My Would-Be 'Smokin' Hot' Romance With The 'Smokin' Hot' "Blond Bomber"
This is Sable. Lovely isn't she?
Want more scenes of female wrestling?
(WRITER'S NOTE: I give the credit for this hub to a good friend, cherished follower and dear friend, Shea Duane, whose interest in my recent hub, the "Off-Limits Girls," inspired her to ask me to write this hub about a certain lady wrestler I tried to meet during my ill-fated campaign in 1972, to date and have long-lasting relationships with the beautiful girls nearing the end of my teenage life. Thanks, Shea. Kenneth).
The year was 1972. My senior year in high school. One year shy of the end of the Vietnam War. I was seventeen. Young and in love with a different girl every week. Truth be known, my hormones were kicking as fast as Rolling Stones front man, Mick Jagger in his wilder days.
And naturally with this new phase in my life, being attracted to girls, most of the time, I wanted to date the prettiest girls that my high school, (Hamilton High School) had to offer. That dream met with an early demise thanks to the numerous "no, I have plans," "my uncle Todd is visiting," and "I would, but you are not of my faith," rejection lines. I needed a new strategy.
And found one. Right under my nose. Well, not literally, but on a coffee table that my mom had in our living room. The new strategy was ingenious. And simple and pretty-much cost-free. What single seventeen year old guy could ask for more? I was ready to give this new way to get girls, or rather, "a" girlfriend the "old college try," except I was just a senior in high school. I had heard that motivational-phrase, "old college try," on television and those who used it tasted boxcar loads of success. It was my turn.
The new attack plan to get myself a raving beauty was in the form of a magazine, "Wrestling Weekly," a book about, naturally, wrestling in the various conferences and regions of the United States. What caught my eye was not the Harley Race's, Gorgeous George's, but a beautiful female wrestler by the name of, "Rena Reno, The Blond Bomber," from Houston, Texas. What a female she was. Perfectly-proportioned. In great shape, both in figure and athletically-speaking. Rena had this certain way of smiling that captured my eyes and heart at the same time. I was definitely a fan. And deeply in-love.
Being in-love for guys may have similarities with those of girls, but my symptoms of being bit by the "love bug," (not the Volkswagen), were shaky hands, nerves on end, and an upset stomach most of the time. Funny thing. No butterflies ever appeared in my stomach during this "serious" emotional time in my young life. Too much acid I guess. Stomach acid. Not LSD.
I sat in my room night after night, and when I wasn't mowing the grass on Saturday's, I was sitting on my bed hammering-out a plan of how to meet "Rena Reno, The Blond Bomber." Talk about hard work. This was harder than Fundamental Algebra when I did pay attention. But choices have to be made when you are a young man in-love with a superstar woman with long, flowing blond hair that caressed her tanned, muscular body. And that choice was kissing-off Fundamental Algebra and going wide-open for Rena Reno. At that time it seemed like the thing to do
I read and re-read her biography over and over until I could almost quote it word-for-word in my sleep. I thought one time that I had said it in my sleep for my mom looked at me one morning in the most-peculiar way. That look that said, "yes, my boy is running-after a hot woman," and if that was what her look meant, she was absolutely right. Hey, my motto was then and now, if you are going to dream. Dream big.
I noticed that there was no phone number to call Rena Reno and my heart sank like rock in the Tennessee River. Then like a bolt from the blue, I saw the answer glaring at me underneath her photo, an address to where fans could send her some fan mail to support her career as "The Blond Bomber," gorgeous female wrestler in the Houston, Texas area. I almost hit the ceiling with joy when I copied down her address. I believe, thinking back on that moment, I shed a few tears. "This is it," I said. "I am going after this perfect specimen of God's handiwork and womanhood and get a date with her," I added while hiding her address from anyone who might snoop around my room.
Timing had to be perfect. I had to have complete-seclusion in order to write down my romantic thoughts to Rena Reno and that meant getting out of my parents' weekly trip to town to buy groceries. The Saturday came when I had summoned-up my courage to write Rena my love letter to end all love letters. "Time to go to town, " my dad announced. "ready, Kenny?" he asked. "no, I need to stay here and uhhh, write a paper," I said with conviction. Thank God that he didn't ask if the paper was for school or otherwise I would have been forced to lie.
I watched as my parents drove out of sight. I rubbed my hands together as my heart pounded like legendry Beatles drummer, Ringo Starr as I seized my moment. Grabbed about six pieces of 8 1/2 x 11 notebook paper and my trusty Bic pen, blue in color, and began what I thought would be a life-changing journey for my seventeen-year-old life. Before I wrote the first word, I took a moment to look around my room, for who was to say that Rena Reno just might have fell in-love with this "hormone factory" in a boy's body and would have taken me as her companion. And I would get to see her wrestling matches for free. "I'm with Rena," I would say to those smart alec security guards at most big wrestling events. I was now on my way to being "somebody."
I remember it well. My hand shook as I set my mind to writing Rena Reno, "The Blond Bomber's" hot love letter. Sweat popped-out on my neck, forehead and back. Stupid me. I forgot to turn on my General Electric fan I had in my room. I was that nervous.
My passionate letter began . . .
"Dearest Rena, "The Blond Bomber,"
Hi. My name is Kenneth Avery. My friends call me "Ken." Sometimes "Kenny," but you can call me Kenneth. I am about to graduate high school in my hometown: Hamilton, Alabama, which is not far from your place of residence, Houston, Texas. I just had to write you this letter, for if I didn't, I fear that my life would never be the same.
I am without question, your biggest, most-loyal and dedicated fan of all your fans anywhere. I love how you wrestle and love your style of pinning your opponent with your famous move, "The Bone Crusher." Does that move "really" hurt your foes? I was just curious. And I really love your costume, that jet-blue one-piece bathing suit. It looks great on you. Makes you look four years younger. I hope you won't be too mad at my compliments. You see, Rena, I have something really, really important to share with you a little later on in this important letter. Is that cool with you?
I'd love to ask you if wrestling is your only career? According to that man in the article I read about you, he says you are extremely wealthy and only wrestle because you are bored. Is this true? If it is, that is fine with me. I am an open-minded man and fully-believe in Women's Liberation. Right on, Rena!
Before I get to what I really want to say to you, I wondered if it would be okay to tell you a small amount of information about myself? Actually, there isn't much to tell. I am six foot, three inches tall. My teachers tease me for being the tallest high school senior they have ever seen. I am a good sport. I always laugh with them.
I have sandy-blond hair, not as blond as yours, but a brownish-blond, I'd have to say. My eyes are hazel green. And have a shy way about me that some girls (who do have good sense) in my class say is rather sexy. I laugh with them also, for they are not the girls for me, Rena. I hope I am not boring you too much. Ha. Ha.
My hobbies include camping out, fishing, listening to WLS-Chicago for today's rock music. Do you like rock music, Rena? Other things I like are fried eggs, white toast and chocolate milk. I don't make a big deal out of food.
I also like working-out in my high school weight room. I can bench-press almost 300 pounds. My buddies are very jealous of me for having such a taut body, but as the Bible says, "the body is a temple," and I have to take care of my body for one day, I want to give it to a girl like you, Rena.
I am very lonesome a lot of the time. When my buddies are all out going to parties, ballgames and things, I am stuck here in my room just hoping that one day, I will meet YOU and maybe have dinner with Rena Reno and you can be "The Blond Bomber," if you want to when we go out. I won't mind.
I have two pet cats named, "J.T." and "Max." They appear to love me but only when I feed them. I don't mind that much. Doing things like feeding my cats, sweeping floors, making beds and cutting our lawn are only a few of the chores I have around my home. I am a helpful person. And if we get together, I would do your errands and anything you wanted on the road all for free. I admire you that much, Rena. Really and truly.
Rena, pardon me for asking but are you a married lady? If you are, please do not show this letter to your husband, who I think is a great guy for having a wonderful woman like you. You can tell him I said that if you like. Honestly, I hope that you are single like me. That way no one will get hurt feelings when we get together.
I was waiting for just the right moment in this (first) letter to tell you something that has been eating at me for a long time. And please, be open-minded and read the following with your heart. Okay? I am just going to say it and hope that you grasp the full-effect of what my heart has felt for you in the past few months.
"Rena, I am so in-love with you that I am sick at my stomach most of the time." "I can't eat, sleep, or talk to my cats for thinking of how much I love you. As a woman and a wrestler." "You are without a doubt, the most-beautiful blond woman in the world. I will gladly place you on my pedestal any day." "And to be with you in pubic - -going for a long walk in the park to feed the pigeons as we hold hands and gaze into each other's eyes would be better (to me) than owning a '71 Chevy Malibu." Do you see what I am struggling to say to you?
I am enclosing a color photo of myself to you, Rena and hope that you like how I am posed sitting on my front porch listening to my portable radio. My oldest niece, Phyllis, took this photo. I had to pay her three dollars to keep her big mouth from telling anyone because I was only guarding your private life and didn't want to blab who the woman is that I am so deeply in-love with to anyone. I dream of you each night. And think good thoughts of you each day in school. Did I say that I am almost ready to graduate? Some teachers tell me that I am "gifted" whatever that means. I don't know a lot about life, but one thing I do know. I am so madly in-love with you, Rena, that I am losing weight a lot. All because of my feelings for you.
When you write a reply to this letter that was written so carefully that I now I have a serious tension headache, please include your phone number so I can call you to set up our time to meet and where. I can afford a bus ticket as far as Jackson, Mississippi. I'm sorry that I am not wealthy like you, but I believe when two people care for each other, love always finds a way to get them together. Don't you?
I will go now and anxiously await your reply, my dear Rena. Words cannot come from any pen to tell you just how much you mean to me. And if you like, when we go out on our dates, you can practice your "Bone Crusher" move on me if you like. I would consider it a big honor.
Kenneth Avery, Hamilton, Alabama.
That was the first of seven lengthy, hand-written letters I sent to Rena Reno, "The Blond Bomber," in the summer of 1972. And with each letter I would make it a point to ask why she wasn't writing me back. At all. Sometimes I wrote it off as she was too busy wrestling and just didn't have the time. And even her not replying to me, didn't put a damper on my insane love that I had for her.
Actually, all that waiting made my heart long for her even more.
In the summer of 1972, the last months of my senior year, I moved on with my life. And Rena Reno was just a lovely, faded memory flying here and there on the "dust of life." But I had the self-satisfaction of knowing that I tried and tried hard to get a date with this marvelous woman whom I did love very much.
And many times after graduation I wondered what might have been?
And even today in 2012, I wonder if Rena Reno is sitting quietly somewhere in a rehab facility, not for drugs or alcohol, or even a nervous break down, but for a mysterious bout with uncontrollable laughter that began with my first letter.
She still clutches to a huge stack of 8 1/2 x 11 notebook paper in her once-strong hands and now just scans each one over and over through her thick bi-focals. And her laughter is heard down every hall of this rehab facility.
Thank you, Rena, "The Blond Bomber," for giving an all-new meaning to the old phrase, "playing (really) hard-to-get."