Mena Cohen

When I was little I distinctly remember going to department stores with my mother. She would always plan these trips and not really check with me to see if they conflicted with my schedule. Of course, when you're a little kid, you never really plan anything yourself. Initially I would never protest these trips and, in fact, looked forward to getting lost in the men's fashion department, or diving head first into a rack of hound's tooth coats. Everything is a playground when you are under five feet and don't have pubic hair. It's like a magical world that conforms to your fantasies.

At some point in our adventure, I would always see someone with a strange and different physical characteristic, someone who obviously looked diffent than anyone I had ever seen in my entire life. One time I saw a bald guy who, rather than resign himself to a hairless life, opted to insert plugs into his shiny head. I distinctly remember this man because the gleam from his waxy skin was abruptly interrupted by a stiff line of hair stubs. My mind was filled with questions. Did the hair come from another part of his body or from another person? Why didn't they just put really long pieces of hair in his head to make it look less obvious? Does his hair cutter cut the stubble, or just kinda pretend it's not there?

Another time I saw a woman with no ear on the left side of her head. Her right ear was perfectly intact, and actually quite appropriately sized and shaped. However, on the left side of her head, she had like a bubbly wad of flesh that looked calcified silly putty. The fleshy mound was positioned around a hole which I could only assume would lead to the ear canal. As she carelessly ruffled through pocketbooks, I stared at the wilted flesh and crafted my own questions. Did the unusually shaped ear make her hear differently, like at baseball games when the announcer's voice rings around the stadium? Does the ear throw off her balance and, as a result, does she need to wear weights in her pockets to overcorrect the discrepency? Are these medically developed weights or simply regular everyday weights?

When my mother caught me looking at these people she would always say, "Don't stare, it's not polite." Since when is staring not polite? Am I unconsciously delivering offensive remarks through my eyes and destroying these deformed peoples' self-esteem? Of course not. If anything, I am so intrigued by these uniquely sculpted bodies and body parts that I am affording them the respect the only way I know how, to stare. If they made cards congratulating people on shotty hair translplants or mangled limbs I would be the first one to buy them: signed, sealed, and delivered.

Now, as I got older, my voyeuristic tendencies developed with my changing interests. Suddenly, women dominated my visual landscapes. My stares fell on pudgy, tan thighs and saggy side tits. I stared till my eyes hurt at the asses stuffed into stiff school chairs. When the weather got warm I could gaze for hours at bare shoulders and moist lips. My eyes were like cameras recording the beautiful scenes to play in my head.

My teenage years started out great. Everyday I would play movies in my head, starring my female classmates. I could envision scenes and never even use electricity. Well all that was great until the spring of my seventh grade year. Our science teacher had rearranged the desks into rows and sat Mena Cohen in front of me. Now Mena was one of those girls that had seemed to bypass that whole journey through puberty. Imagine if Drew Barrymore had made E.T., went on vacation for a week, and then came out with Poison Ivy. I mean Mena was that perfect physical, seventh grade speciman, and I was like three feet from her ginger hair for five hours a week. One day in late spring, Mena sat down in front of me, and I noticed something new. I had never seen anything like this, and really have not been the same since. Peeking out from her capris were two, very thin, flesh-colored straps. The straps rested just below her pelvic bones, ran along her back and seemd to converge right above her ass crack before plunging back into her pants. I had just had the rare and very special opportunity to see a thong, the most scandalous and provacative female undergarment for a recently bar-mitzvahed, thirteen year-old boy. My luck was finally turning, and I knew I could not fuck up this situation. I eased up in my chair and just stared at the glorious piece of fabric. It was if those capris had looked at my tortured brown eyes and said, "kid, today is your day." Then they just reached out over the waistline and entered my line of sight, truly a middle school miracle. I stared and stared and just let myself get hypnotized by Mena's undapants.

Well, friends that moment proved to be short-lived. Mesmerized by my discovery, I seemed to detach from the world around me and slipped into my frenetic thoughts. I didn't even notice when our teacher passed out the day's worksheet and instructed those in the front row to pass it back. As Mena turned around to give me the paper, her eyes met full force with my curly mop. She then craned her neck and followed my eyes directly to the object of their obsession. Oh she knew alright and smacked my head with the papers. I was jolted from my fantasy and slipped up in my chair. My body stretched back into the real world and suddenly I was painfully aware of my surroundings. Mena was pissed and never really talked to me for the rest of the year, and I began making my staring less obvious.

But see here's the thing. I don't think I have ever caught someone staring at me. I mean I'm no Justin Timberlake but it would be nice to be in him for like a moment (no homo). I can't ever recall a time when I was upset that someone was staring at me. It's the not staring that kills me, it's the not staring. Fuck it, I'm tired of hiding my beautiful brown eyes from unsuspecting females. You're out there, lookin' fine, and be ready to get stared at.