How Did Quasimodo Feel?

to love and to be loved is the ultimate,

but to love without being loved back is the truth.

If I said I had met both the Clintons, and that I liked him but didn’t like her, might either suggest that I lacked taste, or that I once moved in some exalted circles.  Well, maybe I did both.  I got used to turning left when got on the aircraft, having hotel receptionists know who I was without asking, and having bartenders mix my drink without me having to say it was a vodka martini.  Fuck! just how pretentious was that?

The trappings of success are seductive, money makes life much easier than it is for the less well off, and it seems that successful men attract better looking women than do the average office drone.  And, take it from me, when it comes to looking good most of what I had was clothes and charisma.

The circles I worked in, attracting top dollar, were filled with very attractive, well-dressed good looking women and men who could have had a career in Hollywood.  And there was I, a product of the post-war depression that gripped England.  Low calorie, vitamin deficient, crap medical care, and non existent dentistry.  We were a nation of short, maladjusted, angry, troglodyte, geniuses.

Among a nation of pretty brilliant, if mal-adjusted guys, I was in the upper quartile, at the far end of the bell-curve.  And that’s a hard place to live your life.  In England, at the time, being the top scholar in a grammar school just got you beaten up.  Ergo the smarter guys hid their lights under a bushel.

Then the worst thing imaginable happened.  Valerie Nelson, the prettiest, nicest, most attractive girl in my year had an obvious crush on me.  Valerie came from money, she was always suntanned in a town where the sun was always hidden behind the dirty cloud from the coke works.  She holidayed in Kenya, whereas I spent a week in Whitby.  She had a manicure and I bit my nails.

I’d like to say that the story had a happy ending.

It didn’t.

I was her Quasimodo and she was my Esmeralda.  There was a sexual incident.  That was the first time I knew I could be dangerously violent.

It broke her heart when I walked away.

I may get over her one day.  I may spend the rest of my life trying.

~

jack collier

jackcollier7@talktalk.net

Paris is Burning

 

Please Leave a Reply or Ask Me Anything you like.

Please log in using one of these methods to post your comment:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.

%d bloggers like this: