And Now, On to my Dad’s Fambly Tree!

(or, “How I Wish I Had a Tanker Truck Full of Chlorine Bleach”)

He shyly smiled, reached for my hand, and looked lovingly into my eyes through his smudged glasses. Uncomfortable, I tried to avoid his gaze. His ripe, white-tipped pimples seemed to mesmerize me. I focused on the dozens of pulsating pustules, momentarily distracted from his words. I had never seen so much oil… A gentle pressure on my hands cleared the thick fog in my head and brought me back into the present. I shook my head slightly, certain that I had misunderstood his question.

“If I wasn’t your cousin, would you date me?”

(Cue the sound of a needle angrily scratching across a record album)

Holy fucking Christ… This can’t be happening…OMG OMG OMG OMG OMG OMG He wouldn’t let go of my fucking hands. I hadn’t even realized what any of this was leading to. On the inside, I was screaming. On the outside, I tried to not let him see how repulsed I was. I kept a weird frozen smile on my face, eyes wide and unblinking.

He actually asked me this question with a straight face. He wasn’t even fucking KIDDING me. Holy SHIT, Batman! I swear to GOD. And for me to STILL have a vivid memory of it nearly 30 years LATER should be a good indicator of how traumatic it WAS (is) for me. I mean, WTF??? What kind of question is that to ASK me? We didn’t even live in the South! Thankfully, he lived on the other side of the country, or I would have certainly killed myself.

Initally, in my kind-hearted (at the time) mind, I had asked myself, “How could I possibly answer this “dating” question without hurting his feelings?” So I just said, “maybe,” scooted out of the house and left him watching “I Dream of Jeannie” with my dad. I shot my mom a look of “he is a weirdo,” and made my escape.

Now, of course, I would just blurt out, “Oh fucking hell NO! Hell-to-the-NO, you fucking FREAK!” and make fun of his lactating breasts, his very-likely miniscule penis and undescended testicles.

I was about 16, and the offending cousin in question (Freak 1, or “F1” for short) was almost 19. Freak-of-the-week. Of the CENTURY, even. And he was in MY gene pool. Ick.

For the week, he also happened to be in my backyard. Since he was visiting from California, it was my job to show him around, to make him feel a part of things. In retrospect, I should have left his ass home to watch Jackie Gleason reruns and eat Cheetos with my dad, watching as Dad chain-smoked his way through 2 packs. Instead, being the dutiful daughter, I bravely introduced F1 to my friends. Funny how every single one of them had something else to do whenever I called that week. Talk about deserting a sinking ship. Bitches.

So, I drove him around in my car, as he annoying flipped through all of the radio stations. We “cruised” all the main drags, covering all of my old stomping grounds. I drove him past my schools. We ate fast food. We went to the new mall (a big deal in the 70’s, lemme tell ya). We stopped for ice cream. We went roller skating. We went to the movies. All fucking week long, I had to babysit this mutant dwarf with the fucked-up giggle. And he never shut the fuck up. He was filled with useless knowledge. It was painfully obvious that he was socially retarded.

F1 was a good 6 inches shorter than me, and built like a rather stout truck with a huge ass. His legs were exceptionally short. In addition to his horribly pimply skin, he had a greasy, unwashed look about him. His short hair and face practically dripped. At least he didn’t stink and his hair WAS always combed. I felt sorry for him because he looked so lost.

Being a Navy brat, he had lived all over the world. I came to learn that he was a very intelligent, articulate know-it-all fuck. What I didn’t realize at the time was that, like his father, he had a very high opinion of himself, fancying himself as the shiznit. And that he considered our week together a string of “dates.”

I don’t quite know at which point F1 ceased seeing me as a cousin and began looking at me as potential “hubba hubba” for his oversexed and obviously underutilized nads. Come to think of it, I don’t know that he EVER saw me as off-limits. Looking back, there had been numerous attempts to touch my hand or brush my boobs. Hang on a minute, I have to vomit.

OK, I’m back (wipes mouth with sleeve)

Our nightly conversations on my parents’ porch were benign enough. We discussed school, tastes in music and movies. The alarm bells (which, unfortunately, weren’t yet fully developed) should have gone off in my head when he steered the talk toward relationships, kissing and *ewwww* sex. He wanted to know if I’d ever kissed a guy. (HELLOOOOOO, of COURSE you fucking retard, it was the 70’s for chrissake!) Then he wanted to know if I’d ever been “touched.” Uh-oh... (OMG OMG OMG OMG OMG OMG OMG OMG thisisnothappeningtome!!!!!)

Then he wanted to know if he could kiss me and touch my boobs, to “see if it feels the same.” With that, I fully recognized what a huge-ass piece of shiznit he really WAS, pushed him off the porch into the picker bushes and locked him out of the house. Hang on a minute, I have to vomit again.

OK, I’m back (gargles, spits, wipes mouth with sleeve)

After telling my mother about the “dating” question (I didn’t dare mention the rest) she helped me avoid him the last 2 days of his stay. Fortunately for my blog, my stories of him do NOT end with this visit.

I’ve gotta give that twisted little fuck props for persistence, though. Shit, I am getting that drooling “I’ve gotta puke” feeling again.