In eighth grade, I went home after school every day and played Risk. That’s all you need to know about my childhood.
Well, there is one more thing from my childhood you should know about. Cassie Smith. When I was busy building a strategy for taking over Asia in the eighth grade, Cassie Smith was about seventeen. She wasn’t the prettiest 17-year-old girl at East Meadow High School. No, pretty wasn’t the word to describe her. She was seductive. She had that dirty twinkle in her eye. It’s that twinkle that thirteen-year-olds dream about all over their sheets. Cassie was no prom queen. She was that hot girl in the bad crowd who fucked the prom queen’s boyfriend underneath the bleachers. That’s why I fell in love with her. She was sex personified.
It should not surprise you that there is still a small place in my heart that Cassie Smith resides in. She’s like the Spin Doctor’s “Two Princes.” You forget completely about that song, but when it comes on the radio, you transport right back to eighth grade. All of a sudden you are sitting on that blue beanbag chair in your best friend’s basement, afraid of nothing.
That’s the same feeling I got when I peered through the glass doors that separate the rest of the East Meadow YMCA from the swimming pool. There she was, coaching the East Meadow High School swim team. Looking like sex.
******
For the first couple months at home, I reverted back to thirteen-year-old mode whenever she was in the area. Every time I showed up to the gym, I would peer into the pool to see if she was there. If I passed her house in my car, I would turn to see if she was outside. I spent countless hours concocting plans for introducing myself to her.
Two weeks ago, I was walking out of the weight room and I felt like the fucking man. I had just crossfitted the shit out of myself and I felt like Leonidas. As I reached for the handle to the men’s locker room, my instincts carried my eyes left towards the pool, and there she was, smiling that dirty smile.
Grasping tightly onto the door handle, I paused for a few seconds. The paralysis subsided, but I still had no control over my body as it carried me towards her.
“Hey, is your name Cassie?”
“Yes” She exhaled sex.
“Um, hello, my name is Chris.”
“Hi.” She exhaled more sex.
“Are you the swimming coach?”
“Yes.” Sex is officially in the air.
“I’m swimming in a triathlon in a couple of months. Would you mind giving me a tune up on my stroke.”
“Um, sure.”
“Can I get your number?”
“Sure.”
I turn to walk away, sure that I am the man.
And then the transitive property takes over.
I just told Cassie Smith I’m a triathlete. Triathletes are serious swimmers. Cassie Smith thinks I’m a serious swimmer.
Serious swimmers wear speedos. Cassie Smith is sex personified. I’m going to be wearing a speedo in front of sex personified.
I’m going to pop a bone in front of Cassie Smith in a speedo. People who pop bones in speedos at the Y get arrested. I’m going to jail.
To be continued
