Free Outtakes Of A Walking Mistake by Anthony Paull Page B

these days. Sexuality has become a blind-sighted smorgasbord.
    “Two down,” Eric boasts, finishing his second beer. We’re cruising toward downtown with the radio tuned into some grungy rock crap, and Eric pulls up his sleeve to flex his bicep for me. Tennis ball-sized and circled by a faded barbed-wire tattoo, his thick upper arm region is sexy yet incompatible with his lanky body.
    “That’s two beers too many,” I joke, poking his side.
    “Don’t do that. I’m ticklish.”
    “Fine, I won’t touch you then.” Yet, I want to touch him. Underneath his camouflage tee shirt, I want to know what he has tucked away. Dirty thoughts enter my mind. Like would he allow me to play peek-a-boo with his belly button? Does he have an innie or outie?
    Crossing my arms over my chest, I grab each side of my rib cage and squeeze. If I let go, I’m bound to grope him. My hands have no conscience.
    “So, where are we headed?” I ask. In the distance, downtown lights sparkle, and I wonder if dad has learned about my disappearing act.
    “Where do you want to go?” Eric asks.
    The backseat sounds nice.
    “Um, I don’t care, wherever,” I say.
    “How about Twinkies?”
    “Um....”
    “Is that cool?”
    “Yeah,” I lie, sinking in my seat. If dad finds out, I’ll be minus a social life in the morning, but that’s all right. Technically Jenny is my only friend anyway.
    Hitting the “dead after midnight” downtown district, we head beyond a historic movie theater sprinkled with punk-rock teens smoking cigarettes, and a fleet of butterflies takes flight inside my belly. They long to be free, I tell myself. I long for freedom as well. But then why am I panicky? Why are my palms clammy? And why is the idea of going to Twinkies freaking me out? Who knows? Maybe it’s the tall-tales associated with Twinkies that scare me so. Like the one about the guy who drank the wrong mixed drink there on New Year’s Eve and developed lactating breasts the next day. Ridiculous, I know, but it still scares me.
    “Why so quiet?” Eric asks.
    We pull into the jam-packed Twinkies parking lot and a striped cat races behind a dumpster to escape the headlights. Suddenly, I remember what Jenny once said.
    Never go with a boy behind a dumpster .
    “Hey, are you still with me?” Eric says, snapping his fingers.
    “Yeah, I’m here.”
    “You were zoning.”
    “I’m just excited.”
    “You should be,” he says, slowly navigating the car along the pebbly parking lot. Locating a spot, he pulls the car up to the curb and takes off his camouflage hat. “Out of all of my friends I picked you to hang out with me tonight.”
    Am I supposed to be flattered?
    God, you’re hot. But you’re not that hot. Well, maybe.
    “So, you ready to party?” Eric asks. In the Lincoln parked beside us, I grimace at a gray-haired fellow sucking on the lips of a pimply-faced teenage boy.
    I think no, I’m not ready. I’m really not.
    “Eric, I’m not sure...” I begin. He doesn’t hear me though. Already out of the car, he greets the parking attendant: a bald, muscular fellow wearing jean shorts and a leather jacket with silver chains around the breast pocket.
    Me, I’m not moving. Not yet. I’m perfectly fine in the increasingly hot Mustang. I’m perfectly content waiting for Eric to display some chivalry by opening my car door. “Are you coming?” he calls. Refusing to budge, I stick my chin up and grin. “Hot damn, what are you doing now?”
    I’m smiling for the camera but there’s a sadness lurking below. Maybe this isn’t the date I thought it might be. Maybe Eric just wants to be my friend. Or maybe he’s just completely clueless about the concept of being a gentleman. Who knows?
    Puzzled, Eric frowns before knocking on the passenger-side window. “Ok, what’s the matter?” he asks.
    I point to the door, pretending I can’t get it open. Eric lifts the handle. “Thank you. Now take my hand,” I say.
    “What?”
    “My hand, take