Saturday, January 20, 2007

A Story

I logged in this evening because I had a fantastic idea to write about something enormously embarrassing, yet funny, that happened to me once. After my last post, I have become acutely aware that you all perversely enjoy mocking my humiliation and pain. In fact, you are all perfectly okay with the notion of aiding my neurosis by further insinuating traits of gayness. So thanks for all that. I also realized that you are all homophobic, but that is a post for another day.

I finished the first paragraph of said post when I realized that said post was a horrific mistake. Why should I further humiliate myself with a story about “alleged” sexual inadequacy, public ridicule, and failed revenge? However, I need to write something tonight. I hurt my back yesterday afternoon and I have a terrific buzz caused by a mixture of Rolling Rock and Lortab. This combination of substances has given me the motivation to move from my couch to the computer, and begin to type. Of course, I can't see the letters because they all blur together, and so far I have only spelled 12 words in the last two paragraphs correctly. That is what the fucking spell checker is for - drunk, drugged morons who type fast and use words they don't understand, much less know how to spell.

Perhaps rather than write about my own humiliation I should write about the humiliation of others. There I have it. The most embarrassing thing to have occurred to someone close to me, in my presence.

In 1993 I dated a girl named Shelley. This was a fairly serious high-school type relationship. The kind where you feel certain that you will stay with this person for ever, and you don’t understand why your parents are so nonchalant about the seriousness of your feelings for this person. In retrospect, most of these feelings were caused by your overwhelming desire to have sex on a regular basis, and in a way that didn't involve the use of gymnast-like positions in your girlfriend's Ford Festiva. Well Shelley, being in a serious high-school type relationship, wanted to meet all of my family and attend important family events, such as holidays, weddings and funerals.

In 1993 Easter fell on April 11. For the entirety of my life my family spent Easter Sunday with my Grandmother in a very small town (technically not even a town, but a “community”) in west Texas. For the entirety of my life my Grandmother attended a very small Baptist church in her community. I believe the average attendance at this church was less than 30 people. I believe the average age of the church members was 68. So it was a very big deal when my moderately large family attended church with my Grandmother. It was an especially big deal on April 11, 1993 when Shelley attended church with us.

At small Baptist churches, the end of the service is punctuated by an “invitation.” Following the invitation the church pastor asks a member to lead the congregation in prayer. During the prayer the pastor goes to the back of the room so that he can shake each person’s hand on his way out. Such was the scene when Shelley was exiting the church. The sanctuary to the church exited straight outside where there was a small covered porch-type area. There were five steps down on to the grass in front of the church. Shelley and I were one of the first 10 people out of the door. This is when Shelley began to fall down the steps. Shelley was wearing, as girls were known to do in 1993, a flowery sun dress thing. As she fell she tried to brace/stop her fall. She ended facing up, and falling backward down the steps. When she hit the grass, her legs were spread eagle, her dress was above her hips, and 20 people were behind me gasping at what was happening. When the 20 people crowded in to help/stare they were treated to a lovely view of Shelley’s white, silk, g-string undergarment with little red hearts all over it. This vision was further enhanced by the fact that Shelley was on her back at the bottom of the stairs, with her feet near the top of the stairs.

On the drive home, Shelley cried.

I know - it is a really, really fucking sad story. But what can I say - I am kind of a bad person, and this story makes me chuckle at least 6 times a year when I think about it.

This was, in my opinion, the most humiliating thing I have ever seen. 20 senior citizens staring at your silk-clad goods staring back at them as they exit a sermon about the resurrection of their savior. That is some comedy right there. I like to wonder about how many men got in trouble with their personal lord and savior about the impure thoughts they had about a 17 year old Shelley and her silky underpanties that day. I would guess about 65%. Shelley was pretty hot. The percentage would be greater, but the other 35% didn't have vision good enough to see what happened.


Joie de Vivre said...

Ahh, thats what the spell checker is for, bummer that when i am drugged and drunk i dont even think to look for it.

I once fell over collecting a 'prize' at a work christmas party. cocktail dress, no knickers. i did get laid that nite, so it saves it from being the most embarassing of my stories.

Finding it hard to believe you were so easily convinced by a coupla "your shoes are gay" comments. You've changed.

dmbmeg said...

did you really just type "underpanties?"

anyways, this story isn't that embarassing. just a normal friday night for me.

Anne said...

That church sounds just like the one that I went to as a kid. Just me and all the old folks.

I fell one time at school and flashed my third grade ass to the entire elementary school. Good times. Great memories. I dont think I was wearing cool panties though.

Kristin said...

Was this an attempt at trying to prove your hetero-ness? ;-)

A Lover and a Fighter said...

Silky underpanties? Ick.

But also. You're a baptist?

Garrett Reid said...

Joie: It sounds like everyone got a 'prize' that day. Cocktail dress, no knickers. This should be required dress code for collecting prizes I think. As to your allegation that I have changed - maybe all I need is a shot in the arm.

Dmbmeg: I did, in fact, type underpanties. It is a word I prefer to type often. Note to self: Hang out with dmbmeg on Friday nights.

Anne: Aren't those churches great fun. I always had an abundance of juicy fruit gum because every old lady there kept it in her purse, and loved to offer it to me. Note to self: try not to think of Anne's third grade panties.

Kristin - I don't need to prove my hetero-ness, just ask the many, many fine ladies I have been with. Well the several fine ladies I have been with. Okay - only ask a couple of the fine ladies. Never mind - ask Shelley. She'll tell you. There is an 89% chance I am not gay.

Lover and Fighter: What is the deal? Underpanties is not a good word? Because I use it all of the time in the internet chat rooms and the girls there seem to love it. 100% of my family is Baptist. Not only Baptist, but southern Baptist. 7 members of my extended family are preachers. 4 female members of my extended family play the organ/piano for church services, and in all of my life there has never been one alcoholic beverage in my parents' house, or at any family event. Does this mean there is no future for us?

Anonymous said...

Thank you for this story, although the laughter is going to get me in trouble at work. So maybe not thank you?