent ass. “A black girl’s ass,” as she would purr to flirtatious strangers, drunk off her fourth beer at a kegger and trying to get someone laid or beaten up or ‘Goddess willing’ both. Mostly I remember her maniac smile and little girl’s laugh.
We were going to go down in flames and long before 18. Rimbaud & Juliet over here. High on our own self inflicted alienation, our twisted imaginations and the drama sparked off the rubbing of the first two together. Well, that and the vodka and the weed we stole from our parents. Once we ended up carving each others names into our forearms with the razor blade she wore around her neck as a seal of our love. Pain junky Dawn, blood fascinated and agony orgasm exclusive. Dawn electrified with my hands around her throat, me diminished in the shame of my satisfaction. Dawn, delirious and triumphant, raking my chest with black painted nails. Vampire hickeys, open wounds, scar sigils of affection. While the other fifteen year olds were losing their cherries in a manner worthy of a 1980s teen comedy, my sexual misadventures began as a John Hughes David Lynch mash-up: Enter Ducky walking onto the set of Blue Velvet and… Action!
Thankfully I turned out half sane despite her harrowing introduction to the life erotic. Still, I can’t complain. Without her to push me screaming off the cliff of my childhood, I wouldn’t have crash landed into the man I am today. Whether that’s for better or for worse, I cannot say.