My Secret Admirer
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Notes From A Secret Admirer free porn video
Author’s Foreword—
This is my ninth posting to Literotica and my first posting in the ‘First Time’ genre. The following is a true story. You are invited to visit my profile’s archive to find my previous postings, I hope you enjoy them.
John W. Adams, Jr., November 23, 2008
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This posting is going to involve me tripping and stumbling down Melancholy Boulevard, it parallels Memory Lane and is much less pleasant to drive. If you’re not in the mood for some mutterings about my long-gone days of youth, back-click out of here and find something more exciting to read.
That said, and presuming you’re still here…
As per normal operating procedure on a Friday morning after work, I stopped by the College Street house to pick up my mail (if any) and to catch up on the news with my kids, grandsons and ex-wife. My idiot ex-brother-in-law Roy was there along with his even more idiot wife Betty and their middle child Dusty. I think Dusty is fourteen and a freshman in high school. While I was there, he was expounding at length to Nancy and his mom about the mystifying annoyance in his life—some girl thinks he’s cute and has been leaving secret admirer notes in his locker. Dusty was torturing his brain trying to figure out who she is. I know how the kid feels.
His laments triggered a long-dormant memory within the brain of your humble author. I too used to receive secret admirer (herein SA for brevity) notes back in the dark ages known as the mid-1970s when I was Dusty’s age. I got one in my 8th grade year, eight during my freshman year and two in my sophomore year.
The single SA note in 8th grade was received in February 1975, a week before Valentine’s Day. I was attending Rome City Middle School (herein RCMS) at the time and a chick slipped it into my locker through one of the vent slots stamped into the door. She said among other things that she thought I was ‘devilishly handsome’ and had ‘heartwarming blue eyes’ and wanted me to meet her at the Valentine Day’s Dance that Friday. Then as now, I don’t dance—I don’t know how and have no interest in learning. Dancing is to me something to be watched on American Bandstand, which was still running on Saturday afternoons at the time on ABC-TV. She didn’t leave her name or tell me her locker number so I could write her and suggest an alternate place to meet. I didn’t go to that dance, not that I wasn’t interested, but our family went out to eat that evening. No other SA notes were forthcoming and nobody confronted me about not attending the dance. Life went on.
There is something you need to understand about my high school system. East Noble High School (herein EN) is centrally located here in Kendallville and is supplied with ninth- to twelfth-grade students from my small hometown of Rome City, as well as Avilla, LaOtto and Kendallville itself. All us RCMS kids went from having maybe sixty classmates to over 350 as part of EN’s graduating class of 1979, and it was rare to have more than four or five of your middle school mates in a given class with you. It’s my understanding that EN’s system is unique, when I explained this to others in Arizona, Delaware and Tennessee, they thought it was strange to bus kids to a centrally located high school building in the next town.
To continue— I first started getting SA notes as a freshman in mid-September 1975, three weeks after starting the school year. This chick told me she thought I was ‘quite cute’ and liked the way ‘you don’t back to the bullies who heckle and berate you in class.’ She mentioned I was in two of her classes, but didn’t say which ones, and said she wanted ‘to get to know you better.’ She hoped we could exchange messages and eventually come to know each other through correspondence before she would agree to reveal her identity.
It seemed to me at the time that she wanted me to blindly pour my heart and soul into my messages without knowing one damned thing about her. I was instantly wary, I had come too close to getting burned in seventh grade by two guys a year ahead of me at RCMS wanting almost the same thing. Two numb-nuts had gotten hold of some pink, flowery and perfumed stationery to write their messages on, and I might have fallen for it had it not been for their obviously masculine handwriting. The fake SA notes were discarded and, about a week or so later, the 8th grade guys confronted me about my lack of reply. I told them to go fornicate a mallard and that was that.
As such, in reply to my freshman SA, I wrote a polite semi-businesslike letter and said that I was flattered by her attraction and interest. But I spelled out the reasons you read in the previous paragraph and stated that I preferred to do away with the games. ‘I’m not saying you would, but I don’t want to fall victim to such nonsense again,’ I wrote. ‘Please sign any future notes with your real first and last names so we can proceed from there.’ My message was folded in the time-honored tradition—vertically five or six times before being folded into a triangular shape, like an American flag is folded during a military funeral. Then I slipped it into her locker through one of the vents. To this day I remember her locker number, it was 1227.
Her second SA note was waiting in my locker upon my arrival the next morning, and her tone was something of playful amusement. She said I was ‘manly’ for ‘demanding’ to know her name and said she could not supply it just yet. ‘You’ll understand as we get to know each other better,’ she explained. It was signed just like her previous missive with ‘Your Secret Admirer.’ This note had been adorned with smiley faces and arrow-pierced heart-shaped doodlings with ‘John ‘n Me’ written with the heart. She even thought to omit her name from her cutesy artwork! I mean, she could’ve given me a bloody clue!
My reply was less friendly and more terse. I repeated my position about needing to know her name and reasons for same. Then I implied the priority to write any further replied would be ‘put on the back burner’ if she did not comply. It was folded into a triangle and slipped into locker 1227 on my way to class.
Her SA note number three was more of the same, plus a bit more. There were more romantic doodlings, more amusement in the tone of her writing and she asked a few questions I wasn’t about to reply to on paper. Such things have a way of circulating to people of lesser ilk, intended or not. She told me to ‘be patient and play along, at least for awhile yet’ and promised that I wouldn’t be disappointed when ‘the big reveal’ finally arrived. This was also signed ‘Your Secret Admirer.’
This was not what I wanted to hear and it annoyed the hell out of me! Why fuck around with the silly games?! She was going to have to reveal herself to me anyway if she hoped to turn her letter writing campaign into something more like a teenage courtship. Why not simply do it sooner than later and save everybody the mystery and stress? Furthermore, I considered it unfair—she knew at least something of me, yet I knew nothing about her. So I was not in the best of moods when I wrote my reply number three and delivered an ultimatum. ‘From now on, your messages will be unfolded only far enough to read the signature. If it doesn’t contain your real first and last names, I’ll fold it up again and take it home for filing. The contents will be unknown and no reply will be sent. When you finally do decide to tell me who you are, I’ll go back and read your previous messages. But not before. Tell me who you are and let’s move on from there.’ It was delivered and I went about my business.
Note four took two days to come. As promised, I opened it, looked at the signature and saw her typical ‘Your Secret Admirer’ where her name should be. It was promptly refolded and stashed in my pocket. When I got home, I filed it in my handmade cedar box (about 2/3 the size of a typical textbook) bought in Cheyenne, Wyoming in August 1972 during a trip m
y mom, grandmother, cousin, brother and I took out there to visit family. No reply was written or sent.
Note five came four days later. It too was opened just to read the signature and refolded and ignored when I didn’t see what I wanted to see. It was also ignored. Note six came four days after that. I was running a bit late and I shoved it into my pocket to read at lunch—presuming she signed it properly.
Enter the accomplice. A blonde RCMS chick stopped me and had two non-RCMS girls with her. I’ll refer to the blonde as ‘ZZ’ to respect her present-day privacy, who is to say if a former East Noble classmate might stumble upon this Literotica posting? Anyway, ZZ said she saw that I’d gotten another SA note and wondered why I hadn’t replied yet. I told her I was holding true to my word about reading just the signature and ignoring the rest if it wasn’t properly signed. One of ZZ’s two-chick entourage pointed out that my SA might have good reasons to deny my request at the present time. ‘Maybe she does,’ I countered, ‘But I have equally good reason to have my request be honored. No reply will be forthcoming until she does.’ ZZ turned to them and said I could be ‘notoriously stubborn’ about such things, and I accepted that as a compliment. Hall passage time was drawing to a close and we parted company for class.
SA note seven arrived three days later. It was treated just like its predecessors and filed in the cedar box. Note eight was waiting for me upon arrival at school the Monday morning of Homecoming Week. It was checked for a signature, refolded and stashed in the cedar box that evening. Homecoming Week progressed—East Noble lost the football game to the Angola Hornets, dammit—and I’m told the dance afterwards went well despite the loss. No further SA notes came in the days and weeks following Homecoming, and ZZ and her two-babe entourage did not inquire about them again. Life went on.
In November 1976, I was dragged away from EN and incarcerated at Central Noble High School in nearby Albion—I hated that fuckin’ school as it was populated mostly by farmers and illiterate rednecks! They talked about John Deere and Allis-Chalmers tractors the way car guys discuss Fords and Mopars! My family moved to Arizona in June 1978, then to Delaware in May 1984, then back to Indiana in March 1985, then I married Nancy in June 1985. We had our daughter in September 1986, our son arrived in December 1988, and we bought the College Street house in July 1992.
Now it’s December 1993. I’m 33 years old, Nancy and I have been married for eight and a half years, our son just turned five and we’ve been in the house for sixteen months. Nancy asked me to go through some of my boxes of stuff stored in the utility room to make room for ‘more storage.’ If by this you think my stuff had to go to make more room for her stuff, you obviously have a deep and solid understanding of female logic. Give yourself a gold star.
So I pulled down a large box. Inside I found a smaller box surrounded by stuff. Inside that smaller box is another box surrounded by more stuff. Inside that box is another box because the inner box is quite old. Inside that old box is some stuff and a small cedar box carefully wrapped in plastic and sealed with at least thirty feet of masking tape. I gingerly picked up the cedar box as old memories came flooding back. Most of the masking tape had long since dried out so opening it proved easy. Opening the lid revealed a set of car keys to a 1956 Packard Patrician sedan pilfered from a derelict in a junkyard, the glovebox emblem and the clock assembly from that Packard, an age-petrified seventeen-stick pack of Juicy Fruit gum with six sticks missing, a small electric motor from only God knows where—
And eight pieces of paper folded into triangles.
I felt my mouth go dry as I picked up one at random. It had ‘To John’ written on one side within an arrow-skewered heart. On the other side was my own handwriting with ‘#4’ written on it, even then, I was pretty anal about dating and filing things. The old cardboard box which had contained the cedar box had been packed by me in October 1976 in anticipation of the detested move from Rome City to Albion. The contents of both boxes hadn’t seen the light of day in nearly two decades.
I gathered up the triangles and arranged them in chronological order. My task forgotten, I began to read through my long-forgotten SA notes. The wording of the first three came back quickly. The tone and wording of notes four through eight, as yet unknown to me except for the signatures, were more sobering. Note four was pretty much the same as the first three, I guess my SA didn’t think I was serious about not reading and replying to them. The tone of note five was bewilderment and had a plea to write. The bewildered tone was much more pronounced in note six, and there was more pleading for me to write to her. All of note seven’s tone was urgent pleading, and there was even an undertone of desperation.
Note eight, her last one, had a tone of hopeful resignation. I’ll relate as much of it as I can remember…
First paragraph. ‘My dearest John,’ she started out, ‘I am both saddened and disappointed by your continued silence.’ She drew a frowning smiley face here with two tears coming out of each closed eye. ‘ZZ told me about some of your history during middle school and I understand your hesitation to trust someone you don’t know. She says it’s unlikely you’re not reading my notes because you are ‘too curious’ about me not to. I’m wary to accept her word on this because I overheard what you said about ‘I meant what I said and said what I meant’ that time ZZ stopped you in the hallway. My dad says that a lot too and he’s not one to change his mind once set on a course of action.’
Second paragraph. ‘Still, ZZ knows you better than me since you two went to RCMS together, so I’m accepting that she knows best. So I’m writing on the assumption she’s right and that you are indeed reading my notes but not answering them until you get what you want.’
Side point—she shouldn’t have done this, I did indeed mean what I said about reading just the signature and ignoring the rest if there was no name. It could be my SA was inadvertently led astray be well-meaning but inaccurate advice.
Third paragraph. ‘It’s a strange feeling to have you stand by your convictions even when they are working against me. I feel like you’re slipping away from me, my darling John, and I really don’t want this to happen. So I’ll propose a compromise instead. Friday is the Homecoming Week football game against Angola and there will be a dance afterwards in the gym. Instead of telling you who I am, I would like you to meet me at the dance. I know from ZZ and a couple of others that you don’t dance and that’s okay! We can just sit together and talk, get to know each other and groove on the music. Maybe after awhile, if I’m lucky and you get that comfortable with me, we could slip onto the dance floor for a Fonzie dance. The thought of finally having your arms around me makes me tingle.’ She underlined the word ‘tingle’ and drew a smiley face with a round mouth and five-pointed stars where the eyes should be.
Historical side point— the term ‘Fonzie dance’ was slang used by EN students back in the day for the kind of dancing you saw The Fonz doing on the old Happy Days sitcom. Basically it was just a slightly swaying hug no matter how fast or slow the music was playing. Not really a dance, I know, but it was the only kind of dance I was even remotely interested in back then.
Fourth paragraph. ‘I’ll be wearing a blue denim jumpsuit with a gold macramé belt and a yellow plastic flower in my hair above my right ear. That flower will be yours to take home so you can always remember the first time we met. Do guys keep keepsakes like this?’ She drew a bewildered looking smiley face with a question mark above it. ‘I hope you are indeed reading my notes as ZZ says. And I also hope you come to the dance to meet me. But if you do
n’t reply to this and you don’t attend the dance, I’ll presume you are not interested and I’ll stop bothering you. After all, my darling John, I like you SO much that I’d rather see you happy with someone else than merely content with me.’ She then signed off with her typical ‘Your Secret Admirer.’
You have no idea how hard it was to read that. The first time I knew my secret admirer wanted to meet me was eighteen years after the fact.
I got two more SA notes early in my sophomore year at EN, before I was dragged kicking / screaming / swearing away to attend Central Noble. The brand of paper was different from my freshman SA, as was the handwriting. This person was bluntly told to provide her real name or not to bother me. Her reply was giggly, girlie and gushy as she said I was ‘quite a catch’ for being so ‘stand-up honest and forthright.’ My reply was snarling and unkind, as I demanded her to give me her real name and do away with the stupid games. I did not hear from her again and I left EN five weeks later.
To this day, I do not know whom my freshman SA was. It has been thirty-two years and I do not have the slightest clue. I didn’t think to ask ZZ at the 25-year reunion back in July 2004—not that she would remember it or tell me if she did. I suppose it is possible she was one of the two-girl entourage with ZZ that time she stopped me in the hall just after note six was received. But that’s just a guess. It wasn’t ZZ herself because, on more than one occasion back in our middle school days, she told me ‘I’d love to date you, John, if I wasn’t seeing someone else.’ Never mind that I never saw her with anyone else, I know a polite brush-off when I see it.
Whoever my secret admirer was, I wish her all due happiness and success. I really do. I hope she found a man to make her tingle as I never could. Perhaps if she had been more accommodating and I had been a helluva lot less stubborn, we could’ve clicked in a way I always wished Nancy and I had clicked, yet never did even after twenty-one years together during our now-failed marriage. My parents explained to my brother and me years after the fact that the move to Albion would never have happened if he or I had a girlfriend at the time. If the move to Albion hadn’t happened, Nancy and I would never have met and my life history could have been much more fulfilling and complete.
Too bad I’ll never know.
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Copyright © 2008 by the author, John W. Adams, Jr. All right reserved.
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