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| Coppertone |
| "A shy sixteen-year-old girl's brief relationship with a twenty-nine-year-old bachelor has an enduring influence on her life and on the lives of those around her." |
COPPERTONE: A Complete Novella
May 11, 1998
Whenever I smell the seductive scent of Coppertone, a wave of exquisite and excruciating melancholy sweeps over me, pulling me deep into the murky currents of my secret self. It is the essence of my sixteenth summer- a bookmark to the dizzying sensations of that enchanted season of half a lifetime ago. That first headlong plunge into love, untempered by reason, unsullied by experience, uncompromised by doubt. We are only that foolish once- if we have any sense at all. But we get to be that foolish once- if we are lucky. We all have our stories, of course, comprised of that narrow sliver of possibility which remains after could have, should have, and would have are pared away. But those chapters that effect us the most fundamentally- those which shape our cores- invariably have a sadness to them: the poignancy of what might have been... Question: are the romantic misadventures placed in our path the payments exacted for the acquisition of a soul, or are they a fine levied on our stupidity and spiritual indigence? My answer depends, I suppose, on my retrospective mood; but as I start to write this story, on my thirty-second birthday, older and presumably wiser than I have ever been, I am inclined to believe that the former is the truer of the truths. I like who I've become, and a good part of it I owe to this briefly known man, whom in my innocent wisdom I had the good sense to go crazy over.
I was different than other girls I knew; getting the pitty-pats over the football captain was way too conventional and convenient for me (plus he was a jerk). Instead I chose a professional man nearly twice my age whom I found in my backyard (the story only gets stranger- trust me). This chance encounter would profoundly influence several lives, as I will demonstrate. Of course, a number of motivating circumstances led to this unlikely pairing, and this is where I will start my story. So pour yourself some coffee, if you so desire, and smoke 'em if you got 'em... And blow a whiff my way. I haven't had a cigarette since my surgery five years ago, but the itch persists. And second-hand smoke beats none at all...
My name, by the way, is Cheryl. I have an opposite sex twin. His name is Chad. I'm Chad's older sister by seven minutes. Until we were about thirteen, we weren't easy to tell apart. He was boyishly pretty and I was girlishly handsome. I was a tomboy and he was a sissy. Poor Chad was further emasculated by the fact I could take him (his gentler nature an exploitable weakness) and enjoyed proving it on a regular basis. I guess we stewed in each other's juices during those first nine months and it had a mutually androgynizing effect on us. Daddy's plan to inculcate our gender roles through a strictly enforced dress and grooming code backfired; the visitors that he so wanted to impress with the propriety of his offspring were, often as not, treated to the comic spectacle of a pugnacious, pigtailed Cindy Brady pummeling the crap out of a cowering, cowlicked Huck Finn. Excepting our inconsequential reproductive organs, we shared pretty much the same body and inherited parallel defects. The dentist filled cavities on our same teeth; we were simultaneously sentenced to braces; we shared and refused to wear the same weak eyeglass prescription; and the heart murmur that Dr. Nancy detected in Chad during a physical to attend Boy Scout camp was detected in me ten minutes later when I was examined for ballet camp- both activities dictated by Daddy, who by now feared he had a couple of queers on his hands (his phrase, not mine). But during the tenth grade our hormones finally kicked in; Chad got tall and I got boobs.
A week after my sophomore year ended in June, I attended an all-day outdoor jazz festival. Proud of my sprouting breasts, and curious as to their power to allure, I wore a tube top under my T-shirt; I removed the T-shirt and stuffed it in Chad's knapsack soon after Mummy let me and Chad off. Several sets of male knuckles brushed my rump "accidentally" as I meandered about the crowd. I had a good time, for which I was to pay a price; the sun raised the devil with my fair Nordic skin, and the shadow of my Wayfarers emblazoned hilarious (to everyone but myself) raccoon eyes on me. To minimize this contrast, I became a sun sponge over the next few days and was delighted to discover that the sunburn I experienced became the base coat for a quite appealing tan I'd always thought unattainable with my paltry Danish pigmentation. The leading edges of my dishwater blond hair bleached fetchingly under the constant sun exposure- a phenomenon I would later expedite and exaggerate with peroxide. This encouraged me to tease and freeze with Aqua Net. Through trial and error I eventually achieved the hair heights of a Miss Texas finalist. Daddy began calling me his girl (which I liked). The lightened hair made my eyes seem greener and my tanned face made my brace-bejeweled teeth seem brighter and also made my mild acne invisible (rendered conspicuous by my waxy pallor). I was suddenly quite stunningly pretty, if I do say so myself. So much so, I developed a crush on me. I embraced a new hobby that I had stoically resisted for the first fifteen years of my life. I made up for lost time.
I preferred to do it standing up nude in front of my full-length mirror with the stereo on- mostly to mask my own caterwauling. Yes, I was noisy- a soprano hyperventilator... and I had a troubling tendency to fart during climax. Pardon my candor. I include this unflattering detail to give you some idea of the magnitude of my orgasms, the intensity of which taxed my tricky heart valve to an audible level. And I was good for four in a row. Often more. Still waters, you know... The possibility of my dropping dead while engaged in this pursuit had occurred to me, but that only added a perverse excitement to the ritual. The prospect of the phrase "found nude" appearing in the account of my untimely demise held a provocative appeal. Just like heroine Marilyn! I was a weird girl. I admit it.
Meanwhile, on the other side of my bedroom wall, Chad was apparently (based on acoustical evidence) engaged in an ongoing struggle to get a grip on his own hormonal demons. I wished he'd oil that box spring of his. I wasn't disturbed by this, really. Aroused, yes; disturbed, no. His testosterone flow had commenced; he had discovered girls and was taking his first steps toward becoming the virile, strong, mature and chronically depressed alcoholic he is today.
One night he came in my room and asked me for his Blondie tape. He had interrupted my lengthy foreplay ritual prior to the "forced" stripping scenario I acted out ("Oh, ve vill find zat microfilm, mine fraulein. Now disrobe! Schnell!" barked the bristle-haired Kommandant- I was bright but trite). I was not in a mood to cooperate. I slid the cassette into my left bra cup and told him to fuck off- a vulgarism that had recently crept into my speech. Chad, in response, called me a cunt. Chad, mind you! He went for the bait. After a hysterical (mostly laughing) tussle, replete with an alarming deluge of sexual expletives from both of us (is "cumsucker" my invention?), he slipped his hand down my blouse and beneath my bra and pulled it out, though with a suspiciously lingering lack of dexterity for which I was grateful (as evidenced by my token resistance). He, in addition to the tape, got a palm full of palpitating breast and vulcanized nipple. Suddenly he stopped and slid away from me. Both of us were flushed and panting. I wiped the ecstatic grin from my face. Apropos, but inappropriate. Saying nothing he retreated to his room, forgetting to take the tape with him. Our quiet house soon resounded once more to the squeak-and-shriek chorus. We had a time bomb on our hands- not "if" but "when". I don't know if this situation is common among opposite sex twins- rare as we are; I can only tell you what was going on with us. What scared me was I thought of it more as an extension of masturbation, rather than, well, incest. The prospect of succumbing to the urge lacked the repellent stigma of a taboo. And the convenience was undeniable. And it would be with someone I loved with all my heart... Something had to give. All so twisted. All so tantalizing...
At sixteen, of course, we were old enough to look after ourselves. So Mummy routinely left us to pursue her hobby/occupation, antiques, and Daddy was off doing what he did, being a regional sales director, which mostly seemed to involve threatening to fire the managers of the stores in his district. It's cool if you can make a living off from what comes naturally to you- like Daddy with his mean streak...
The morning after our intramural wrestling match, I found Chad sheepishly spooning his Count Chocula (he's such a kid) out on the patio as he perused the sports page. This was a form of self-imposed exile, I understood. I knew he was even more ashamed of his behavior than I was of mine. My teal satin robe exposed my prominent clavicles and the smooth tan plane of my upper chest. I gathered the collar and stepped into my pink bunny slippers and went out on the patio. This sense of modesty was a novel development between us, former bath-time buddies, coinciding with the emergence of mutual desire. It made me a little sad. "So, um, Chad, did the Orioles win last night?" This lacked the spontaneity I'd aimed for but it would have to do.
"Hmm? Oh, jeez, no. They lost it in extra innings, which sucks. But they're doing pretty well. They've won seven out of the last ten."
He did his damnedest to exude good will in this declaration.
"So that's, like, pretty good, right?"
"Oh, yeah", he nodded, making eye contact, "in baseball it is."
Everything was okay again. I resisted the urge to hug him.
Lots of people have brothers; I am blessed with a wombmate. I love him so much. A bit too much, lately...
"So what are you gonna do today?" I asked him, though I knew the answer.
"Not much. Bring my skateboard to the park. You know, screw around and junk. Maybe jam over Eric's later."
Chad was in punk rock garage band, execrable even by the low standards of the genre. They called themselves "Danny and the Dipshits". Danny had quit long before Chad joined, leaving just the Dipshits, but they kept Danny's name because it sounded classier. Becoming a Dipshit was Chad's proudest accomplishment, which I still find sad and funny. He felt it was just a matter of time before his musician status got him a girlfriend (plus it pissed off Daddy royally). All they needed was one hit. And talent.
"Sounds fun... Gimme the funnies," I said. "Thanks... Mummy's not gonna be home till after nine 'cause of the auction. What would you like for supper?"
"Domino's, definitely," Chad replied instantly.
Such fine brains we were both blessed with. A gift from Mummy. With peace and love restored, I went back into the house. The weather guy on the radio said it was going to be a scorcher- low nineties and steamy. But it ain't the heat, it's the hormones...
I decided to watch TV in the den while I waited for Chad to leave. I sat hugging a pillow and perched my bunnies on the coffee table. The Today Show. Falklands Schmalklands. I decided Bryant Gumbel was an arrogant twit and I got up to change it to something decent. Bullwinkle. Chad stuck his head in and asked me if he could use my bike because he still hadn't fixed his flat. "Yup. I ain't going anywhere today. But lock it up this time..."
"Okey-dokey, Smokey. See ya..."
It was nice hearing that. It was our familial salutation. A reliable indication that our fracas had left no scars. Have I told you how much I love him?
The sun burned through the remainder of the morning haze as I ate my Lucky Charms out on the patio. It was going to be a great tanning day. I changed into my white bandeau (strapless) bikini and posed in front of the hall mirror. My hemispherical softball boobs weren't anything special, but I was thankful to have them. They fit my elfish frame quite nicely. And they were growing... The previous summer I had the chest of a chubby boy and there seemed little indication of any future development. I've never seen a girl with real talent in ballet that had much of a rack, but I had the next thing to nothing (any smaller 'n they'd be hollers!). But now I could add a little charm to my sweaters, and with the right bra I had something one could almost consider cleavage. Well, if I leaned forward enough and squeezed my elbows together... Thank you, God! (You're not laughing at me, are you?).
My tanning venue was a rather prosaic little spot out by the gas grill. A virtual minefield of raccoon poop (I guess the grill smelled promising to them). We never did talk Daddy into installing a pool, but I had a garden hose to cool off with when the heat would start to get to me. But I can take a lot of heat. I got my gear out of the garage: boom box, air mattress, bottle of Coppertone, beach towel, spray bottle of peroxide, hairbrush, and a pillow. I was rather groggy from the fitful sleep my fight with Chad had caused, and getting set up seemed a ridiculously arduous undertaking. I kept forgetting stuff. Finally I lay down. A very intense sun; it made my hair hot to touch.
I closed my eyes- but not too tight- squinting makes for an uneven tan! Feeling a little devilish, I chose to succumb to a persistent urge my Episcopalian mores had thus far averted. Fluids stirred up the night before were dissolving old taboos. I pulled the elasticized tube top over my head after nervously scanning the surroundings for spies. (Alas, there were none!) I lay back on the pillow and surveyed my two fried eggs. I lightly stroked the pink yolks. Oh, God, that felt nice. Instant titty hard-ons (where had I picked up this lecherous lingo?). Hard to believe that I would revert to that skim milk pallor during the winter- pasty white- like those bloated puffy worms in parking lots after rainstorms. The dim blue network of veins kind of gave me the creeps- melancholy reminders of my physicality, a concept I regarded with ambivalence and contradiction. No doubt about it- my tits could use a toasting... The titillation (look, if you can't be serious, I'll have to ask you to leave) of outdoor nudity was intoxicating. The briefs would have to go. Their presence was, no doubt, compromising this wonderful sensation and hedonism was the theme of the day. A girly low-tide fragrance rose from my damp crotch as I slipped them down my thighs, over the knees, and kicked them off my ankles. Voila! Fifi Le Slut. Ballicky-bareass as Daddy likes to say (can a girl be that?). I extended my arms over my head to flatten my breasts- we mustn't cheat the southern equator! There, comfy at last... I knew I couldn't avoid thinking about the previous night's altercation, so I indulged myself. To get it out of my system, really.
It could have been so much worse... If I'd been wearing that Maidenform with the front hook that always lets go, well, who knows what might have happened... Chad could have accidentally ripped my blouse open and with no bra on my breast would have been exposed. I don't even like to think what that might have led to... He'd pin my shoulders to the floor (now he could take me!), and his weight would press against my pelvis...I try to pull myself from under him. My shorts and panties slip down from my waist as I try to extricate myself. His physical superiority is too much... He grabs my breast and lightly rubs his palm over the erect purpled nipple. Then he caresses it between his firm lips and pulls it between his teeth striking a mind-wrecking equipoise of pain and pleasure. His pants are down. He is in me. My breath comes in sobs. No, no, no... He is not to be denied. I become a vibration dissolved from a solid. I enter a realm of being quite beyond my powers of exposition. A tickle becomes a warmth which flows like a fluid from my loins to infuse my being with supreme and timeless ecstasy- I am weightless as smoke and everywhere at once. My spine arches in a spasm of rapture. An explosion of impossible colors from another world. A distant drummer is heard from deep in the jungle. I cry out in exultation; ...Wow! I settle slowly back to earth, like a child's balloon after the party. A delicious denouement. All is well everywhere. I am spent. I weigh one million pounds. I sink into the soft earth and enter a realm of inky oblivion, free from the tiresome concerns of existence. Cheryl, the contented corpse, a-molderin' on her air mattress...
The dappled shadow of the swaying birches playing across my translucent eyelids eventually awakened me. The subjective light show insinuated itself into my consciousness and delivered me from my warm sweet slumber. This made no sense; shade did not become a factor in that sector of the lawn till well into the afternoon. I sat up, only to encounter more puzzlement. Why was I naked? And why were my breasts pink? And why did we have mail already? And why didn't the mailman see me naked? How long had I been there? I wrapped myself up in the beach towel and padded into the house. The microwave said it was 3:19 PM. I had been sleeping in the sun for a little more than five hours! A growing girl needs her sleep, I guess.
I retrieved the mail. What I though was my new issue of Seventeen turned out to be a copy of American Rifleman addressed to that fat Fascist Wilkinson next door. Don't know what the mailman could have been thinking. On dope, I bet... I looked over at my air mattress maybe twenty-five feet away. Oh, yes, that could distract a guy. I grinned and blushed. Oh, well, I thought, he was kind of cute in a "psycho Nam vet" sort of way- ZZ Top beard and round John Lennon sunglasses. And I had a feeling he was hung like a Haitian- scrawny and six-four. So it was- you know- sort of patriotic, what I did. Him being a veteran and what with the Fourth coming up and all. Marilyn entertains our fighting men.
Chad would be returning pretty soon. I took a shower. I had fallen asleep before I slathered myself with Coppertone, and my pale regions were going to pay big time. My delicate areolas got broiled particularly badly and even lukewarm water seemed scalding hot. My boobs acquired a pinkness reminiscent of strawberry ice cream juxtaposed against the mocha tint of my tanned upper chest. I hoped it wouldn't peel (though that would provide an irresistible and absorbing pastime). I discovered the only clothing my scorched nipples could tolerate was my satin robe. What to hell- I looked pretty cute in that anyway... I liked the way it rode up on my tail if I wasn't careful (and I wasn't). And I couldn't even consider wearing a bra (so I didn't).
I remembered to discretely leave the Blondie tape on Chad's bed before he returned- my way of making amends for what I had put him through. He would understand everything this act of consideration implied.
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