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  A continuation of Chapter 2 in Suzy Soro's unreleased book.
Suzy, at age 19, moves in with her first sexual partner, Scotty. They play house in a small one-room apartment and after several "fun" discussions, they get engaged. We continue now with more of Chapter 2.
All the Bad Sex I’ve Had, a very, very, very long book (Part 7) I was so lonely that summer that I slept with a pair of Scotty's jockey shorts under my pillow. Even though they were already clean, every week my mother would routinely throw them in the washing machine along with my sheets. One day they accidentally ended up in the drawer where my father kept his boxer shorts and there was a ten minute argument between my parents that you couldn't pay me to listen to again.
"We'll number the letters", I whispered into the wall phone in the kitchen. Although Dad could have afforded it, my sister Magda and I had not been allowed to have our own telephone line. My parents had decided it would prevent us from doing our homework but all it did was create an intense desire to stab them to death and then later on sympathize with the Menendez brothers.
"I hate writing letters and even if I did write one, why would I number it?" Scotty asked.
"So we don't read them out of order. You know, like in case fourteen arrives before ten, you wouldn't want to read it first now, would you?"
"There's going to be fourteen letters?"
"I don't know exactly how many there's going to be, Scotty."
"But you just said there's going to be fourteen letters."
"It doesn't matter how many letters there's going to be, Scotty, the point is that we should number them."
I wrote him over fifty letters that summer, each one of them bearing a number on the return address portion of the envelope. He wrote me back seven, each one of them numbered as well, although there were two that were marked '5'. I made excuses for Scotty's lack of attention (he hates me) and went on writing him, (his family hates me too) and I never asked him why he didn't write me more (maybe he's dead).
My parents bought us a sterling silverware service for twelve, Wallace Grand Baroque, which looked like a pattern used at Buckingham Palace. Scotty and I were going to live in San Francisco, and the only palace near us was the Kung Pao Palace on the corner of Van Ness and Ellis. I called him, crying.
"Twelve! What am I supposed to do with twelve? It should be for eighteen, eighteen is what you give your daughter when you love her; twelve is what you give her if you want to embarrass her, right?"
"No, not right." Scotty said.
"They're pretending they don't have the money but they have the money, we don't go to Europe every summer because we're poor or anything, right?
"I guess."
"They're just being mean and hateful, right?"
"I don't think so." Scotty's conversations were like his sex, three minutes of frantic squirming and then flopping back out to fall fast asleep. Like squalls rising languidly in the north and descending on a calm sea, the evidence started to mount against Scotty and yet I refused to batten down the vagina.
The closer we got to the wedding date, the more my parents interrupted my denial. (to be continued) |
Suzy Soro
