Nostalgika VIII: Stirrings of Prepubescent Desire [repost]

I was so in love with Martin S-C when I was in elementary school. I have mentioned this here before, in my Black Book post and in one of my Meditations. He played the lead in The Mikado, so as far as I was concerned, he was a superstar.

Looking back on the way I felt about him, I see patterns that still exist in my adult life. His effeminate fragility attracted me, as did his delicate bone structure. I find that I am attracted to either really ridiculously manly men, or else men who are really in touch with their womanly side. Martin didn't play rough like other boys. Martin played the viola and read big, fat books.

I pined. I pined, while he was ignorant of my existence. I fantasized that I would be hospitalized and he would sit at my bedside and hold my hand (I also fantasized that I had a dollhouse filled with real, tiny, Borrower-sized people. I would pick up the boy, pull down his pants, and insert a safety pin into the little hole at the tip of his penis. I knew that, despite the pleasant tugging sensation these thoughts gave me behind my navel, I should not tell anyone ... because they were very bad thoughts. This fantasy may have more bearing on the current state of my love life than my love for MSC, come to think of it). I still find any relationship in which I am not in a state of desperate angst to be emotionally unsatisfying. Also, he had a British accent. I like accents, as long as they aren't Russian (sorry, Boris). Since puberty, the ear of my desire has become more attuned to words being whispered and shouted in Spanish; but in 3rd grade, Love spoke British.

The other day, I found two newspaper clippings from the Martin days. See? I was a stalker even then. What a gold mine! Here they are:

Martin was in the newspaper for taking a class in which he learned to conduct the orchestra. Third-grade SG thinks: I can't believe I am in love with somebody famous! This pattern continues to the present day, of course, but you always remember your first brush with fame. Well ... I wished I could have brushed Martin ... instead, he waved his arms with passion and focus while I sat on the sidelines, eating funny little acrid-tasting pellets that I found on the carpet during Story Time.

This was a great day for me. In grade 4, I was in the same class as Martin again (a 5th grader! With upper-lip fuzz!). We won (!!) a bookmark-making contest and were featured in the newspaper. Even though I traced my picture of Winnie the Pooh, my bookmark got the blue ribbon (that's me on the left; check the hair. circa 1977). Martin got 2nd place. See us all showing each other our bookmarks with pride! I am posing for the camera, but my heart is pounding as this photo is being taken, and my eyes are full of his ivory, translucent skin and his pursed little lips ... his well-appointed trousers and his tidily turned collar. In my mind, the two of us are standing together on the Olympic podium, our arms around each other as we listen to the National Anthem. I am so mad that Jenny and Aleta, with their sub-par bookmarks, separate us.

I'm fairly certain that, despite our shared fame, Martin S-C still does not know who I am. Or ... maybe ... he has just blocked me out, because the heartache of our unrequited love is too painful to bear! I am pretty sure that's how it is. Not that he never looked my way, with all my funny voices and my straight-armed, short-panted gait. And the fact that I told him that David Cassidy was my brother. And that I was half-Chinese (because I thought that would be cool, as though all-Estonian wasn't good enough. I look half Chinese, don't I?) No, I am pretty sure that once he realized I was simply out of his league, he nursed his heart back to health and tried to find a way to move on. I sure wish I could.