There was once a time when being a teenager was paramount to being slave labor. It didn’t matter at all what you wanted to do, or what you could be doing, because you were going to be told what to do and that was the end of the story. There was the Theory of Adult Infallibility which stated that once an adult, and it didn’t have to be your parents or a relative, issued some sort of edict then the world would come to an end if it wasn’t obeyed. Teachers were the worst of the lot when it came to this sort of thing, followed very closely by neighbors with gardens and
bitchy old women who couldn’t mow their own grass. There were no riding lawn mowers back in those days, mind you, and all of the push mowers weighed about one hundred pounds and had a six inch cutting path.
My mother got into the catering business at the right time because one of the people who liked eating at her restaurant decided to get into the entertainment business. He was going to host some of the biggest names in country music and have small shows, no more than five or six hundred people. Of course, it didn’t matter that I hated country music with a passion. I was into metal and the idea of meeting anyone who was anyone in the country music scene didn’t interest me at all. Reba when she was very young, Emmy Lou Harris when her hair was dark, Tom T. Hall, Charlie Pride, Charlie Rich, Merle Haggard, Conway Twitty, Loretta Lynn, and a host of other country music legends ate at the same table as I did and I would have rather eaten alone, and had glass as a main dish than watch these people perform. But because I was a teenager and because my mother needed help washing dishes and cleaning up, I was forced to rub elbows with country music’s best and brightest.
All of this was made worse by Ray Stevens, who had several very funny songs and “The Streak” was one of my favorites. I begged to be allowed to go with the guy who picked Ray Stevens at the airport and my mother finally agreed. I was going to meet Ray Stevens! But as it turns out, Stevens was a certifiable jerk. He refused to shake hands with us, demanded we turn the radio off and more or less acted as if we were something he just rather scrape off the bottom of his shoe. Oh, once he got around someone with a camera he was all smiles and laughing and falling all over himself friendly. Stevens put on a great act pretending he was just a good ole boy who made if big and it didn’t change him but that wasn’t who he was offstage.
One of the other events held at this venue was a beauty contest. Someone had the bright idea of getting Billy Carter, who was the nearly always drunk brother of President Jimmy Carter, to enter his daughter in the contest and that would draw a lot of attention, and it did. Now the single acts had a small office they could use as a dressing room, but we blocked off a larger room for big acts to change in, or in this case, a beauty contest. My mother instructed me to
make sure all the windows were covered with newspaper and taped down but good. Yet there was this interior door that was always locked, and it had windows too. I made sure the glass in that door was taped up well, except, of course, for a small hole, suitable for viewing.
Somehow, it seemed surreal. At that point in my life I had never seen a naked woman or nearly naked girl. The hormones where there, the desire was there, but I had yet to get a driver’s license or have a first date. I slipped out of the kitchen and down the dark hallway and into the office beside the dressing room. There were a dozen young women undressing before my eyes. It was hard to believe it was real or that the plan had worked, but there they were. None were totally naked but all were trying to stuff their boobs into evening dresses and walking around in their underwear. The president’s niece, who wasn’t by far the most attractive of the group, was walking around topless. My knees felt weak. My breathing nearly stopped. I hurried back to the kitchen to await the next break in the action.
They changed costumes three times, and each time I would slip away to watch. Finally, the swimsuit part of the contest came due, and my heart nearly burst. No man awaiting execution or awarded the keys of heaven has ever been in such a state as I. I slipped away from the kitchen, made my way back to the viewing portal and there before my naked eyes…
I HAVE SEEEEEEN THE PROMISED LAND!
Of course, when fate smiles upon a young man fate really smiles upon him so as the last girl finally got dressed for the last time, and I made my way back to the kitchen, my mother caught me trying to sneak back in and instantly surmised what I had been doing. She pitched a fit about it, and grounded me, but all that did was spread the news that I had seen each and every one of the beauty queens nude. The story lost nothing in the telling. The news that I had seen the President of The United States niece in the nude made me locally famous and instantly popular with the older guys.
Mostly, I remember the excitement of doing something erotic and wrong rather than what the girls looked like, though that was my first experience seeing a true blonde. The president’s niece won the contest but not because she had the best looking body, at least not from where I was looking.
Mike writes regularly at his site: The Hickory Head Hermit
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