Set Me On Fire!

 

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Bird Dogging, bird-dog:

1v. American slang. to steal another person's date, girlfriend or wife; or attempt to.

[Origin: 1940–45, Amer. Soldier, WW2]

*****

“There was nothing more sleazier than that.” I was told. “A soldier, leaving for Europe, left behind his best girl...in the hopes his friends wouldn't pooch her while he was gone. Anyone who was caught doing this was regarded as dirt.”

All I could think was whether I should admit to having done that or just shut up and let sleeping dogs lie.

Any bird doggin' on my part was due to be hit with a thunderbolt. I can't explain it any better than the following I stole off the internet.

“'Colpo di fulmine.' The thunderbolt, as Italians call it. When love strikes someone like lightning, so powerful and intense it can’t be denied. It’s beautiful and messy, cracking a chest open and spilling their soul out for the world to see. It turns a person inside out, and there’s no going back from it. Once the thunderbolt hits, your life is irrevocably changed.”

“Spilling out for the world to see...” Yeah, I tried like hell to hide what I was really feeling while I was talking to those who were unattainable. I failed miserably at that. Hell, I couldn't help it.

I can count the numbers on my fingers. Patrica M., Diane D., Melissa K., Linda B. and a few others who were out of reach.

You women can sort of understand it but I don't think you can appreciate how intense it can be for us guys. I can remember being awake till the first light of dawn thinking about someone, and bitching because I lost a night's sleep. Or how you can be near the one you adore, but can't, can't utter a single word due to her being taken. Yet, I would still position myself to be nearer to her, even though this prize was claimed a long time ago. You have to be a young man to have this as the testosterone is sweating out in beads on your forehead. It's more than plain “horniness.” It does encompass that but it's so much more. The entirety of your being is focused on a girl.

Today this can be misconstrued as "stalking." But the trick to stalking versus being head over heels, is knowing when to quit.

The insanity could last as long as a month. Then the part of my brain which deals in reality finally chimes in with a few words to say and I eventually cooled down. Ugh. It was never a quick cure though. It also helps NOT to be where she'll be too. I had stopped going to Wes's Rib House due to a woman I knew there...and was way out of bounds for me.

I can lay claim to two marrieds I managed to get, but only for a short time as they never leave Number 1. No names but one was “Denver Girl” and the other was “Riverside Rat” girl. A Riverside Rat is a person who lives in the blue-r collar areas of Rumford, East Providence.

Meteoric romances these were. Flaming brightly then flaming out as they will. The funny thing was they were summer ones as well. I spent many days and nights in Misquamicut and Matunuck. The girls knew where they got their bread from so they always returned to the husband. What I did notice is that they chose to “accept” the relationships they were in. Both never had the guts to make the final break. Two incomes, a house and the easy life of only spending half you paycheck on necessities was a greater lure than breaking free. That seemed to overcome the drabness, staleness and death that their married life had become. I have no idea where they are now or what they finally decided, probably divorce as it's so common now.

Given the chance, would I want to experience a “thunderbolt” again? Would I want that roller coaster ride that gave such thrills and crushing defeats? Yes. But for a month is all, maybe a bit longer. The problem with staid middle age is just that, it's settled and self-restrained. Would you believe I worked toward that? Saving money, not driving drunk into oak trees, invested with Conoco Phillips and did nearly all the other things that made life...stable.

OK, It sounds like I want a little danger now and again. True. I do.

Many moons ago, I once worked at a shit-college-age job as a maintenance guy in a Providence office building that was owned by Joseph Mollicone (Remember him? Heritage Loan? I knew him somewhat and saw how he operated at times. I have a few stories about that I ain't telling just yet!). Anyway, on one of the floors were Dr's who would pour over SDI claims to either reject or pass them. I began talking to one Dr on a nightly basis. He was about 40 then and would openly admit he was jealous of my 21 years of age. He'd love to hear of my stories as a college kid and probably was living vicariously through them.

Now I'm literally way past the age of that Dr and know very well what he was about. He too wanted another thunderbolt, even if it meant being reminded of his own by a college kid.

South County as We Northern RI'rs Call It

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Lido's, Olivo's and Scarborough beach. You probably know of the last one but not the first two. When I was a kid we'd always go to Lido's, which is part of Scarborough now. My Dad avoided Olivo's because in his words, back in the late 60's, it was a “hippy beach.” All I ever saw of it was the name, stenciled on it's roof in white shingles. I guess it was the changing cabana?

I loved the beach as a kid. What kid doesn't? You have the right to get covered in dirt and mud and so what, you can wash it off right there. I was a decent enough swimmer to avoid drowning and I never did venture further out than I felt was OK. I wasn't creeped out by living creatures and seaweed brushing against my leg either. Lucky for me I never met any jelly fish.

In my teens, the beach took on a different meaning. When your a kid, you pretty much care little for how you “look.” As a teen, I was assuredly aware of my blinding white Irish skin. I had wished I had the tan of a California surfer and tried to get one to no avail.

One time, thinking it would work, I used Hawaiin Tropic tanning oil. The stuff smells wonderful too, all coconut-ty and such. The problem is that it works like bacon fat. I slathered that stuff on and laid out. All that did was give myself a nice second degree sunburn where you blister up nicely. Ouch! It was one of those sunburns where freshly laundered sheets on my bed, when they brushed my burned chest as I moved, felt like sandpaper.

Not willing to quit, I switched over to Bain de Soleil. That old commercial were something else. You'd see this French model, with a perfect tan, relaxing in the Riviera. That nice little jingle, “Bain de Soliel...for that San Tropez tan” is nothing but pure smut!

That stuff was just orange grease when you squeezed it out of its tube. I had hopes I'd at least get a Scarborough, Rhode Island tan. All it did was make my shoulder acne worse. I got another sunburn too. On the bright side, I smelled of tangelos.

I gave up. In my 20s at the beach, I'd wear an open peach/turquoise/pink/lime collared Oxford shirt. It was made of Egyptian cotton which is great stuff and I can't seem to find shirts made of it anymore. They're actually pretty cool even on humid days.

The beach in our 20's might have included laying out, which I never did as I wasn't trying tan, though I may be lying down because drinking beer in the summer sun tends to knock you down. The beach now became a nightclub/pickup joint/possible new girlfriend meeting place.

Alot of girls from Worcester come down to the Misquamicut beaches. It's actually a shorter drive than it is to the Cape. I met one group of girls and this ONE, who had that look only a guy can describe (Guys know it when we see it and it's quite personalized too). Anyway, I was zeroed in on her.

“You're from Deerfield? Wow, you came a long way huh?” I say to start up that conversation.

“Yeah, me and the girls are all from Deerfield...is this your first time to the beach?” she asks.

Now, this was in early August.

“No” I say “I've been to Misquamicut every week.”

“Really?” As she says that, she's looking at my Irish white chest as my South Miami coral shirt is opened up.

Shit. That one didn't go anywhere. I was too white for her.

Here's a risque story about beaches I'll tell.

Everything's a learning curve in life. This includes what girls are. For we boys are clueless as hell when we start dating you.

Actually, we both learned of something that effects the girls only.

I once had a wonderful summertime girlfriend. We both enjoyed each other's company but it was not that deep it was moderately shallow anyway as relationships go. Hey, it's summertime.

Anyways, after seeing a band at the Ocean Mist in Matunuck, she and I went for a boozy walk down the beach around 1 AM I guess. It's pretty black at night there, you can barely see where you're walking. So I'm a young man, with this pretty girl who was more than willing to play and down onto the sand we go. We're making out and one thing leads to another.

Umm, about two minutes in she starts yelping, “Stop...Stop! STOP! STOP!” Being a guy and completely drunk in sexual happiness, I respond; “Huh? What?”

She sits up...”Christ..I think I got sand in me!”

Now I being male, who doesn’t have to deal with female plumbing nor understand it well, can't figure out this one.

“Sand? What does that have to do with anything?”

“God..it's like sandpaper...” she goes on.

I process this for a bit then realize, 2 + 2 = 4. I finally figure it out. Romantic tip: Bring a large, blue tarp with you if you're thinking of any playtime on a sandy beach!

I don't get to the beach as often as I promise myself too. Hell, the people I know now have to mount a D-Day style invasion to go to the beach, because they have KIDS! So it's not, “gas up the car, get the beer and off we go” anymore. Though that would be fun to do again. Hell, the marrieds I know now would LOVE it. Ditch the wife and kids and make believe they're 23 again.

When I go to the beach now, I'm still lily white. But now I see young men with 0.001% body fat and young women who look like the Bain de Soliel bikini girl. Still, I enjoy it for what it is. If I spend enough time there, there is a definite mood change in me that's quite nice to have.

The beach never has changed. It smells the same. The waves crash and the sun baked sand still burns my feet. The young still play that flirtation game with one another and always will.