My Ode to Erin Grey

When I was in high school I used to babysit the neighbour's daughter. It was usually on a Thursday night. The kid was a bit of a pain in the ass but after she went to bed I would raid the fridge and watch Buck Rogers in the 25th Century. It was my favourite show because it starred a woman named Erin Grey. She used to wear these skin tight silk jumpsuits and really short skirts. In about half of the time she was on screen there was serious camel-toe-crotch-action happening. She was a dream come true.

As the show progressed my passion for her would grow to insurmountable levels until I was about to explode. There was no way for me to avoid the inveitable and I would beat on myself senseless, sometimes three times consecutively. It depended on my pain threshold at the time.

I did it on their sofa after I made sure the kid was sound asleep. The sofa was a pea-green colour and it was pristine. I would lay on my back and dig the arches of my socked-feet into the armrest and work on myself with feverish passion varying the intensity of my administrations in comparison to the views of Erin on-screen.

I would sweat and strain, grit my teeth, twist and flex. It was the magic I remember the most, the euphoric state that I escaped to, better than dope.

Erin was the catalyst - it was her grace that brought the devil out in me. Her cat like movements and gratuitous gestures.

I remember one of the last times I was asked to babysit for these people. It was the time I discovered that my momentous activities produced the offspring of an exploded blue Bic pen in my back pocket. I had forgotten it was there and after I had completed my session of passion I sat up to discover the unforgiving tar-ink spreading itself like a disease over the immaculate green sofa.

Panic by association. Hot sweaty panic with ink and semen covered hands. I had to forget Erin and turn my attention towards the deadly evidence of my devilish act.

In the end I just washed the ink off of my hands and turned the cushions over. There was nothing else I could do. I was sure that God was paying me back for my terrible terrible acts of lust and filth. Erin had betrayed me and the little girl sleeping upstairs. Had she seen me? Had she ever found me doing what I did? Did she need a glass of water? Did she venture down the stairs nearing the sound of laserblasts and witness the atrocity of my sinful animalistic secret?

I will never know.

There was no talk of the blue ink on the sofa and I do not remember ever being asked back to babysit. But maybe it was just because I was getting too old. I bet that if that sofa is still around (it must be 23 years ago) it still has the blue ink stains on it.
Some things are permanent.