Prom Date, Part IV (Conclusion)

Thank you for following along. I hope you've enjoyed the story. Consider leaving a comment when you're finished reading and let me know what you think! ~~GH

Long before “Basic Instinct,” women employed the power of the leg cross-uncross-recross. Of course, I wore panties – it would have been unthinkable to do otherwise for a nice seventeen-year-old virgin at the time – and I assure you, the power of those moves is not in the flash of heaven revealed but the potential and reminder of how near it is.

I consciously re-arranged my legs, carefully displaying my calves to their best advantage. I smoothed my pantyhose along the length of my leg a time or two, for good measure. I made sure to lean forward just enough that my blouse may or may not have fallen open enough to reveal a hint of cleavage. And of course, whenever that happened, almost immediately, the mass of my hair tumbled forward and obscured it. That naturally necessitated me flipping my hair back out of the way, and arranging it.

Phil stumbled through the lyrics to four or five songs. His voice deepened, cracked, his register changed numerous times. He blushed like mad. He scowled. He balled his hands into fists and concentrated harder. I decided to cut him some slack.

I leaned way back and draped my left arm around the arm of the chair, well aware of how this made my bosom rise. I tilted my head back just a smidgeon, exposing my long neck. I maintained eye contact the entire time. A friend of mine would have employed some tongue flicking at that point. 

It would have been complete overkill.

Phil never had a decision to make. They ended practice an hour earlier than usual. Afterward, he asked if he could escort me to the prom, and I graciously said yes.~~GH

Prom Date, Part III

I made certain that if we did [click], he would be moved to ask me out. 

I remember exactly what I wore that night. Cream-colored two-piece linen dress suit with dark brown stitching trim around the collar and cuffs of the jacket. Deep brown blouse that made the stitching pop. The skirt was flared in such a way that it flounced when I walked, emphasizing my hips’ cadence. Stacked heeled cream colored pumps with a thin strap around the ankle, and matching brown stitching around the strap tied together the ensemble. 

My hair was the same glorious, healthy, to-the-waist full, thick, wavy, unruly 1970s hair that every other girl had. The only difference in mine was perhaps the brilliant new-copper-penny highlights in an otherwise deep chestnut brown mane that caught and held the eye. Then there were my eyes. Always my eyes.

So I went to practice that night loaded for bear. If this man appealed to me, I would have him. I had to have him! I was both the victim and the stalker. I was at his mercy, and he at mine.

We arrived at Phil’s parents’ house and entered the basement rec room off the garage. It was cool and dim, very comfortable. The band was chatting and tuning up instruments. J McG. fooled around with his bass, while Dave McC. did whatever it was guys did to get ready to play drums. Alan S., Darlene’s future husband, tickled the electronic keyboard and every so often looked over at me and winked lecherously, as he was in on the plan.

Phil was slender, not the kind of guy I would normally be attracted to, but had nice long legs and was pleasing for his body type. He had crazy curly blonde hair, and of course, it being the mid-1970s, he wore it in an Afro. The most striking feature was his crystal blue eyes. Even in the low lighting, I could feel when his gaze fell on me. 

It fell on me frequently. In fact, it seemed like he was having trouble looking elsewhere.

I waited until I figured out where he’d be standing before I got seated. I pulled a chair across the floor and set it directly in front of his mic. This was going to be a showdown; I didn’t have time for a long, drawn-out flirtation. I needed a commitment, and I needed one soon. This would have to be a frontal attack.

[Part IV, (Conclusion) tomorrow]

Prom Date, Part II

I moped around the house and bitterly complained the rest of the evening. My father took pity on me and, the next morning, called me into his office for an audience.

“Ginger, if you could go to prom with anybody at all, who would it be?”

Those of you from this area will know what I mean when I say that back then, Paul X was probably the epitome of high school physical fitness and manly-manliness. He was about six-four, probably 225, muscular, long shaggy Beach Boy hair, big brown eyes, shy friendly smile. His broad shoulders were ever so slightly rounded forward, causing him to look like a beautiful puma about to pounce. Narrow waistline tapered into powerful piston-like hips that served him well in his position as quarterback when he decided to make the play instead of pass.

I was still a virgin, but just because I hadn’t tasted the fruit didn’t mean my mouth didn’t water. Sexual tension was an understatement, is all I’m saying.

“I guess Paul X, Daddy. Why?”

Dad picked up the heavy black telephone receiver and began dialing a number by heart.

“His father owes me a favor. I’ll have him have Paul take you to prom.”

Horror of horrors! A mental image of Mr. X laughing and Paul hooting and hollering at the audacity of my father demanding Paul take me to the prom filled my mind’s eye. Next I saw Paul standing in the center hallway at school surrounded by dozens of hangers-on, all laughing at his animated story about the pitiful little Ginger Hamilton putting her daddy up to asking Paul to take her to prom. The chortles and guffaws in my head made my cheeks burn like I’d been slapped, hard.

I reached across my father’s desk and pushed the plunger, ending the call.

“No, Daddy! You can’t ask him that! I’ll be the laughingstock at school.” I’m sure my eyes were round with fear and anxiety.

“Are you sure? It’s really quite simple,” Dad explained. “This will be an easy out for his father, and it’s a win-win situation: Paul’s dad is released from his obligation, and you get Paul as a prom date. All it’ll take is one phone call.” His hand got dangerously close to the dial.

“I’m positive!” I thanked my father for his offer. 

Dad hadn’t tried to dismiss my situation. The fact he was willing to trade power he held over another man just to make me happy was not lost on me. This was a big deal to me, and he had acknowledged it in such a way that I now realized prom held some mystical significance even to my father.

It occurred to me I could not just settle for a warm body. If Daddy had been willing to sacrifice a boon for me to have the prom date I wanted, that meant I needed to find a man of substance. I wasn’t sure exactly why that was, but the social message came through loud and clear.

That afternoon, at the dress shop I worked at, I explained my dilemma to my best friend Darlene. She suggested the lead singer in her fiance’s band. He and his girlfriend had recently broken up, so he was single. He had just graduated from Marshall University, so he was sufficiently manly (I had little in common with guys my age as far as dating interests went. Strange as it sounds, grown men were much more accepting of my limits than high school boys were. I was a fantastic wrestler, but a wrestling match was not my idea of a fun way to end a date).

Darlene vouched for Phil’s good looks, sense of humor, musical talents, etc. He sounded like a decent potential prospect. Time was of the essence. I had Darlene finagle an invitation for me to come to that evening’s band practice and see if he and I clicked. 

The hunt was on.

[Part III tomorrow]

Prom Date, Part I

This is Part One of a four-part series. I thought I'd try something new and see how it flies. Let me know what you think. Do you like the idea of an ongoing story? ~~GH

Prom Date, Part I

It all began in May 1975. I had dated the same man throughout my senior year. His name was Jay. He drove a green Gremlin, worked as an engineer at a local chemical plant, and was 25. 

I had never attended a prom -- I purposefully waited until my senior year because I wanted it to be unique and laden with meaning. Two weeks before prom day, Jay informed me he'd decided he couldn't go to my prom. "I'm too old, Ginger," he explained. "It would be like you going to a kindergarten party. I'd just feel out of place."

Far be it from me to beg somebody to do something they feel is beneath them.

I told Jay I fully understood, then calmly told him that if he was too old to share something that meaningful in my life, he most certainly was too old for me, thus ending a nine-month-long fairly mutually positive relationship up until that moment.

So what the hell was I going to do for a prom date?? 

[Continued tomorrow]