My First Blog Post

My stomach is rumbling. I need to eat. Anyway, this is my first blog. How awkward.
I recently joined this short story writing group with my boyfriend and another couple Wes and Amanda- who are really good friends of ours. We decided to get together every 2 weeks to read stories that we wrote by using parameters given to us by each other. The yarn below is the first result from our initial meeting including the parameters. Enjoy!!

Parameters (given to me by Wes)
* loves nature
* crazy/ psychotic
* loner
* deep issues w/ past boyfriends
* very beautiful

Speculation (written 13 May 2010)
Sunlight undulates through the thick jacaranda trees as I apply the last globs of Vaseline to my body. It protects the best from superficial burns so much better than sunscreen and best applied at the start of the afternoon. I sit under my lean-to made of PVC pipes, a shaggy beige duvet, random shrubbery and hemp rope. A jagged piece of mirror hangs at eye-level swinging slightly as I spread the grease onto my contours. I sweep my fingers against the walls of the opaque yellow jar until the slick feel of the jelly wears away and I feel plastic. I am preparing to re-stock my supply. I must get moving.
On the occasions I go into town, away from the shelter of the jacaranda trees; I have to become presentable to the social groups that infest the supermarket, gas stations and all those buildings that thrive on first impressions. The old adage goes: Always give a good first impression... or was that a deodorant commercial?
I pull from the pile of clothing that has collected in one of the corners of my lean-to and assemble the most presentable and respectable outfit: a red t-shirt and a denim skirt. Underneath, I wear the under wire bra I found dumpster diving. It is a cup larger than I am used to but it does the job as a deterrent from devious eyes. I grab my leather sandals and shake purple jacaranda flowers from them. I pull them onto my feet. Then I apply the pink lip gloss over my already slick lips. My armor is complete.
It takes me exactly 14 minutes and 17 seconds to reach the edge of town where the trees shrink away from the asphalt. My internal timer, set to the world clock, indicates this.
The supermarket houses petroleum jelly in abundant quantities. I try to find Vaseline itself. I despise off brands.
I carefully scan aisle 4 for people. A stock boy stands on one side of the aisle with a price gun and a pile of boxes in a cart. This would constitute a minimal first impression. Vaseline is displayed on the shelf opposite of him. I approach without sound. My skin goes cold.
“Hi there,” the stock boy says, his voice husky with lust.
Damn. He saw me. First impression engaged.
“Uh, yeah?” I shoot back as I turn toward him.
"Was there anything you need help finding?” I could see his eyes making contact with my chest and at the apex of my thighs. He wants me. I just came in for Vaseline.
“No. No. I don’t need help.”
I try my best to cut off the interaction by turning my body slightly.
“Wait a minute” he says, his voice getting deeper with longing, “Aren’t you Betty Valdez?”
I haven’t heard my name said in a good while.
“I guess I am,” I reply as I start to remember who the stock boy is.
“I’m Freddy Gale, Sam’s cousin.”
Sam Gale, the first of my amorous experiences. A boy who possessed a shaggy, dirty blond mullet and whose body was thin like a cedar plank with skin the same color; a muddled brownish red. I was 16 and fresh from my time at Canyon Lakes Clinic. We met at a 3-day Christian youth conference that the mother forced me to attend. He got fresh with me the second day. He pulled my hand onto his crotch during a presentation titled “Incorporating Prayer into a Hectic School Schedule”. Then he caused my hand to draw circles against his progressively swelling prick. I became his girlfriend for 6 months.
During this half-year, I fucked for the first time a person my own age. Up to this point, it was only the stepfather and the brother, so my body was prepared for any physical strain that might occur. It was such a chore to act like I was delighted Sam was banging me. We did it 162 times and every other time he complained that my skin was cold to the touch. He tried to be tender during pleasure time but always pushed me away angry if I didn’t scream his name or moan. I learned that I shouldn’t hurt his feelings so I would half-heartedly moan. He seemed to like that. Then came the one time that I denied him bang #163 at his house, he slapped me and smeared my lip gloss. I walked into his kitchen, came back and slapped him with a knife through his ear, then into his crotch, and then into his stomach. Afterwards, I distressed my appearance by running into the walls, pulling out handfuls of hair and loud whimpering. I pulled up a chair next to the bed and waited for the sirens. It was time for the show to begin.
Those pigs sent me away for 5 years again to Canyon Lakes subjecting me to poking and prodding of my outsides and insides in an effort to understand the trauma I have endured. I attended groups that discussed topics such as “Time to Reflect” or “Grow without Grudges” with other peers in my situation. I sat mute and absorbed the emotional trash they were spewing from their mouths. When it came time for me to offer any insight into my psyche, I twisted my face and start to sob so I wouldn’t have to. Our group counselor would walk across the room and hold me. Her touch was torture. I could not wait until I was back in my room.
“The case is going cold as time goes by,” Freddy says, still scanning my upper body, “No leads and I think the police are giving up.”
“Too bad,” I say, trying the best to sound sympathetic with a pathetic effort.
Your testimony really helped,” he says with a small smirk.
“It was the only thing I could do. Sam was a good person.”
Freddy put his head down and rubs the back of his head with the handle of the price gun.
“He was my cousin. I miss him.”
I needed to close this conversation.
“It was nice seeing you,”
“Yeah… I should tell the family I saw you. They would be happy to hear that you are still around.”
“Yes, please, it has been what? Ten years?”
“I think so."
He grabs a pen from his cart and tears a label off a can of hairspray. He is getting fresh with me. I guess it runs in his bloodline. He hands the label to me and I scribble the area code and the first 7 numbers that come into my head.
“Thanks, Betty,” he says as he snatches the label from my hand, “Keep in touch.”
I pull a smile and walk away to grab the remaining five jars of Vaseline from the opposite aisle. I can still feel his eyes burn into my back and over my buttocks. He possesses an insatiable appetite. I walk away faster.
I escape onto the sidewalk and almost run to the nearest intersection grasping my bag of Vaseline to my chest. I pass by other pedestrians. They stare without looking. One of them even reaches out to me and brushes against my skin. I wince. I have to hold it together. I arrive at the intersection. Cars rumble by me as I press the button to activate the walk signal. The burning sensation arises onto my back. They stare. I resist turning my head.
"Excuse me,” a male voice behind me.
Damn. Another first impression that needs to be acknowledged; I don’t want to turn around. Instead, I stay quiet. Silence is the best remedy for this avoidance of a social situation.
“I can’t help but notice you are standing in the street.”
I have to say something.
“I’m very well. Thanks,” I reply.
“You’re almost in the asphalt.”
A car honks. When is the signal going to turn?
My body jerks backwards as I fall over. I shut my eyes. A cacophony of sounds floods my ears – a combination of voices and traffic. I open my eyes to find a circle of heads hovering over me.
“Sorry I had to do that,” the same voice says, “You were going to get plowed.”
I stand up quickly and collect my bag. The jars did not break. My calves feel sore and so does the back of my head near my neck. A hand lands on one of my shoulder blades. Torture touch. I shrug it off. I clear my senses and realize that I am surrounded. Indistinct faces that drill into me with their eyes. I have been violated. I need to be under the jacaranda trees and beneath the warmth of my lean-to and deep in the quiet of the natural wind.
“You okay?” one voice says.
“You took quite a fall,” another one says.
"Your hands are bleeding,” a third voice bleats from behind me.
I look down. My palms are scrapped, the result of breaking my fall. I wipe them onto my skirt and adjust the rest of my clothes.
I walk quickly away as far as I could away from the dark, devious eyes that slice open my back to get at my intentions. My heart stays calm and my eyes focus on road disappearing and becoming dirt.
The sunlight fades away as I fall onto the heavy thicket of brush I laid down as a makeshift berth. No longer am I aware of the stares and intentions of first impressions nor the expectations of being social. It is just the trees and I now.
The lullaby of the thick jacaranda swaying with their light purple blooms like fingers surrounds me in the brisk breeze. Their silent song made me forget, momentarily, the discomfort of being… me.