Gawky by Margot Leitman Read Free Book Online

let me go!
    In the meantime, I would sit in front of MTV for hours, suffering patiently through crappy Milli Vanilli videos, various Paula Abdul atrocities, and unsexy Roxette ballads just waiting for Bobby Brown and his swinging big dick to come back and create that unexplainable feeling in my slightly irregular underwear bought in bulk at the Hanes outlet.
    I went through a brief religious phase around this time, wearing a green stone cross I had purchased at a local flea market. My mother told me it might put off my father, raised Jewish but now an atheist, but otherwise she thought it was “very pretty.” I stroked my green $2 cross fervently while praying to God that “Roni” would come on. Please, please, please make this next video Roni, God. I will do anything you ask of me; I’ll even eat a few bites of the next batch of Yorkshire pudding. I’ll even put my dad’s tighty-whities away in his dresser after folding them. Just make the next video “Roni.” My prayers never worked. Unfortunately, “Roni” had not reached the same level of rotation as “Don’t Worry, Be Happy,” a song and video about as sexy as the “Top That” rap from Teen Witch .
    My absolute favorite part of the “Roni” music video was when Bobby snapped open the waistband of his pants and swirled around in slow motion looking down at his crotch. I had no idea of the true implications of his choreography—that he was looking at his own erection as he did this. I had no clue he was snapping his pants to check that he was absolutely ready to sleep with whoever was closest the second he stepped offstage. And I somehow missed the enormous outline of his donkey dick showing through the sateen of his Hammer pants. I thought the snapping open of one’s pants while twirling your pelvis was a new dance craze and I should practice it at home for the next school dance.
    My body was developing at such a rapid pace I didn’t completely understand these erotic desires Bobby Brown was expressing onstage. Although I was tall, I didn’t have big boobs like the girls in Bobby’s audience crying at his onstage magic. If I was growing body hair, it wasn’t noticeable. My mom and dad’s genes combined had given meultrablonde body hair. I had even inherited what I referred to as “clear eyebrows,” which were the exact opposite of the sexy Brooke Shields or Cindy Crawford dark, brooding brow. My eyebrows most closely resembled those of an albino’s, which was true of the rest of my body hair, making it virtually invisible. I understood the value of not having to spend endless dollars on waxing and various other hair-removal treatments, but every time we had “health” class, I learned that growing body hair was a sign of puberty. Being very tall with no boobs and what appeared to be no body hair was very confusing.
    None of my health teachers discussed what might happen down below when watching a Bobby Brown music video. From what I had learned so far, sex was about periods, AIDS, and poorly made birthing videos. No one had mentioned big schlongs in loose pants or damp undies while watching MTV. More than a little lost, I figured it would be best to just learn Bobby’s erotic choreography myself and take it from there.
    First I needed to find the right environment to practice the twirling penis dance move. We had mirrors in my house in private places like bathrooms and bedrooms, but I preferred the kitchen oven. In my house our oven was installed about halfway up in the wall. An average-size child could perhaps see a reflection of his or her face, but because I was so tall, I could see a perfect reflection of my midsection. Soon, the oven door became a secret mirror where I could dance dirty with myself while no one was looking. I would practice the “snap waistband/twirl pelvis/look at my dick” move over and over, carefully observing my