1. Flushed with rosy color; ruddy.
2. Very ornate; flowery: a florid prose style.
3. Archaic. Healthy.
4. Obsolete. Abounding in or covered with flowers.

Tony the celebrity believes he should have his own clothing line. He asked me to suggest a possible name (after all, I am the “writer”) and you can probably guess what I told him. He liked it, though he doesn’t want to appear “too over-the-top.” That made me laugh.

I am not sure why I laughed, though. I have a similar ailment–liking the flashy, attention-getting style but not wanting to look like I want to draw attention to myself. A perfect example would be my trumpet. In seventh grade, I played the trumpet. At first it was a $50 monstrosity my parents bought from one of my sister’s ex-boyfriends. Jeff. This trumpet was old, used, and brassy-green in color. There was a dent in the bell. And the case? I had to hold the case closed with a bungee cord.

And from out of nowhere my parents, who were poor, bought me a silver trumpet for Christmas. Shiny, new, and awe-inspiring to all of my seventh-grade peers. Every time I took it out of the solid new case (with locks!) I got glances and questions. I should have only used this instrument during contests and performances, but instead I took it every day to practice in class. Loving the attention and trying to hide it with little success. At least it brought me Kyle.

Kyle was one of the semi-cool kids. He played sports, had some money, and was a cutie. He and I were always in contest for “first chair” and I always beat him. I had a better tone and a shinier trumpet. But he sure kept me working. And he loved my trumpet more than even I. His jealousy made him covet me, and therefore talk to me. And this made me fall in love.

Kyle liked to touch himself, and sometimes invited me to do the same. He flexed his growing biceps (which he referred to as “mighty pythons”) and wanted me to tell him how strong they were. I touched, rubbed, squeezed. Oh yes, Kyle, they’re nice. But look at my trumpet!

Kyle began to date my friend Kellie, and they indulged in all of the petting youngsters their age are entitled to. And she told me everything, how she’d rub his crotch in the movies, or watch him pee behind the school. And with every story I’d hear, a fantasy would be created. I played out these fantasies over three years, as I slept with Kyle, showered with Kyle, and even watched him pee. In school we were circumstantial friends, by night we were lovers in my dreams.

Unfortunately, Kyle had a rough side, and Kellie began to tell me how he hit her and once bloodied her nose. When I saw bruises with my own eyes I began my war with him. Every chance I had to make a negative comment or be rude, I would. But at night I would still dream of him. This double life. In the end, Kellie freed herself from him with my prompting. But not before she told me this story:

One day, while we were all after school to practice our instruments, Kyle convinced me to give them some private time in the bandroom. I agreed because I thought this would be a good time for Kellie to break up with him. Apparently what transpired was a removal of pants as Kyle revealed that he had taken one of his father’s condoms and worn it to school so he could have sex with Kellie. Kellie rebuffed him (I wouldn’t have), and after a dramatic and potentially violent scene he discarded his sheath and fled.

As she told me this story I was shocked and said I had a hard time believing he would be so forward at school. Then she told me where he had discarded the condom back in the band stalls. I looked. It was there.

Did I eventually take it as a souvenir? I’m not going to say. That would be crazy, right?