“Are you sure you’re not gay?”

I was 19 and not very good with girls. She was the first one who ever sat on my bed. It… wasn’t going well.  

“I’m not gay.”

She laughed and stroked my right arm, teasingly.  “Are you really sure?”

I looked at her boobs.  “Pretty sure.”

This also got a laugh out of her. 

“Listening to Tori Amos doesn’t make you gay.”

She leaned in and put her arm around me.  “Granted.  But when a girl walks into your room for the first time and sees that, it isn’t exactly a panty-dropper.”

“What?  It’s a poster. What’s the big deal?”

“Adam.  That is not a poster.  It’s a picture of Tori Amos that covers your entire wall.  It’s basically wallpaper.”

No, it definitely wasn’t going well.  Not that I expected her to make out with me.  I was firmly in the friendzone and didn’t have a clue how to make it into the endzone.  I was the funny, nice guy; shyer than my own shadow.  Like my poster, I was not a panty-dropper. 

“It just seems like an obsession.”

I was so uncomfortable.  Here I was with a hot girl in my bed and all she could think was how I was a huge, weird nerd.  Which unfortunately wasn’t an unfair assessment.

“I just like her, okay?”

I think something in my discomfort caught her by surprise.  She leaned in with genuine interest.

“Why?”

I’d never had to articulate it before and didn’t really know what to say.  “I… I don’t know. Look, can we just change the subject?”

She laughed and shook her head.  “No way.  This is too weird for me to ignore.”

That old familiar feeling swelled inside my chest. Hello, Embarrassment, my oldest friend.  She could see that she’d crossed a line with me.  She had made me feel small, like a lot of girls had and now she felt as guilty as I was ashamed.

“Look. It’s not a big deal.  I’m just curious.  You’re… you know, interesting.” Her hand was on my arm and she was staring at me with those big brown eyes.  It’s not like I was ever able to stay mad at her.  I was a puppy back then.  And some people liked to kick the puppy.  But unlike other people she would usually pet me afterward.  I mean, not… you know… literally. 

Walking over to my shelf, I pulled out a handful of my favorite CD’s.  Pearl Jam’s Ten.  Tonic’s Lemon Parade.  STP’s Purple.  I handed them over to her.  “I like these.” she said.

“Me too. Love them.  But can you tell me what they’re about?”

She shrugged.  “I don’t know.  Well, that Pearl Jam song is about a kid who gets picked on until he explodes in rage and violence.”

“Yeah, ‘Jeremy’.  I can relate.  That’s one. What about all the other songs? What are they about.”

She handed them back to me.  

“I have no idea.  Maybe nothing. Some songs are just cool. Meaningless, but cool.”

I nodded and pulled out my Little Earthquakes CD.  Placing it in my new CD player, I turned it to track three.  “Listen to this.”

The song played.  She was smiling as Winter played through.   As the song entered the final verses, I did my best not to butcher it as I sang along.

Hair is grey

And the fires are burning

So many dreams on the shelf

You say I wanted you

To be proud of me

I always wanted that myself

When you gonna make up your mind

When you gonna love you as much as I do

When you gonna make up your mind

'Cause things are gonna change so fast

All the white horses have gone ahead

I tell you that I'll always want you near

You say that things change, my dear

She clapped as I finished my sing-along.  It wasn’t clear whether she was mocking me, so I ignored it.

“These songs are actually about something.”

“Okay, like what? What else?”

Well, lots of things. Some of them are about feeling different from everyone else, like Cornflake Girl.  There’s a song on her third album about her receiving oral sex.”  

She perked up a bit at that one.  Her right eyebrow raised in intrigue.  “Oh reaaaallly?”

“Oh, yeah! And one of the songs on this CD is her recounting her sexual assault!”

As soon as the words left my lips, I knew that I had lost her. She recoiled in disgust and revulsion.  “I don’t want to listen to that! Why would anyone want to listen to that?”

Carefully, I tread further.  “Because it’s real. And it’s honest.  And I don’t know… maybe someone out there hears that and realizes they’re not alone.  That’s how great music should feel.  Like you’re not alone. And you’re part of something.”

Her mood shifted, just slightly.  I wondered if I hadn't completely ruined the moment.  But then there was silence. I continued in the emptiness.

“And Tori Amos is a little weird.  I’m a lot weird. And the entire world treats me like I shouldn’t be here.  But then I hear her.  And she’s herself. And she’s weird.  But out of that weirdness is all this beauty.  I think it’s pretty cool.”

Her silence continued.  I was more than a little embarrassed by my display.  My head sank and turned in the other direction.

Her soft lips found my cheek.  My shame was replaced by electricity across every inch of my skin.  And there she was, smiling at me. 

“You are pretty weird.  I think it’s pretty cool.”

We didn’t end up making out that evening.  Instead we laid in my bed with her cuddled up against me, while we listened to Boys for Pele.  It was a good day.

—-

This is a fictionalized version of a true story.  There was a girl who was very important to me and became one of the most important people in my life.  I had bought this giant wall poster of Tori on a high school trip to San Diego.  She was my favorite artist by a long shot. She’s still one of my all-time favorites, 25 years later.  Anyway, I had this thing hanging on the wall.  And yes, she was the first girl to ever sit on my bed.  I was 19.  I wasn’t good with girls. I’m still not. She thought it was very weird that I had this giant redhead staring down at us. And it obviously was pretty weird. But I was weird and no one was ever in my room, so I never really thought about it.

Tori Amos is coming to New Orleans this Summer. I’m trying to get a photo pass to shoot her concert.