A friend and I driving around in his father’s car, both of us sixteen with raging hormones.
A hot, voluptuous girl our age thumbs a ride. My friend gives her a lift.
She gets in the car in the front seat next to me, her perfume exhilarating. She rubs my leg and calls me chicken.
But I was unaffected, not even tempted to react to her challenge despite her beautiful face and voluptuous body.
She was sloppy drunk, and a woman drunk has always been a turn off to me.
Plus, it just wouldn’t have been right to take advantage of her in that vulnerable condition.
Though a troubled kid, I had some principles, and in some cases a solid sense of right and wrong.
But if I’d met her at a dance sober and looking as good as she did, I would have been enamored and wanting to get to know her.
Surprisingly, when we let her off at her destination, she thanked me for not taking advantage of her.
That was one of the few times I shined like a star in my wayward, wrong side of the tracks, troubled youth.
I remember it and write about it because of the rarity of me doing anything right and memorable when I was a teenage greaser, a loser and a rebel, though never a bully or in trouble with the Law.
Bob Boyd
