Wednesday, January 03, 2007

It Smells Like Teen Dating

Her hair was a feathery blonde that came from a Farrah Fawcett poster and hinted a smell of citrus fruits. The smile, crooked with deviation and playfulness. Her eyes mirrored my own as a deep ocean blue to be gazed into for its vastness and had no end. From playing hockey and soccer she had legs that carried a F.D.A. recommended daily allowance of viewing.

The honest laughs came from her locker adjacent to my pictures of Chris Chelios and Rachel Hunter. Despite my outwards appearance of two or members of “The Breakfast Club” meshed together, she’d spend the two or three minutes talking about last night’s hockey game, or on special occasions a simple note drafted on grayed notebook paper before the bell sounding a warning to run to Civics class.

The first kiss lasted nearly two hours and didn’t stop until the lights came up the driveway, casting a shadow into the porch, signifying my parents were home and we were supposed to be at the Homecoming game. With the trusted multi-colored 85’ Nova parked out front we quickly gathered up articles of clothing that happened to fall to the carpeted floor and took a few minutes to exchange smiles as I dropped her off with Tears for Fears playing in the background.

For the high school years, a cat-and-mouse game would be played, she’d throw a scrap of interest my way and I’d lap it up like a heroin addict looking for a hit. Fuck dignity or any sense of pride, it was her! She calls, and I come a-runnin with my hard-on whipped out of my pants looking for a score that would never happen.

Much like my poker game.

I’ve tried several times over the course of the past two years to move beyond the $100 tables and each attempt has been thwarted by those soft, lavender smelling B-cups. The relatively higher stakes look so attractive, yet I find them so unattainable with my game because of the “bad luck” I get with each attempt. Each new slap carries a bigger scar that doesn't go away easily. Whether it be a flush card, the board pairing, “getting your money in with the best of it”, yadda yadda yadda, the door to her locker seems to close right before her newest boyfriend would walk down the hallway from Trig class and shuttle her off to her next class.

Tenacity or stupidity? I still can’t figure out what keeps me going nightly, weekly, monthly, yearly in the pursuit of something that every curve of body language is pointing out that I’m not in the right place. Each time the black chips slide into the middle, some horrible mole with a hair sticking out of it appears as the fifth card and I’m left with blue balls and scrambled porn on a 13” TV set.

Sure, variance will a shine a light on me one of these days while taking a shot, but in the meantime you’ll find me in the arms of another former soccer player that I get to call my wife.

Thanks for dropping by, now if you have any critique or suggestions for my new pokerific site KeepYourPokerFace, let em rip. I’m trying to find a balance (special thanks to Pauly).

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