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Broke
Wife, Big City
You never forget your first time
By Aprill Brandon
This
is a bit embarrassing but up
until a few days ago, I was a 31-year-old virgin. Yes, I had never been
officially “F”-ed. I told myself it was because I wasn’t ready. I
wasn’t
prepared for the way it would change my life.
But
the truth is, I was ready. More
than ready. Hell, I had been ready since the day I moved to Boston over
two
years ago, all bright-eyed and innocent, ready to shed my small town
girl image
for a sophisticated city gal persona.
I
just wasn’t sure if, after all
this time, I would even know what to do. If at this point, I would just
be
making a fool of myself, trying to fit in with everyone else who had
vastly
more experience with this kind of stuff than I did.
And
then, like most things of this
nature, one night one thing led to another. Drinks were had.
Suggestions were
made. Tickets were bought.
And
before I knew it, I had lost my
cherry to Fenway.
Don’t
get me wrong. I had been
around a few baseball stadiums at this point so I wasn’t completely
innocent.
In fact, my fifth-grade teacher was such a die-hard Cincinnati Reds fan
that
every year he took his class on a field trip to a game. I also once
went to a
Houston Astros game with not one but TWO of my guy friends. But since
we
weren’t really fans, it got kind of awkward and no one really knew
where to put
their hands.
But
neither of those times had been
like this. Never like this.
Fenway
was not gentle. It was not
sweet. It didn’t bother with the pillow talk, let alone cuddling.
But
it did believe in plenty of
foreplay. Stepping onto Yawkey Way before the main event was like
stepping back
in time, into a street carnival straight out of the 1930′s.
All that was
missing was a bunch of young boys in newsboy caps rolling a hoop with a
stick
down the street. I was being seduced on all sides by the sweet sounds
of
vendors yelling out their wares and being caressed by a thousand
touches as
already drunk fans barreled into me.
I
was in love.
Sure,
call me a masochist if you
must, but as it turns out, I like a little pain with my pleasure. And
no where
was this more abundant than when we got down to business and assumed
the
position.
You
probably already know this, but
the seats at Fenway are not for the faint of heart. They are not for
the fair
weather fan. They are not even for humans. The engineer who came up
with these
seats not only didn’t have a butt himself, but had also never met
anyone else
with a human butt in his lifetime.
Judging
by the amount of leg room,
he also was a hobbit.
Forget
water boarding. You want a
terrorist to reveal his secrets? Let him sit in one of those Fenway
seats
through an entire game WITHOUT the saving grace of the seventh inning
stretch
and watch how quickly that canary sings.
“OK,
OK! Yes, I will give you all
the names of my fellow terrorists and where our secret weapons cache
is. Just
please…PLEASE…let me stand. I can no longer feel my lower half, my back
is on
fire and I will probably never be able to poop normally again!”
But
it didn’t matter. I was already
emotionally attached. We were still in the very middle of the act, not
even the
fifth inning yet, and I was already fantasizing about kids. Raising my
kids as
Red Sox fans. Dressing them up in tiny Red Sox onesies. Bringing them
to a game
as a family.
I
was even ready to make the
ultimate commitment of season tickets.
Of
course, after the game, the
magic I saw in Fenway started to fade a bit. Leaving was extremely
awkward,
what with trying to make a graceful exit from the stadium and then
trying not
to vomit as some drunk fan on the Green Line kept shouting in my face
with his
rancid beer breath about how awesome the game was and also how he
noticed I had
boobs. Two of them, in fact.
But
I still have faith that Fenway
and I can make this work. And I plan to be back for more.
Maybe
even switch it up a bit to
keep things spicy and go to an early game for a little afternoon
delight.
Can’t
get enough of Aprill? Can’t wait until
next week?
Check
out her website at http://aprillbrandon.com/
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