I was five. Kindergarten graduation day. I was totally into the cute boy with the “rat tail” hair style and the hi-top sneaks with multi-colored, neon laces.
That’s my first memory of crushing on a dude. Though according to this guy, it never happened. I’m either a liar or a victim of child abuse when I look back on such puppy attractions (which would of course be received as benign and adorable if they were male-female). Oh, and a certain talk show host is a “big headed” source of rage if she gives credence to the remembrances:
But don’t worry. Somehow we think Oprah will find solace in either her blankie, a warm shoulder, or the gagillion dollar empire that bears her name.
As for this writer? Well l find solace in knowing that my biological attractions weren’t faked, because there was no reason to fake them. And this was true when those attractions had nothing to do with my junk and where I wanted to place it, and everything to do with my impetus to ditch pal Nicole whenever Ethan requested a pretend opponent for his pretend Hulk Hogan.
