When I was a Lolita

 

(The 1960's version. The millennium version is torn mini-skirts Hollister camisoles)

It wasn’t until I read Vladimir Nabokov’s Lolita that I understood where pervert men came from. No, it wasn’t that I understood them but I saw, for the first time, how severely misunderstood and confused girls are at the turn of puberty.
Nabokov’s Lolita is about a man, Humbert Humbert, who becomes obsessed and sexually involved with the 12 year old Dolores Haze (who goes by Lolita). In the book, Lolita is the type of girl, who at an innocent age, has a sense of provocation and even flirtation. From her perspective, her skimpy clothes and playful taunts are sirens for attention, especially attention for her beauty. From Humbert’s perspective, she is a sexually-charged young girl who is interested in him.

I know this because, when I was at the precocious age of 12 or 13, I was a Lolita. I didn’t realize my misplaced signals and vain ideals were possibly alluring to a dangerous lot until I read Nabokov’s book in horror.

When I was around 9 or 10 my body started changing. I grew hair in odd places, I gained weight, and my feet looked clownish on my short frame. I wasn’t batting my eyelashes at anyone for attention. All I wanted to do was sit on a couch and find a pillow large enough to hide behind.

But, as if by magic, around the age of 12 I began to fill out, and in the right places. I could fit into a B-size bra, my gender was clear in a bathing suit, and I had a lean frame. These changes were analogous with boys giving us new attention.

At that age, all I wanted was for people to think I was pretty, so I turned to America’s conventions of beauty. The background on my myspace profile was a montage of Victoria’s Secret model pictures.
I remember my mom glancing over my shoulder, at the computer, while I was on myspace, “Why do you have Victoria’s Secret background? You’ve never even shopped there.”
“That doesn’t mean I can’t have it as my background!” I exclaimed, as I closed the screen.
“Hey, what kind of information do you have on that web-site thingy?”
“It’s called a myspace, mom.”
“Yeah, and I’ve heard some pretty sick things about it on Dateline.”
On my myspace, I had my middle school’s name, date of birth, full name, city, and state.  Also a picture of me in a bikini with a wad of cash in my hand.
It’s hard for me to explain why I took that picture, subliminal media influences were at work I’m certain. I was with a friend, a Lolita more advanced than I was. She talked to strangers online, and then invited them over to hang out. Well, I was sleeping over with her and we decided to get in our bikinis and pose like the girls in rap videos.

Now, whenever I watch Oprah do a show on molestation or online predators, I cringe. The “grooming process” is a term used to describe a predators manipulation to making a young girl trust him and love him.
I remember someone on the show said, “It’s surprising that girls can just fall into it.”
Actually, it’s not surprising at all. At that age, if anyone told me I was pretty and funny, I would be clueless with glee. I would online chat with the stranger for untold hours, and I would feel pride, no matter what age he turned out to be. I would be the one desired, and that is all that mattered.
Thank god I never had the chance to get groomed.
But one time I did encounter something even worse.
On a Friday night when I was 13 years old, I went mall shopping with my two best friends. I bought my first thong that night, and I felt half-embarrassed and half-sexy. After milling around for hours, it was 9pm and the mall was closing. My friend, the advanced Lolita, called her dad to pick us up. He said he was at the Burger King at the end of the parking lot and told us to just walk over.
We stepped out into the spring night. In mini-skirts, small tank-tops, and Victoria’s Secret’s bags around our wrists, we walked across the empty parking lot.
Then an old, beat up, pick up truck came crawling up to us. I immediately felt uncomfortable. The pick up truck halted in front of us and inside were two men in dirty work  clothes.
“You girls need a ride,” said the man in the driver’s seat. The other one leaned over and gave a long look at us.
I felt my skin prickle and my hands clenched my shopping bag.
My friend laughed and said, “Well, I don’t know..”
My other friend shifted so her long, thin legs were in full view.
I met eyes with the man, and something came over me.
“We don’t need a ride from you!” I screamed, with my eyes bulging.
“Hey, lady,” he said, “we’re just trying to be nice.”
“Yeah,” my friend said, “why are you freaking out?”
I didn’t leave his eyes.
“Get the fuck away from me! I don’t need a ride from you!”
“What the hell is your problem?” he said angrily.
I didn’t answer him.
“Fine,” he grunted, “we’ll just leave.”
“Good!” I yelled as he shifted the truck into drive and sped off.
I gave a long breath.
“Why did you just freak out?” said my friend.
“They were just being nice,” said the other.
And I couldn’t explain what had came over me. All I knew was that I wouldn’t have gotten in that truck over my dead body. It was a gut feeling.
After that, I wasn’t friends with them any longer. After that, I didn’t need the attention.

Confession: I have a vamp-crush

I have grown up in the second millennium, so yes, I am aware of the vampire craze. I have not read Twilight, mostly because I grew up with Harry Potter and it would be a capital sin to convert to a vampire series.
Actually it is quite funny to listen to a group of Harry Potter fans discuss the Twilight series.
It goes something like this:
"Do I read Twilight? Fuck no."
"Really? I thought since you liked Harry Potter, you might like Twilight too,"
"Are you fucking crazy? I have taste. I don't read something about sparkling vampires, that's gay. Plus, do you know what J.K Rowling has done for literacy in the world? Are you even aware of how prolific her writing is? No you don't because you have mentioned Twilight in my presence."
"So I guess you haven't seen the movies."
"Sure I did, but only to make fun of them."

So, as a die hard Harry Potter fan, I have not crossed the line to the teen craze of vampires. That is, until I started watching True Blood. In a nutshell, True Blood is a tv series on HBO that is about Sookie Stackhouse, a waitress from a podunk town in the south, that starts dating a vampire and all this crazy shit happens. Before every episode there is a caption that reads: graphic violence, graphic sex, graphic nudity, and graphic language. This encapsulates why I watch the series.
But there is one other thing that makes me watch True Blood, and that is Eric Northman.

Say hi to Eric Northman.

So this is why I am really lame. I have a celebrity crush on a vampire.
The last time I had a celebrity crush I was in 5th grade, and it was for Orlando Bloom. At that age I would dream that Orlando was looking at me, then he would put his arm around me. My heart would beat like crazy just by his hand on my shoulder. Then he would lean forward, eyes closed and lips puckered comically, and just before he was about to kiss me, I would wake up. For the rest of the day I would walk around in a daze.
Now, since I'm a bit older and the show features at least one pornographic scene of sex a week, my dream of Eric Northman was little different.
This is even more embarrassing, but I had a sex dream with a vampire. So, in the dream, I was having sex with him, but when I looked down he didn't have a penis. It was just skin, like a ken barbie doll. I'm still trying to figure that one out.

One thing that makes me feel a little bit better, is that most of my friends harbor a similar crush on Eric Northman. So, I guess no one is too good for a vamp-crush. At least I hope so.

Untamed Va-jay-jays

For all those who clicked on this post solely for the title say 'AYE'. Seriously, say it out loud and sound like a sociopath because you're already looking for some literature on vaginas. 

      No matter how the school day begins--pausing in my car to spit beats like Eminem or running to class with a water bottle full of scalding coffee--my school day ends with dance.

    Today I was tap-tap-tapping away in front of the mirror. I noticed that the only tan left from summer vacation was on my knees. The white socks I was wearing made me look like a grandma with shapeless ankles. The thirty strong deafening roar of thuds, stomps, and shuffles was interrupted by the double doors swinging open. In came the administrators--crisp clothes and cold demeanors. We tried to silence ourselves, but each awkward movement was amplified by the tap shoes. The principle called out a single name, "Mary Grace Hearth". 

     She looked up from her feet with a dopey smirk. It was the same dopey smirk she gave when she announced to the class the day prior that she had been fingered by a boy during study hall. Apart from her mouth, that never seemed to close, she walked with confidence unlike any freshmen I knew, even when answering to the principle. She exited the room with the administrators flanking both of her sides. The class stared, only moments from beginning the whispering and speculating. The dance teacher quickly made the music louder and shouted choreography to us. While tap-tap-tapping away I leaned over to Courtney in front of me. "What's up with Mary Grace?" I shouted into her ear, which only sounded like a whisper over the metallic stomps. 

     "You've heard. She got fingered. She told everyone." 

     Mary Grace had told everyone. The insidious words had exited her mouth with an expression of lax smugness. The other freshmen stared, the sophomores laughed, the juniors rolled their eyes, and the seniors looked on with worry. After four years of high school, I could see the want for acceptance underneath her haughtiness. Rick, a senior, interrupted her boasting by simply saying, "You shouldn't be proud of that." 

      Dance class had ended, and the girls were changing in the dressing room. Those wearing thongs were situated in the corner hoisting their jeans on, while the rest paraded around in bras that looked like lingerie before undergarments.

    "So, who was the guy?" One the girls asked, spraying perfume in no general direction.

    "Russel Haggard. He's not even cute, " answered another.

    "Did you know they live in the same neighborhood? They could have just waited," piped in a girl adjusting her makeup. 

    "How did they not get caught?"

    "Some fat kid was sitting in front of them, and that teacher must be really fucking clueless." 

     I slipped my shoes on. "I feel bad for her. She just wanted attention."

     The girl capped her perfume and spoke for the dressing room, "She deserved it. She told everyone. What a fucking skank."

     The bell rang, and we picked up our things and left.