Boy George

a memoir

Along State Route 30, you stand at the end of your driveway next to the cornfield. Your muscle ass hugged tightly by those jeans. Bronzed strong arms crossed over your chest, head hanging low. You kick dirt.  

I pull up in my piece-of-shit Chevy Cavalier. My dad could have bought me a better car. He is a lawyer. But you already know that. Before you get in, I quickly check under the front seat to make sure it's hidden. It's tucked away in its clear plastic case. I'm always careful not to leave it in plain sight. Unless I'm alone. Then it doesn't matter. 

You slam the passenger door shut. The scent of fresh earth and sunbaked sweat clings to your golden skin. You tinker with the tape deck, poking the eject button repeatedly. My dad had told me I only have to drive you to school until you get your license back at the end of football season. 

At school, I see how they look at you when you walk down the halls. The girls are giggling and blushing, covering their faces with Trapper Keepers. You're wearing those tight stonewashed jeans that hug your muscle ass. The same jeans that are shredded and frayed, like the ones the lead singer of Def Leppard wears. Your spandex football pants cling to that same muscle ass as you strut under the Friday night lights. And after you score the winning touchdown, it's the same muscle ass your girlfriend squeezes in celebration. 

The girls at school, they giggle and blush and cover their faces with their Trapper Keepers when I walk down the hall, too. But it isn't the same way they gush over you. They know what's under the seat in my car without ever having to see it. 

Your left hand brushes my shoulder as you toss your backpack in the back seat of my car. Your big, tan, veiny corn-fed hands always stay golden year-round. You plant your right foot on my dash, stamping it with your mud-caked Romeo treads. Your crotch is slightly tilted towards me, and I gulp, stealing glances at your bronzed skin through the frayed, shredded denim. 

As football season approaches, my dad tells me your probation hearing went well and that you'll get your license back soon. I want you to fuck up and violate your probation, will you?

I am driving you to school for the last time. You always fiddle with the tape deck, but this time something pops out. My ears flush red with heat and my heart races in my chest. Your brow furrows as you inspect the object - it's my Boy George cassette. You ask me if I'm a cocksucker. 

Do you remember asking me that, babe? 

You insert the cassette and press play. 

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