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November 28, 2022

I Love Kylie

By Chris Miller

Ah, Kylie, my sad-eyed angel ...

People often asked how Kylie Wallace came to be my girlfriend. The truth is, we'd known each other our whole lives, from childhood on. Years before we started dating, back when we were eight years old, we were "just friends", nothing more. Kylie and I grew up on the same street, Cheviot Drive. We attended the same school, Mountain View Elementary. A few other ordinary families residing in ordinary houses with leafy yards separated my home from hers. It was a pleasant neighbourhood, I suppose. She became my best friend and I hers. Spring was for bicycling and baseball. Snowball fights in the winter. Ran through leaves in the autumn. As children, during the hot summertime, we positioned a sprinkler in the middle of my backyard and dashed through the cool water, carefree and laughing.

Two children in bathing suits and splashing happily through cool water, nothing astounding about that.

And now as teenagers we still shared similar interests such as drawing anime and listening to gore metal. In fact, just the other night we were in my knickknack-jumbled bedroom listening to Gwar cranked up to near brain damage-level. My mother hollered for us to turn it down, but we just ignored the bitch.

Both of us were 16 now, in the tenth grade, and she was everything I sought in a girlfriend: not overly tall, beautiful green eyes, exotic, an amazing rack. Contrary to what some of our classmates believed, we never had a physical relation, nothing sexual. Kylie was a girly-girl through and through, yet more than tough enough to play ice hockey with the boys and instill fear in other girls that pissed her off. She got in her fair share of fistfights, that's for sure and seldom lost, garnering a reputation for sending other girls to the hospital with concussions or broken noses. Her untamed aggression was a quality worthy of admiration.

"Know who you remind me of?" I asked.

"Who?"

"Charisma Carpenter," I said, referring to that ultra-hot actress who played the role of Cordelia Chase on "Buffy the Vampire Slayer", her favourite TV show, and also the spin-off series, "Angel".

"Thanks, that's sweet of you to say," she said, knowing how much I drooled over Cordelia Chase in her skimpy, tight-fitting outfits.

"You have similar features," I said.

Just the other night Kylie came over to my place to watch TV and study for tests. We prattled on about which schoolteachers we hated the most while listening to a mix CD: Lacuna Coil, Skinny Puppy, Red Letter Union, Bright Eyes, This Vacant Sky, Death Cab For Cutie, Fourth Score, Scarlet Affair, The Easy Crowd, The S is Silent, My Chemical Romance, others.

Two teenagers listening to music, nothing astounding about that.

The music was awesome, too. Everything else was going OK, just another lighthearted study night over at my place. Kylie and I were studying Shakespeare for an upcoming English test. A Midsummer Night's Dream. My mother was out someplace, so we didn't have to worry about interruptions. A dog-eared copy of the play and various handwritten notes were scattered every which way across my bed.

"Shakespeare sucks," I said.

"Only because you don't understand him," said Kylie.

"Yeah, maybe," I said.

"The more you study him, the better he gets."

"Harry Potter is more my reading level," I said.

Kylie explained Shakespeare in a straightforward manner, dumbing it down so a feeble-witted person like me could grasp a few snippets of meaning here and there. The queen-sized bed was covered with our textbooks and a crimson-coloured comforter with coordinating pillowcases. Various blankets were piled up on the floor. Yawning, fed up with homework, I glanced aimlessly around my bedroom. Being close to Kylie was nice, though. My room also had a vanity table with a bench and photograph-cluttered hutch desk with a plain wooden chair. A clock, a few of my anime drawings, my magic eight ball and a small desk lamp accessorized the room.

"Are you tired?" asked Kylie.

"Not really," I said.

"You keep yawning."

"No, just bored," I said, gazing into her enchanting green eyes.

Being alone with Kylie in my bedroom was the best part of our friendship. It was tranquil, relaxed. I enjoyed our pointless conversations, without drive or humour, languishing on and on about deathless matters such as school gossip, chick flicks, and how everybody had colds.

"Do you think Hilary Duff is cute?" I asked.

"Oh, definitely." Then, changing the subject, Kylie said, "There's a new guy in our science class."

"Yeah, I know."

"His name's Jesse. Seems nice and quiet," she said.

"Soon he'll be just like all the other guys," I said.

"What do you mean?"

"Yelling, laughing, being rude to the teacher," I said, ever contemptuous of the human race.

Two people sharing meaningless small talk, nothing astounding about that.

Despite knowing Kylie my whole life, I never realized until these past few weeks just how pretty she really was. I could stare into her eyes all night long. Quite honestly, I was falling in love with Kylie. She didn't know that. She didn't know that I carried a photograph of her in my wallet. Nor did she know that I had spank-me dreams about her practically every night. Nor did she know that she was the inspiration for my naughty poems. And I didn't have the balls to tell her.

Late at night, just about every night, I woke up with the wildest urge to pray for Kylie. My prayers lasted about 10 or 15 minutes, sometimes longer. I repeated to God over and over that I wanted Kylie to be my girlfriend.

Let us live together in a small bungalow overlooking the ocean, Pacific or Atlantic ...

Let us watch the waves crash into the rocks ...

Let us dress up like demonic fairies and jump on a trampoline and eat apple pie ...

Let us make our living publishing poetry chapbooks illustrated with ink sketches ...

Let us make sweet love every afternoon ...

God heard my prayer, I think. Tonight I was finally working up the nerve to kiss Kylie for the first time. We were sort of sprawled parallel across the bed, with the Shakespeare papers between us, facing each other, and my heart went thump-thump, thump-thump like someone on the verge of jumping off a cliff.

Too nervous, I reached for my magic eight ball, a novelty toy that I received as a gift from my grandfather who died some years ago from diabetes complications. The day he died was the saddest of my life. They played Amazing Grace at his funeral. In some strange way, I believed that my grandfather spoke to me through the magic eight ball. When troubled, at a crossroads, or indecisive about something, the eight ball provided wisdom in no uncertain terms, and I always heeded whatever it said. I used to ask all kinds of things. Should I dye my hair black? Should I spend my last $15 on a Cannibal Corpse CD? Should I kill myself? I shook the eight ball and godlike foreknowledge was revealed.

Speaking of "godlike", when I first received the magic eight ball I asked it if there was such a thing as God. It answered, BETTER NOT TELL YOU NOW. And I'd never had the nerve to ask again.

Tonight, in my thoughts only, I asked, "Should I kiss Kylie?"

The eight ball answered, IT IS DECIDELY SO.

So that settled it. I leaned in really close and kissed Kylie full on the twin pillows of her mouth, and imagine my surprise when she agreed so readily. Her tongue flicked out from between soft lips, maneuvering along the edges of my teeth, which sent an unexplainable yet pleasant vibration up my spine. We made out for about half an hour, maybe longer, lips on lips. Wet exploratory tongues. Small explosions went off in my heart. Never coming up for air. Lifting my sweater enough to slip her hand inside, she caressed my abdomen ever so gently and all was bliss.

"I never knew you felt this way about me," said Kylie.

"I do! I really do!" I gushed. Today was Kylie's birthday, her sixteenth. Desperate to get more intimate, for a birthday gift I'd bought a green mohair sweater that matched her eyes. As Kylie glanced about the room, she showed a little cleavage and I stared down there longer than propriety would allow. She wore the woolly mohair sweater, her breasts like a pair of fuzzy green apples. Then, perhaps sensing my stare, she folded her arms across her chest, and I turned away, red-faced with embarrassment.

She'd been wearing the sweater all day long, until now when she took it off voluntarily. I removed my shirt with her watching me. We kept our bras on. Our intimacy progressed as we lay in bed and touched each other beneath the warm blankets. Silvery moonlight shone in slatted through half-closed window blinds. Kylie said she loved me, always would.

Neither flunking tomorrow's Shakespeare test nor having no money mattered right now. My strained relationship with my mother wasn't too important either. My outdated wardrobe was of no consequence. All that really meant anything was Kylie, my one veritable love, my north, my south, my east, and my west. Snuggled cozily under these blankets, I sensed a shield around us, safekeeping us from all of the other sorrows happening on the streets outside.

We lay close together, with my heart beating next to hers. It was instant calmness. A delicate touch soothed my fears. Her hand across my bare hip removed all worry. I smiled, relieved that my passion for Kylie was reciprocated. With Kylie I wasn't afraid of anything. Except wasps.

Ah, Kylie, my sad-eyed angel ...

Nobody had to say so, but the students at our school would likely doubt our chances of maintaining a long-lasting relationship. They'd try convincing us that we were just like everybody else. Another high school fling. Won't remember each other years from now. That's fine; they could think whatever they wanted. But my hope was that they'd leave us alone and let us find out for ourselves. At least for tonight, relaxation was enough.

Convinced that our fondness for each other was real, and I could accomplish anything with her by my side, I whispered in her ear, "Today your love, tomorrow the world."

She responded by saying of our special bond, "Now until forever."

My name is Iris Summers, 16 years old. I am a girl and for the past two years or so I've loved other girls, but no one more so than Kylie Wallace, the girl I have since labeled as my life's destiny, my kismet, my sad-eyed angel. Side by side, my arms around her, in resolute silence I stared at her face, into those beautiful green eyes, until her eyes closed and both of us drifted off into sleep, deep and pure.

Two teenage girls in bed with their shirts off, nothing astounding about that.

-- Chris Miller

Article © Chris Miller. All rights reserved.
Published on 2006-12-11
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