Reflection suggests that my first major crush was not bestowed upon a boy. I was Daddy’s girl, big time. You see, when I was very young, my father’s unflagging attention saved me from utter loneliness once tragic darkness hit our home.
A second major crush saw me more in keeping with my age, mooning over Joseph, who proved to be leader of our pre-teen pack. Then came seventh grade when I—along with every girl in our class—was smitten with tall, dark, handsome Mr. Mill—our math and science teacher—who was probably no more than twenty-three. Though, at twelve, I’d no clue as to the meaning of ‘sensuous’, nothing mesmerizes the mind of an innocent maid as does a handsome, well built guy, whose Elvis-like swagger hypnotizes a lass to follow his lead.
The fourth male authority figure I’d crushed on taught U.S. History, during my junior year of high school. Mr. Spat was young, handsome, fair-haired and charming with lively blue eyes. His claim to fame, setting him apart from all other guys—ever—was this: He was the first male to refer to me as a woman. His exact comment (after I’d answered a question that he’d asked of our class) was: “Leave it to a woman to think like that.”
Upon hearing myself referred to as woman, I, staring up at this male authority figure who—standing in front of my desk was smiling down at me—felt an electric charge surging straight through my body—oh my God, I thought, branding that moment in time into my mind—Mr. Spat sees me as a—woman! Previous to that moment, I’d just been one of the kids. Following that heady sensation, a mind shift crowned me—female—through and through.
Upon reflection, Jack Spat’s comment was premature, because, in truth, my female self-assessment would remain in a suspended state of perpetual girlhood until the seductive words of a fifth male authority figure—teaching yet another class, decades later—thrilled my ears with innuendo, catalyzing all physical sensation (which had frozen into a deep freeze at an earlier time when my psyche had deemed sexual arousal too dangerous to enjoy) to experience a melt down, jump starting my intuitive quest to uncover subconscious secrets, which had scared me so senseless during my youth as to summon my defense system to lock whatever had happened with an uncouth lout out of my conscious mind into my subconscious where denial swallowed the key to that which would have otherwise soiled a child’s natural sense of wholesomeness.. In retrospect, any natural inclination toward exploring my sexuality during my teens had experienced painful reason to remain mentally blocked from conscious awareness during childhood, suggesting why no hot-to-trot teen-aged guy had been able to penetrate the inner sanctum of my mind where words of passionate persuasion had failed to light my fire until forty-seven candles on my cake enflamed my desire.
That doesn’t mean after Joseph I’d never swooned over a boy, because of course I had. One in particular during high school ... 🙋🏻♀️Annie
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