“I had made up my mind to find that for which I was searching even if it required the remainder of my life.” -Alexander Graham Bell
So we all do it, right? It’s like a historical fact that the first thing A. G. Bell typed into his newly invented internet search-a-ma-jig, back in 1876, was the name of his middle school crush. Sheila. He found out she’d married some dick named Marconi, which as we all know led to his more famous invention of the telephone.
So as far back as time goes, we’ve been looking up our exes on the internet. Fact. The primary cause of that search is usually our feeling lonely and a little horny. These searches tend to cluster around the time immediately following break-ups when we’re at our most wistful about The Past. “Whatever happened to that girl who stuck her tongue in my ear when the teacher left the classroom for a smoke?” we wonder. Or that girl who gave me my first blow job, what is HER story? Did she ever leave our home town and make something of her life? At least quit her job at Hooters?
Honestly all we (guys) really really want to know is: Is she single, and could I maybe hook up with her? My self esteem could use a boost and my dick could use a little abuse, where’s that girl with the prematurely big knockers and pink lip gloss I used to chase around the skating rink the summer before high school? Maybe she wants to chat.
Is that all there is?
I propose a different motivation: getting in touch with your roots. Self discovery through common connection. Huh? Ok, try this. All your old friends on facebook are total shitbags, right? Like especially if you’re originally from the Bible Belt, or some factory town somewhere. What happened there? They stayed and succumbed to brain washing, obviously. They bought into the easy acceptance of close-minded conservatism, got fat, popped out a couple brats, got divorced, got fit again, fat again, then moved in with some equally moronic mouth breather. And they are FINE with Taco Bell for dinner 3 times a week.
So these cats used to be your friends, they shared some of your most intimate, formational, IMPORTANT moments. You bled with them, you shat with them, you tee-peed houses with them and stood sullenly next to them at school dances while that prick Larry (who turned out to be gay, so there you go) danced with all the girls. And now they post pictures of aborted fetuses to Facebook and push for the death penalty for doctors, blame Obama for having to pay their back child support, and secretly think feminism ruined rock music. God love ’em, they’re good people, those Coors Light drinkers.
What does that say about YOU?
You got some of that inside you, my friend. You’re just a little bit racist, misogynistic, xenophobic, and there’s really fuck all you can do to exorcise it. But it’s not all bad, right?
Most people try to sweep that history under the rug, or maybe go as far as wearing it as semi-ironic badge of pride: “Can you believe I used to ride around shirtless in the back of my buddy’s pickup guzzling Keystone Lights? I’m so AUTHENTIC.” (guilty)
I propose we mix the two. Right now. I’m gonna do it. I’m going to google some old girlfriends and we’re gonna discuss what it means that I used to stay up all night on the phone with a Pentacostal snake handler or pass love notes to an admin at a major fertilizer distributor.
I can honestly say that what I’m hoping to get from this is confirmation that I’m SO MUCH BETTER than everyone I ever cared about as a kid. Let’s begin. I suppose I should change the names. Ok, I’m gonna change the names but try to maintain the feel of the original. Like, an Edna would become Mildred. Or Raven would become Star, that kind of shit. This better be fun:
Stormy de Whethers
So I met Stormy at a rave. Yes. A rave. And in fact I remember that rave really well. I was 17. Raves in Texas were pathetic, this one was fairly ok, as far as they went, probably because it was more of a city-sanctioned, megaclub plus parking lot party. I ran into this guy “Snivles” (pronounced like sniffles, with a v sound instead), who despite being a drummer and a skater was severely uncool. I mean at least he was to the closed ecosystem of high school. He was scrawny, mousey, had a pencil thin scrabbly suggestion of a mustache. In other words, an ok guy just getting on in the world outside the popular bubble, but probably the last guy a lady would ever pick ever. I was wrong.
I remember meeting this super cute girl with an incredibly edgy (for the time) haircut. Super short in the back and super long in the front, tips dipped in bleach. After asking me a couple of pointed questions about skateboarding she wandered off. She was not impressed by me in the slightest. Later I ran into Snivles and her holding hands. She’d found the one skater at the place and gone for it. Didn’t matter that she was bigger than him. I was dejected. My faith in my inherent charm was shaken, and that’s how I learned about girls and skaters.
And then, dancing like nobody was watching, trying to find some kind of high in the music, I saw Stormy. All six feet of her. Wow. I struck up a conversation. She was 16(!). She had dropped out of high school. She was in the process of being legally adopted by the black family whose kids she nannied, her own parents being broke and disinterested in her life. She had tried crack, and had a friend whose cock was apparently so huge that every girl he knew let him fuck them just to see what it was like (painful, she told me).
Of course we hit it off, I took her to a concert on a lawn somewhere and made out. We went to movies, introduced her girl friends to my guy friends, talked on the phone for hours.
And then I lost my virginity to her. Our first and last time was in a friend’s parents’ bedroom at a party he was throwing while they were away. Everyone knew we were doing it. She was a sweetheart about it and I can tell you I was a TERRIBLE lay.
And that was basically it
I really liked her, but when she told me she was planning on wearing her 9th grade leftover dress to my senior prom (I’d invited her), I invited someone else. Yes, I did feel bad, but I did it anyway. Senior prom puts a lot of weird pressure on a kid. We faded after that, obviously, and she only very recently resurfaced online.
Where is she now?
I google Stormy every year, and only just this year have I gotten any results.
The first result is Facebook. I’ll click that one in a sec, because the second one is SO MUCH BETTER.
It’s a link to some municipal website “City of Jenkins vs Stormy de Wethers” It’s her criminal record. We met in Texas, but she was arrested for shoplifting in Michigan. I’m so confused. She plead no contest and paid the fine, like $400. This year. She’s maybe 36. My first lay.
Her facebook page, which I can only read the most basic info off of is even more depressing. She’s still pretty; ok so there’s that. And she’s a fan of the Cowboys, of course, but it goes downhill rapidly from there. She’s a fan of the Steelers. Why? She’s a fan of the Cheesecake Factory. There are four pitbull fan groups she’s a part of, plus some puppy sites. It goes on, but the worst are the parenting groups. She’s a fan of having the greatest son ever, and being the world’s best mom. Something about the combination of all that depresses the living shit out of me.
She’s a mom, 36, who got busted shoplifting in the middle of super far away from her hometown. I keep reading and I see a few mitigating likes. Volkswagen, Burt’s Bees, ok she’s not super the worst.
Jerry Garcia. You know what? I’ll take it, it balances the Samsung Phones and Harley Davidson likes. I don’t know what the hell to think about the Jackie Chan like, but that Harley Davidson one, now that I click on her profile picture has me intrigued. She’s wearing a Harley shirt in it. Complexity. Nuance. Loyalty. Is she a biker chick with some bad-ass’s son on her hip just trying to get by in a hostile world? I think so. Is she incredibly down on her luck? Sure, but she’s plucky and resilient. She’s going to find the super rare moments of joy and peace (puppies, her son, cheesecake) and grab them and savor them, then keep on keepin’ on.
If I were her I’d have been hard pressed not to huff 5 cans of krylon and toss myself in front of a train at age 17. But she’s strong. By extrapolation, I’m deciding right now that means that as a youth I was drawn to women with strong core values, would you look at that! I could find the diamond in the roughest lumps of coal! What a sensitive young man I was. Am. I’m glad she was my first. Makes me look like I’m not a seething dickbag. I wonder if she still gets mail at this address I have in my old contact book? Should I rejoin Facebook so I can contact her?
Next time, I find out my first love is a rabid Fox News attack dog. Or IS she? (Yes, she kinda is)