I'm not one of those girls who often finds herself associating parts of her life with song lyrics. Of course, there are always exceptions to the rule, and for me, two come to mind:
1) That Taylor Swift song she wrote about doing Taylor Lautner when she was 22 and pretending to be 14 and he was 14 and pretending to be a werewolf and
2) The part of "Mellow Yellow" where Donovan whispers "I'm just mad about fourteen" like a mall Santa after too many eggnogs.
Buckle your seatbelts and adjust your jockstraps everyone; I'm a sex pervert.
It was my sophomore year of college. I was home for Thanksgiving break for a rousing week of watching "Seventh Heaven" reruns in bed with my mom, who thought watching a Christian TV family learn about the dangers of taking diuretics during your period would keep me from listening to punk music and dyeing my hair.
To cleanse my palate, I decided it was time to behave like a normal teenager and headed out to a party.
When I arrived, I was sad to realize the bulk of the guests were boys I had gone to high school with who were still the same greasy haired, "Dragon Ball Z"-watching virgins they'd been two years before.
And then, like ray of light shining from an endless sea of white dudes dressed in what I may be incorrectly remembering as Pokemon T-shirts and sweatpants, came a very, very handsome man. His name was Trevor (obviously not his real name, seeing as I don't want to go to jail), and I was going to let him put his tongue in my mouth.
Like many inmates will tell you, it's hard to tell how old a girl is when she's wearing porno makeup and dressed like a common streetwalker. What may be even harder is telling how old a boy is when he's at a grown-up party, rocking a full beard, lies to you about his age, and happens to be the most charming guy there.
Trevor was six feet tall, with black hair and blue eyes, a couple of tattoos, David Beckham's body, and a wardrobe that was a highly desirable mix of Adidas, Brooks Brothers, and Ecko (it was Brooklyn, it was the mid-2000s. Give me a break.)
While he admitted that he was still in high school, he said he was 18 and was graduating in December. This happened to be around time when the word "cougar" was really picking up steam, and, like any insecure 19-year-old, I wanted to participate in pretty much anything HBO had taught me was cool and might give me herpes.
Over the course of the evening, Trevor and I may have talked, possibly danced to some Snoop Dogg, and I may or may not have let him "teach" me how to play pool by resting his junk on my butt (if "Law & Order" has taught me anything, it's "keep the details vague.").
Perhaps what attracted me to him most, other than his insane good looks, the fact that he smelled like a sexy pine tree, and his ability to hold a cogent conversation that was about something other than Yu-Gi-Oh, was the fact that he was the brother of my least favorite high school classmates.
Trevor's brother, Daniel, had been a dick to me from the moment I met him. During the two years I spent in his class, he routinely told me I looked slutty, called me stupid, and often publicly insinuated that I was more jizz than person.
Also, during our school dance concert, which was comprised mostly of impressive performances by our school's ballerinas and an animated tribute to booty shorts by our step team, he played DDR in a karate uniform. It was really, really hard to like this kid, is what I'm saying.
After a few hours of flirtatious talking, I decided it was time to head home. Trevor, being the gentleman that he was or perhaps just being a young boy hoping to lose his virginity, offered to walk me to the train. We held hands on the way there and then, in front of a closed Starbucks, we took the express train to gropetown.
Suddenly, over the audible throbbing of my lady boner, I heard a girly scream in the distance. "SARAH! HE IS 15!"
Suddenly, everything I had been fantasizing about for the past three hours disappeared. My visits to various awards shows as his plus one after he became a famous actor/astronaut/Richard Branson's protégé? Gone. The life-sized Barbie Corvette he would stupidly give me on our first anniversary? Trashed. Our Harvard-educated supermodel offspring? Poof.
I gave him a puzzled look, hailed a cab and texted my friends instructions on how they should divide up my property once I was incarcerated. It wasn't until two years later, when I ran into him at a New Year's party where invited me back to his mom's house for some still-illegal sex, which he later upgraded to a threesome ("Bring your girlfriend if it makes you more comfortable" -- seriously!), that I realized my days as a cougar, or child molester, or whatever you wanted to call it, were definitely over.
I have since graduated from college, found a job I love doing, an age-appropriate fiancé who I also love doing, and have no criminal history on the books. However, the thought of running into Daniel, having proven to him that I may, in fact, be the world's dirtiest prostitute, keeps me far, far away from almost anything relating to that period in my life.
And that, high school alumni coordinator, is why you won't see me at the reunion this fall.