These are my coming of age stories, which really are almost polar opposites. Blonde and brunette, immature and vintage, Jersey trash and Southern belle.
My mom very nearly ruined the story with the brunette. Sure, she was ten years older than me, but that doesn't automatically mean that I was a victim of something sordid. This was the kind of thing I needed a dad for, a man, someone who would understand the masculine drive for conquest. Instead I had to suffer a mom's thankfully short-lived crusade against the school and field station responsible for her child's molestation. She implied that the whore's price was the thirty dollars I gave her to buy me a batiked shirt that never came. Thirty bucks. Come on, mom.
And then there's the blonde. I'm not sure why I like this short story so much, but it's one of my favorite things I've ever written. I like the way I captured the essence of a virgin's natural predator with just a few vignettes. Knowing her, I can understand why nymphomania is now regarded as a symptom, not a disease. She taught me the distinction between sex and love and at the same time why neither is as good by itself. I doubt she learned anything from me.
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