“What’s wrong with butthole, everybody’s got one,” said Big Don my latest dream date with a look of total surprise on his face.
I watched in horror as Mama spewed her wine across her fancy linen tablecloth, and Daddy nearly choked on the Sunday ham. It was the first and last time that word was spoken at our table.
Big Don. In a class all by himself insisted everyone call him “Big” Don not because of his size or stature, but because as he simply put it he was–big. A star. He was big alright, especially around the ego. The popular jock on the local college campus he’d managed to letter in every sport and had the trophies to prove it. According to Big Don, folks had been following his sports career since he was four years old. Unfortunately I had to get used to being the girlfriend of a star, a position that more likely than not found me sandwiched among several four-foot tall trophies, six letter jackets, and his oversized opinion of himself in a two-seater convertible. That being said it was a “tight squeeze”.
It was true Big Don knew everybody. Folks gave him the star treatment doing everything shy of kissing his class ring “Godfather” style even at the bowling alley. It was nauseating at times with Big Don working the crowd like a Washington politician. As the star’s “official” girlfriend I became somewhat of a celebrity myself. “You’re a lucky girl dating a catch like Big Don.” “He’s a keeper, you’d better hold on to him.” “My, my however did you manage to coral him?”
Blah. Blah, Blah.
Looking back instead of believing those people, I should have slugged them instead.
That Big Don was a smooth talker sporting a set of perfect teeth that he flashed readily for his adoring public, but his physique wasn’t exactly what I would consider “athletic.” In his many snug fitting jerseys, his stomach expanded slightly outward over his middle and concealed whatever waistline he might have beneath. I didn’t think the washboard stomach he always bragged about was supposed to do that. He was also working on chin number two which I suspected was brought on by the rigorous sport of “fork lifting” and not so much from football passing as I’d been told. The one thing we did have in common besides both of us being smitten with Big Don was our love of shoes, sneakers in particular. Too many times I’d sat crammed next to hundreds of them at the drive–in along with a various assortment of baseball mitts, golf clubs, and as usual– his trophies. This entire sports theme entourage was absolutely essential according to Big Don just in case somebody wanted to see his trophies and he assured me that somebody always was wanted to see them. Yep, I hate to say it, but during the summer of ’82 I succumbed to dating a traveling trophy case.
There did come a time when he traded in his sports car and upgraded to something larger to accommodate a growing family of trophies– a jeep with removable doors that I fondly referred to as the “death trap”.
You name it and I landed on it–a regular poster child for Travelers Aid. My body saw more pavement action than the Daytona 500. It was only after I fell on to the open road that Big Don considered replacing the doors and adding some little non-essentials like seat belts.
“If I didn’t really like you, I wouldn’t consider this sacrifice. I suppose it isn’t worth scraping you off the road every time we go out,” he laughed, one eye on me, the other fixed on his prized six-foot trophy. A man torn between his two loves.
Looking down at my newly acquired knee scab, I wondered if I had what it took to be the girlfriend of a star and what’s more, if it worth dying for?
The following week I thought my luck had changed when he phoned professing he wanted to spend some “quality time” with me. Just the two of us. No entourage. No trophies. Just me. Stupid me. Big Don a Don Juan? Not hardly. But ever the optimist I put on my lucky “make-out” mini, doused myself in musk oil, and snuggled up next to him on the couch for a thrilling night of– Atlanta Braves baseball? Yep, you heard me right. Undaunted, I pressed on and hung in there for six entire innings hoping to score a few runs as he rambled endlessly educating me in the fine art of foul balls and fast pitches. In the end the only thing Big Don wanted from me that night was a bologna sandwich and a glass of milk which became more apparent when he turned up the lights I had dimmed revealing a pair of dirty sweat pants and an unshaven face. So much for a night of amour. After a long night of watching him, watch sports wondering if I was ever going to make it up to bat, he eventually did make his move, but it wasn’t towards me, but to the front door.
“You’re not leaving, are you?” I whined. “It’s only nine o’clock. The game’s not over yet.”
“But if I leave now, I’ll just make it home before the next inning,” he said hurriedly, as he planted a sloppy kiss on my forehead while dashing down the front steps.
Outside I fumed on the porch, empty milk glass in my hand spitting obscenities as he squealed up my driveway. Hmph. Struck out again. He’d might as well have kissed my elbow for what that kiss was worth. Hell, my granddaddy kissed better than that.
After weeks of ignoring his calls he showed up, tail between his legs unannounced, but as I’d soon discover, not unaccompanied. Not one trophy or golf club was visible from the back seat. Could it be he had finally learned his lesson? Hell, no! It means that he has made room for his latest squeeze. A two hundred pound St. Bernard, named what else–Squeeze. Big Time Squeeze to be exact. Thus began many nights of triple dating at the Drive-In with Big Don, Big Time Squeeze, and me packed together in the front seat over a bucket of popcorn. One good thing about Squeeze, with him in my lap, I never lacked for attention anymore. I got more kisses from his slobbery tongue than I ever got from Big Don’s. After a few weeks, I decided one of us had to go. First time I’d ever lost out to a dog. Mama says a lady always knows when she’s been licked–no pun intended– and I certainly had.