I watched Labyrinth recently.
Yes. Labyrinth. Starring a young 14-year-old badly acting Jennifer Connelly(sp?) and the King of Goblins himself, David Bowie.
Yes. David Bowie. David Bowie with white, stringy, feathery hair. Loose fitting long collar blouses. Eye-make up that, looking at it now, was very feminine but looked damn hot on David Bowie. It appears he even feathered his eyebrows. The Bowie features: sleek, aerodynamic, almost creepy looking in a very sexy way. Knee high boots with a slight heel.
And tights. Very tight tights. With a bulge. A very obvious, somewhat large bulge.
Labyrinth is one of those movies that I credit with moving me into puberty.
It's the power/What power/The power of voo doo/ Who do?/ You do./Power of the baaaaaaaabe.
Dance magic, dance in the tightness that is David Bowie's ass.
When I was a kid, about 8 or 9, I remember thinking to myself, "Dang nab bit Sarah! Forget your brother Toby. Look at Gerry the Goblin King. LOOK AT HIM. He wants you to be his Goblin Queen. HIS GOBLIN QUEEN! Look at the way he can twirl those crystal balls. He's just twirling them around effortlessly, la la la la la I'm the Goblin King.. la la la.. these are my crystal balls, I'm just twirling them around per usual. Oh! Here's a dream for you that I can make come true. I just made it up on my own. Look at me, I can walk upside down on staircases and what not lalalala. Check out my soft cape. Oh! I'm an owl! Now I'm a human. Oh! I'm an owl again. Lalalalala."
But Sarah disappointed me by saying, "You have.. no power over me." BAM. Bowie. Gone. Over. Missed opportunity.
What an idiot Sarah was.
After I walked out of the theater, everything was different for me. The sun shined in a different way. The grass was still green, but green in a more adult sort of fashion. It was like the sticky film of innocence had been lifted from my eyes and I now knew what it was like to be attracted, sexually, to a male.
It all went down hill from there.
Suddenly, kissing scenes in movies no longer caused a gag reflex, but was more of a fantastic study that I had to discreetly observe. It seemed like an amazing thing, this passionate kissing stuff. Tongues, spit, lips. Those engaging didn't seem to be grossed out in the least. They were, instead, enjoying it. Some of them would enjoy it so much that sometimes a breast would become unexpectedly exposed or a buttock would jiggle with delight in a frame. Whoa.
I still had to shield my fascination just in case my parents were watching my reaction. One of my hands would, on instinct, raise itself to protect my viewing of such scenes. Yet a new instinct also kicked in; the instinct to spread the fingers just enough so that everything could be seen.
Romance of the Stone, Spies Like Us, All of Me, Spalsh!, numerous Cory Feldman movies, all of these ushered me into my slow descent of becoming a horny teenager.
I was one of those types that may have blossomed with sexual awareness pretty early, but damitall to hell, my body was on a completely different learning curve. While girls around me were proudly stripping their shirts off for scoliosis tests exposing newly bought training bras, I was hunched over, flat chested and wearing a bathing suit. Even though I was the first person in middle school to read all of Judy Bloom's series on girls growing up, I would feel incredibly uncomfortable when conversations would break out about who had their periods and what type of feminine napkins their Mom had bought them at the drugstore. Every girl around me started to carry a purse, a sure sign that puberty was in full swing. Me? No purse. I had a backpack with only one pouch. It was used for carrying books and books alone.
High school provided some relief. Finally got the period at age 16. Still was working on getting past the A cup. The height department was in full swing, however, and I grew out of every pair of jeans that I bought within 5 months of purchasing them. Thank the fashion Gods for blessing my awkward growing years with the fad of baggy girl clothes. Luckily I wasn't a complete misfit because I was actually capable of making friends and being pretty comfortable with myself, despite those moments where a cold sweat would break out when it came time to be measured for a new fencing jacket and breast plates would have to be ordered. Not just small. XSmall. The fencing coach would just give me left over foil bell guards to use. Sigh. Such is the curse of the small breasted woman.
During that time, however, sex was something that I just didn't talk about. It wasn't that I was interested in it anymore, it just seemed that the people around me had more experience with it than I had and that fact caused me self-inflicted shame. Everyone had boyfriends, I made up faux encounters about hooking up with some guy at debate tournaments. ("Yeah. He's from St. Thomas Moore Academy. I met him during a Prose/Poetry round. He was reading Horton Hears A Hoo and I was reading Daisy Head Maisy. He bought me pizza and Pepsi and then we totally kissed outside in the breezeway during Semi-Finals. But you probably won't ever get to meet him because he won't be at any more tournaments. Yeah. He's the SGA president and has alot of events to plan. Yeah. But anyway. Yeah. His name was Jameson Jacksons. Ummm. Yeah. Jamesons. He was hot. Yeah.") Valentine's Day everyone would be sporting candy boxes and flowers. I would send myself a single red rose with a note attached that said "From Your Secret Admirer." My secret admirer had the exact same penmanship as my left hand. Proms, Homecomings, etc. were never too hectic because I hung out with people that did social things in a group instead of pairing off. But still. I really wanted to have that experience of making out with someone. To cure that itch that I had developed after being exposed to David Bowie. This cure was never found.... not in high school at least.
Now I sit here many years later. Looking at the notches on the ol' kissing belt. Thinking about David Bowie and Labyrinth. Things are a bit different now. Yes, the sun shines the same way and I haven't really noticed anything unusual with the green grass around me. But all of those questions I asked myself over and over for so many years ("What does it feel like? Who will be my first kiss? What will I think of it all?") have been answered. And there's some sadness in that realization. It's not that I'm disappointed with the answers, not at all. It's more that the major mysteries have all been solved. Yes, there is still opportunity to sleuth... but the large questions have been answered.
However, I still do not know what it is like to make-out with David Bowie.
Hm. The mystery continues.