Small-town Girl Games, The Tilt-a-Whirl, and Spin Til You Drop
In my junior and my senior year, I had a girlfriend—Sandy Bachman who had flawless skin, except when she had a bad case of poison ivy from the class one year below me, or was it two, sorry, it’s been over three decades. During my senior year I tutored a well-developed freshman girl named Sissy Sandstorm in mathematics and she taught me how to French Kiss, more than an equitable trade. One guy plus one girl divided by hundreds of kisses equal two happy people with smiles on their faces. Our separate lanes didn’t merge in a head-on collision, thankfully, or if you prefer, we never locked front bumpers and revved our engines to the tango beat, I was 17 and 18 and she was let’s see—15, I had no intention of getting a count of statutory rape against me.
Sissy’s algebra grades didn’t make a drastic improvement, and why had they picked me, my math grades really stunk? Call it conceit, but I think I was a direct request from a freshman girl who wanted to prove to her friends she could take a senior boy away from a junior or sophomore girl. Sandy was a pig farm-girl that lived miles away, in the country. Sissy Sandstorm was a townie like me and her house was just a five-minute walk across town; Sissy had a distinct advantage. I think there was more than a little friction between town and country factions.
Sandy and I had a roller-coaster relationship with more lows than highs, that lasted through my one checkered year of college, and then she discovered another way to get high, someone had introduced her to Mary Jane, weed, grass, pot, roach, reefer or any of the other nicknames for marijuana. I tried it once, way back when, but it didn’t do anything. It was just as well as I had enough neurological problems—I didn’t need a brain made of tapioca pudding.