My friend surprised me by explaining that his obsession was partly based on the fact that Funicello was the only Roman Catholic he was aware of other than his Catholic priest who told him sternly that he must never form any kind of relationship with a non-Catholic. This of course meant that he could not dream of a romance with any of the teenagers he knew. Funicello became the stuff of his dreams; he wrote to her, sent valentines, and received this photo from Hollywood with a rote thank you letter.
After her stint as a Mouseketeer, Funicello went on to record unremarkable rock and roll songs and to perform with Frankie Avalon as one of the first teenage sex idols. By then my friend’s obsession had dissolved.
Why do I consider this a benign attribute of his teenage years? Illusion when it never has to give way to reality remains a distant and rather happy dream.
My obsession at that same early age was with an actual man, thirty years my senior, and, although I didn’t know it, in love with my father.
Having idolized this Mr. X from afar for years, I was tormented when he actually came to visit by the realization that I meant less than nothing to him, a kid in a crowd of kids.
Trying to correct this too-true impression, I put myself on a starvation diet although I was already thin. Seizing a moment during his next visit, I asked Mr. X if he thought I was thin enough.
With a laugh, he told me, “You’re so thin you don’t even have a figure”—a devastating comment for me at thirteen. Of course I didn’t have a figure (i.e., breasts) yet; I was still practically a child.
My friend never suffered the indignity of such a response from Funicello, far away in Hollywood, and by the time she was performing in teenage sex movies, he had realized that he, too, like Mr. X, was in love with men.
A benign use, I think, for obsession.
Leave a Reply