What you are about to read is a true story...well, a lot of true stories actually. The names have been changed to protect the guilty or the uninteresting and some scenarios might not be suitable for children under the age of seventeen.
I was going to try my hand at a novel, but I've already lived such an exciting existence and I've known people who have experienced such stories worthy of telling that I figured, what the hell? Why not tell the truth?
My reason for writing this is because people always said if I wanted to be a writer, I should write what I know. I have decided to vary this theme a bit and instead, to write about what I don't know, about what eludes me, about what makes me question my very exciting and noteworthy existence. This thought-provoking troublemaker that helps to move my pen is called Love.
It has been the subject of many a song and movie, of tear-streaked conversations between exes, of comforting "cry on my shoulder" heart to hearts with best friends, and of course, it has been the main character of novels. Fictional stories talk of love and exaggerate the facts with the sole purpose of making the audience gasp or sigh or reach for a Kleenex. Other recounts often feature a celebrity in the Enquirer discussing the trials and tribulations of having a perfect body, a seven-figure salary, and the hottest car with the latest star by her side. I don't know about you, but I find it difficult to sympathize with someone who could fit my entire apartment in her closet. But real stories about love or the never-ending search which are hardly ever told might just make you gasp or sigh or reach for that Kleenex because they happen. To ordinary, run-of-the-mill people, like you…and me. And that's probably why you've chosen to pick up this book out of all the many different titles from which to choose. Because in this day and age of having to choose between dodging that greasy sex-crazed drunkard at the bar who is sidling up to you breathing his whiskey breath into your ear and spitting at you alcohol-dripping words, or sitting in solitary typing away on dating sites to find your future, only one thing remains abundantly clear. It's a lot of pressure to find that one person who can stir something in you; whether it be the sensation where your spine chills when he approaches from across the room, the inspiration that moves you to accomplish great things like getting up the nerve to bungee-jump for the first time or to finally get it all down on paper, or the elation of knowing the search is finally over.
Of course it could happen that you believe you've found your soul mate and he stares straight through you at the blond in tight black pants buying an iced latte. What can I say? Shit happens and you find some way to deal with it, knowing in your heart that someone is right for you in every way possible except for the fact that he just doesn't see you "that way". It can be excruciating, but somehow…I don't know how exactly…you manage to survive.
However, the term soul mate truly baffles me. It implies that there's only one person who makes you laugh soda out of your nose, who can just know by the sound of your voice if you've had a bad day, and on whose shoulder was made for you to lean. Personally, I don't believe that a soul mate is someone for whom you have to have romantic love. Some of the most wonderful people in my life, the ones who have truly "gotten me" like few others, are not people with whom I have wanted to nor have I ever slept. A couple were women and the others, the men in my life, have been that “F” word that they shudder to hear...friend.
Although I could talk for hours about the few that have been my soul mates and have touched my life, it wouldn't be nearly as interesting or painful to write and/or read about, and honestly, where would all the fun be in telling happy, "feel good" stories? Since after all, we tend to feel better when others feel like crap.
Some of the upcoming events have been changed or tweaked or exaggerated more for effect or have been toned down a bit so I don't get strange looks from relatives. I tried to find one tie that would bind all of the experiences together, a common thread that links each character or scene to the next, but I've stated my thesis and provided a protagonist, and now life tells the story...
A set-up on a Saturday night, May 2002
“Where did you say you were from?” I'm practically screaming over the music. This is not really the time or place to be meeting someone. I can't even really make out what he looks like because it's so damn dark in here. And it's hot. I think this guy is wearing a sweater. How can he possibly breathe? I'm wearing a sleeveless shirt and sandals and this guy is dressed like it's winter. I can see he looks like an all-American boy, the short hair cut, tall and thin, but not much of a personality, not much of anything really. I'm trying to make conversation, but I can't hear anything he's saying and truthfully, he's not saying much. I'm going to kill Annie and Josh. They set me up again. This time it was with a friend of Annie's friend. So here we are, Annie and Josh who are married and Melissa and her boyfriend of a thousand years and me and Will. Will the military man. Seriously when I heard that he was in the military, I couldn't imagine why Melissa and Annie thought this would be a good idea. I mean, I've known Annie for years and she should know that I don't really care all that much about my country and I am definitely not the military girlfriend type. I'm not going to move from place to place for my man and get stuck being pregnant when he goes away for months at a time, all the while terrified he's in danger of being shot full of holes. Plus, he's scrawny and I can't tell if he can hold a conversation. Great first date. Good chance this will be the last time I have to see him. Thank God for small favors.
So he answers that he's from somewhere like Arkansas, which ordinarily, if I liked him better, would at least be interesting or the start of a conversation that could lead to different topics. Instead, I just nod politely and sip my drink.
Thankfully, the night ends after four drinks and I'm buzzed enough to have enjoyed the time with my best friend, her husband, and their friends, but not inebriated enough to fool either Will or myself that this will go anywhere. He shakes my hand and thanks me for a good night and we part company. I quickly put the idea of Will out of my mind, but make a mental note to kick Annie's ass for making me go out with this loser.
Friday, January 9
After many more first dates with a guy here or a friend of a friend there, I found myself in my PJs, sitting home late one Friday night in front of the computer. I rubbed my eyes and pet the cat that was next to me, thanking her for being my companion and receiving thanks in return as she purred and stepped in my lap, then she curled into a ball of fur. I heard the familiar sound of an Instant Message chime and opened my eyes to see who was trying to talk to me via the internet. The screen name read: OregonUSMil. I didn't know who that was, but I'll admit, I was intrigued. Who did I know from Oregon? Did people actually live in Oregon? I always just thought the West Coast consisted of California and Washington. I accepted the message by moving the mouse and clicked…the noise made the cat's ear twitch and the person on the other side of the screen greeted me. “Hi Emma, care to chat?” Whoa, this person knows me. I thought it was just a stranger who had located me by the subtle hint of my screen name in one of my many online dating profiles. Can my brain be that infested with the remnants of drug abuse that I don't remember meeting someone from a place as ridiculous as Oregon?
“Hi…” I wrote back tentatively. Of course whoever this was couldn't tell I was being tentative. Ah, the beauty of the Internet.
“It's Will.” Said USMil. I racked my brain trying to figure out why I knew that name. I went over the months of meetings I'd had, the bad encounters at bars, the hour-long coffee sessions. Jesse, Mike, Steve, Dave…Then a memory flashed of a guy wearing, what I still think had to be a sweater, while I was dripping from the heat.
“Ohhhh, hi!” I was being slightly over excited, even for online standards. I didn't know why this guy was talking to me. It had been months since we met.
“Listen, I wanted to apologize for not getting back to you. Work was crazy and I thought I was going to deploy for a few months with the flight and then it got screwed up so I'm still here…in Jersey. I wanted to let you know I had a good time and I thought you were sweet…and cute.”
I was shocked. Did this guy go on the same set-up date that I went on? It amazed me how two people could be at the exact same place, have the exact same conversation and derive two completely different interpretations from the experience.
“Well, thanks Will. That's really sweet of you.” I wrote back. I was taken aback by the interest he appeared to be showing. “I'm glad you didn't have to go anywhere. Do you know where the flight was supposed to go?” I didn't even know what a flight was. I was lucky I knew what the word deployed meant. I had no desire to understand what the hell he was talking about. Does Oregon sound like Arkansas? I guess if the club's music is playing loudly and you don't really care about the birthplace of your date, he could have been born in Zimbabwe and I wouldn't have known.
He wrote back, “Middle East, you know with all the trouble there and everything.”
“Oh.” I said. I was not original or charming at nearly 1am on a Friday night, after a full day's work. But he didn't seem to mind all that much and we continued to chat. I remember talking about Will's job, finding out that he liked it and didn't know if he had plans to stay in and make the military a career. I remember asking about his family, finding out, he too, was Jewish and being surprised about this. Not only do they have people in Oregon, but they have Jews there too! He quickly explained that his family was originally from the East Coast, New York in fact and he felt quite at home here. He asked about my family, my siblings and my relationship with my folks. He asked about my friendship with Annie and told me about his own with Melissa. We talked about all the places he had traveled to and he asked me what I liked to do in the City. I responded something about going to dinner, maybe seeing a movie. He typed, “that sounds great, when do you want to go?”
We had been talking for close to two hours, but it felt like no time at all and I responded smiling, wishing he could see me even though my hair was piled on top of my head and I was wearing a ratty tank top and pajama pants with an elastic waistband, “I'm free tomorrow night.” He sent an emoticon smiley face back and said, “You're on.” We arranged to meet at the train station at 7pm. I was afraid I wouldn't recognize him and I had nervous knots in my stomach. The second first impression. The last time he saw me, I was sweating in a noisy club, probably smelling bad and trying my damnedest, but failing miserably, to dance to the beat.
I was wearing some trendy outfit, tight-fitting, but not-too-tight fitting pants and heels. My hair was washed and styled and had recently been dyed a reddish brown. I secretly hoped Will would notice. Men never noticed that stuff. I bet he wouldn't even notice if I shaved my head. I shut myself up because I was getting excited about nothing. We met before. I don't remember him being all that attractive and he was so incredibly, mind-numbingly quiet I wanted to take the gun he probably carried for work and point it at him and force him to talk. So, it'll just be a nice night out and I'll get a good dinner and maybe have ten minutes of conversation, I reasoned.
He came down the escalator wearing faded blue jeans that were just fitted enough for me to notice he was thin. Not skinny, but thin. And he was taller than I'd remembered. The top of my head came up to his chin when we hugged hello. He was warm and held me just a second longer than seemed appropriate. And he smelled like clean laundry. I'm usually a cologne person, but this fragrance was enough to make me close my eyes and smile.
“Emma, was your hair red the last time I saw you? I mean, it was dark in the club, but I didn't think it was that red…”
Instantly, he got points! “No, it's a recent thing I'm trying. What do you think, Will?”
“I think it's great, really brings out your eyes.” I said thank you and we walked outside to find a cab. I only take cabs in the City when I'm on dates, otherwise I walk or take the subway, but a cab puts you next to someone, with the option to talk and chat about the pronunciation of the driver's name or something silly like that, or look straight ahead if you don't feel comfortable opening up to each other, or the situation let's you point out cool restaurants or museums to someone who may not be familiar with the wonders that New York holds. Will and I talked the whole way to this restaurant that was near the movie theater where we had tickets to see the latest talked-about feature. Deciding on Italian, he held the door for me and put his hand on my back as we walked into the restaurant. I liked the way he touched me-with a gentle strength.
I'll spare you the details of dinner conversation and I'll just mention that I had a great time with him. We ordered dessert and joked and laughed and sipped our coffee, almost forgetting that the movie started at 9:30. I didn't want the conversation to end but I didn't want Will to think I'd make him waste twenty bucks. We walked next door to the theater and realized that we were not the only people who wanted to see the latest-most-talked-about feature. We looked at each other and smiled, defeated and took seats in the second row.
As the credits rolled, Will and I talked about how much we liked the movie and then we headed back to the train station. He awkwardly hugged me goodnight and said he had a good time. I found my train and thought to myself, the conversation was great and he's smart, but I don't think I could fall for him. On the way home, I dialed Annie's number. Josh answered and I apologized for calling so late. He said, “No problem, she's been waiting up for your call.” I told Annie I had a good time, but I didn't think it could go anywhere, maybe another date or two. She protested, telling me to give Will a chance. I said, “If he calls again, we'll see what happens.”
And he called again. This time, he invited me to his place. And again, we had a lot to talk about, laughed a lot, seemed to connect, and then I realized his eyes were a wonderful shade of blue. And his arms were toned. I guess because he was in the military, he was forced to stay in shape. We went out to a restaurant for dinner and he took my hand, staring at me deeply, as we sat across from each other. I smiled shyly and squeezed his hand. He asked me back to his apartment, saying he understood if I was uncomfortable. I didn't think there was anything wrong with sitting on a couch and watching TV with him so I said yes.
He was a neat freak, or at least that's what he wanted me to believe. The apartment was spotless, the carpet freshly vacuumed. I guessed he cleaned it that morning for just this occasion. I felt a combination of flattery and the feeling that I was being duped into thinking this was a spur of the moment idea…that he wanted me to come over because we were having a good time today. No, he had planned this. But I smiled in spite of myself because it was very cute. I pictured him vacuuming the carpet and washing the dishes, which were piled on the drying rack next to the sink. He asked if I was okay. I nodded. I really was okay. I surprised myself when I thought of how okay I was. With Will, I felt comfortable. I felt content. I didn't want the night to end.
When it was time to say good-bye, Will walked me to the door and leaned in toward me as he put his arms around my waist. “Thank you for coming Emma. I had a great time.” I nodded and went to say something, but he didn't let me make a sound. He firmly pressed his lips against mine. I could feel his chest moving up and down as he breathed deeply through his nose. I closed my eyes and kissed him back. His tongue peeked out as his lips parted and I slowly opened my mouth. He was a terrific kisser. I felt a rush of warmth wash over me, similar to the body rush that I experienced while I was on ecstasy. I was tingling from head to toe. I was no longer tense or nervous. Kissing him, holding him as he held me, I felt like I was home.
“How did I go my entire life without kissing this man?” I exclaimed to Annie. “I didn't know he existed and then all of a sudden, it's like everything I've ever wondered about why I try so hard to find a partner is answered with a kiss. Like a fairy tale! Like a treasure that's discovered!” I'm gushing. I know I am and Annie, God bless her, is totally putting up with it. Well, she's the reason I met him in the first place so she should care.
“And did he feel the same way?” Always practical, that Annie.
“I sure as hell hope so!” Don't ruin this for me, not now. Not with things like feelings and reality.
And just like that, as if in answer to that silent prayer to the Relationship God, my cell phone vibrated on the table. I recognized the area code as being Will's, but I hadn't yet programmed him into my address book. It was just too soon for something as serious as that.
We went out a few more times, had “the talk” about where this was going, which he initiated. I swear he did! Actually, he insisted on it. I was taken aback that a man would be this persistent about wanting to make a commitment to me. We decided to pursue a relationship. It was going to be tough. Even though we were close to each other, it still required either a train ride or an hour-plus car ride to see the other one. But, if there was potential anywhere between us, I would make the sacrifice. His job required a lot of his time. But anytime he wasn't working, I went to visit him. We had been dating for about a month when I stayed over for the first time. He asked me nervously and I happily agreed without a moment's hesitation. In terms of being physical, all we had really done was kiss and I had no idea what to expect if/when anything should happen while we lay in bed next to each other.
He told me I was beautiful and kissed me as we lay with our heads on the same pillow in his queen-sized bed. I borrowed sweatpants that were at least a size too big, but it still felt like everything fit. We continued to talk about life and relationships and the past and the future. God, I love those talks. It makes everything feel right in the world. When you know that there is no place you'd rather be than right where you are, talking with no other person, knowing that he wants to be there as much as you do, and nervously anticipating the intimacy that is sure to follow that heart-to-heart, there is nothing that can possibly compare the moments before you make love.
I wish I could say it was as beautiful as I hoped it would be. But I would be lying and we've gotten to know each other pretty well and I just do not have it in me to lie like that. I mean, don't get me wrong. The stuff preceding it, the foreplay that is, was great. Will used his tongue expertly to lick the nape of my neck and to suck on my fingers and while he did that, he smoothed his hand over my body as my hand, in turn, felt his solid chest and his muscular arms, kissing his bare shoulder and I gently slid my hand under his boxer shorts. He tensed up for a moment as I did it and then seemed to find his footing again, pulling at the elastic of his sweatpants that I borrowed. “Oh, Emma,” he moaned softly into my ear. I could feel him in my hand, erect and throbbing. His body was rocking and I knew that I wanted him. I knew that this was going to be perfect. The way we felt when we kissed, how we could laugh together, how, even though we were different, we seemed to compliment each other; it was all amounting to this moment. He lifted the t-shirt I borrowed over my head. I slid my hand out from under his shorts and pushed them down his thighs. He yanked the sweatpants and my underwear off in one fell swoop, clearly more excited than before. We were breathing heavily, awaiting what we knew would be magical. He kissed me again and my whole body fell into him, wanting to be a part of him. Without even noticing from where, he produced a condom and slid it on and he looked at me as he lay on top of me. I bit my lip with tears in my eyes. I wanted this. I wanted Will. He kissed me deeply and as our mouths found one another and our tongues locked and I pulled him closer, he entered me.
At least, I think he did. I mean, I couldn't really tell. He said, “Shit, I'll get it.” And I said, “I know you will Sweetie.” And he tried again. And he said, “God damn it!” And I said, “don't worry about it. I want you. It'll happen for us. Try not to think about it.” And he tried a third and final time and he practically shouted, “It's no fucking use!” He rolled off me and I pulled the blanket around me. “Are you okay, Will?” I asked and even as I said it, I knew that he wouldn't want to actually talk about it.
“Fine,” he mumbled angrily. “I'm not…I don't usually…Shit!”
I felt so bad. I mean I've had bad sex before but never with someone I cared about. Wait, does it actually count as sex when there's no penetration? Definition of intercourse: the man's penis is inserted into the woman's vagina…well that didn't happen, well, not entirely. I mean, it started to, but he never actually penetrated. So, no maybe it didn't count. Perhaps I didn't have to think of this as “our first time.” We could re-write our first time and make it as magical as we anticipated.
“Shit, I'm sorry. That's never happened before. I'm sure you think it's just a line, but I really like you and I wanted it to be perfect and I was nervous and…well, it really hasn't ever happened before.”
I sat up and put my arms around him. “Will, it's really okay and I really like you too.” We hugged, naked, and as I kissed him I could taste the salt from the sweat and then we lay back down and I fell asleep with my head on his chest, holding his hand.
I assuage all fears and confess that sex was never like that between us again; in fact, it was damn near perfect, but isn't that how it always is? You find someone and they find you, you say I love you and hold your breath that you'll hear it in return, you find your way in the relationship, and you just think it will last forever and be eternally flawless?
It got better as we got to know each other, the line of my inner thigh, how sensitive his earlobes could be when he was in the right mood, just how kinky the other one really was when we just let go and enjoyed being together, the exact rhythm we fell into as we became one…things that people learn as they begin to fall in love with making love.
March '03
“Emma, can you take the train to see me?” His voice was shaking. This was something I had never heard from him before. This was fear. I had already changed for bed, as it was 9:30 and I had set out my clothes for work tomorrow but as he spoke, I was slipping my shoes on and was pulling on a sweatshirt over my head.
“I'm deploying overseas tomorrow morning. We have tonight and I need you to be here with me. Can you get here?” I didn't think about the words he had just said or whether it made sense in my head. I simply knew I had to get to him. I didn't care how or if I wound up at work tomorrow, I just had to be there with him…to spend the night, lying next to him, holding him. I called Annie and everyone I knew, telling them where I was going, sharing how I was feeling, getting it all out now because I knew I was going to have to be strong when I saw Will.
He picked me up at the train station and I could tell he had been crying although I never actually saw the tears. We embraced as soon as we saw each other. They had given him twelve hours notice. Twelve hours to pack up his life and say goodbye, not knowing when he'd be back…or if.
I had him for twelve more hours. We had to run errands for his trip and pack his bags and he made phone calls to his family and friends and I just sat there, staring at the floor, clutching to my body an unpacked T-shirt, as a final attempt to hold him, to keep him from leaving. We didn't sleep together that night. We didn't sleep at all. We stayed up and spent time together-the last moments we could spend together, as if they were the last moments we would spend together. As the sun rose, we started toward the car. He drove me in silence, swallowing hard every few minutes, holding my hand the entire time. As we sat in the train station parking lot, waiting for my train to arrive to take me away from him, he squeezed my hand. He looked down and trying to be light-hearted said, “think of it as an extended vacation to the desert.” I tried to smile, but all I could do was cry. I pulled him to me and kissed him. He still looked scared. And I couldn't bear to think that Will, the strong and stoic guy I knew, could possibly be this scared little boy. I left and could not bring myself to look back. He sped away to where the plane at the military base was waiting to fly him to the unknown.
I had never been more terrified in my life. I cried sporadically, at home sitting at the dinner table, on my way to work, and spending nights out with friends. It was the most difficult time I've known in a relationship thus far, which I suppose is a good thing since, thank God, he came back and in one piece and for the most part, unchanged and unmoved. We communicated for close to three months via email and occasionally by telephone. I always knew where he was, but that didn't make me miss him any less. I knew then that this meant that I loved him. What else could it mean?
Sometime in May he came home and I drove to meet him at 4:30am, excited and fearful of what it would be like. Would we have anything to say to each other, would it be the same as before he left? He greeted me with a smile and then a hug and swept me up in his arms. I didn't ever want to be apart from him again. We spent close to 48 hours together and only left the apartment when it was absolutely necessary. Once again, we enjoyed each other's warmth, in bed. I had missed that, with Will. I had longed for it. I took a breath and knew that if I didn't say what had been building up inside for months, I might miss out on the chance all together and said, “Will, I love you.” And he looked at me and said, “thank you.” My heart sank. But I tried to rationalize, disappointed even though I pretended not to be, that he had had a long trip, had been through a huge ordeal and needed me to be there for him; he didn't need or want me to pester him about his feelings. So I swallowed my protestations and smothered him with the love that I, and only I, felt.
I won't bore you with mundane details of our life together, well, our year together. We were opposites who had attracted and eventually, he did confess his love for me and we lived in bliss for a while. But then the honeymoon ended and true colors began to shine through. We weren't perfect and even though the physical intimacy was great, it wasn't frequent. And I wasn't the one who claimed to have a headache to get out of it. What man does not want to have sex with his girlfriend? What was wrong with him? No wait, what was wrong with me? Of course this happened after we became roommates and were together for months and I suppose the novelty had worn off, but I tried. Lord, did I try. I attempted sexy lingerie and every battery-operated contraption I could find, but Will just yawned and rolled over. Something was not right. He claimed he was always tired because of work and I reasoned that he worked very hard. This did not ease my confusion or make me feel any better. I had moved to be with him, knowing no one, without a prospect of employment, and I sat alone during the day, waiting for him to walk through the door. It was a scene out of a 1950s sit-com without the housekeeping or the comedy. He was the provider in the relationship and while that was comforting and gave me a sense of security, it was not enough, for either of us and something always appeared to be missing between us.
We had terrible times-fights, door slamming, he even punched a wall once, screaming about everything and nothing all at once. But we had amazing times, where I'd put my head in the bend of his arm and we'd hold hands and enjoy being with each other. We talked of marriage and I knew, in my heart, that this was my true love-he was the answer to everything. Bad, maybe even horrible moments were common in relationships and I rationalized that this was normal and that if we could survive this, we would be happy together forever.
Being with Will left me exhausted. I was tired. Tired of doing nothing, tired of flirting and trying to allure someone who was supposed to love me and tired of trying to win a losing battle. He was the fighter, not I.
Of course, it ended. How could whatever had lived between us be expected to thrive when all that surrounded us was dark and depressing and anger and full of screaming and threats and tears and more anger? It shriveled up like an ailing, dried out flower. Our relationship was thirsty, but neither one of us had the energy or the miracle to keep it alive. In the last attempts to recover what would forever be lost to Will and me, he proposed marriage and all I could do was shake my head in disbelief. I didn't want someone asking for my hand as a last resort. Becoming partners was something that was natural, not forced to save a relationship. We hugged tightly, knowing there was no reason to ever see each other again; we pulled away from each other. For the first time since I had known him, I saw this strong unemotional, uncommunicative man of the Armed Forces shed a tear. He was crying for us.
He's the only ex boyfriend with whom I have not stayed in touch. He was never much for communicating and I suppose, since we weren't friends to start, we shouldn't or couldn't be friends after the break up since there was no foundation on which to build. We were just too different and he had no desire to know me once I was no longer his girlfriend. The way that Will made me feel, the flutter in my heart, the flush in my cheek, the feeling that I was finally safe with someone was gone as quickly as it came. I sighed hopelessly, believing I was destined to forever thrash around, gasping for air, drowning my sorrows in the dating pool.
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So I thought many times about what it would be like to put it all down on paper. To flex my creative writing muscles and stretch my imagination and express myself and really dig deep and get to the bottom of things, my feelings, but I was always afraid. What if it doesn't make me feel better? What if it actually makes everything worse? Now, I feel this way and I talk about it. I'm lonely and I want to find someone amazing, but what happens if I actually sat down and wrote about it. So my therapist, Lisa, asked what did I think would happen if I started to write down how I feel about some of these things like my future, my job, my life, and men?
And I thought, my God! It would become too real for me to handle it.
Suddenly, I find it hard to breathe at the thought that this isn't just my bitching about how shitty men can be. It is the way things are. What a depressing thought. Surely, there has to be one man out there that is similar to those romantic leads in movies like Sleepless in Seattle or An Affair to Remember. I mean, why else would these movies be made? Wasn't the knight in shining armor modeled after someone the director went to school with or a guy the screenwriter met at the supermarket? And the reality of the situation sinks in and I realize it could be the suspension of disbelief that makes the general public want to watch these movies to see if Cary Grant really will meet Deborah Kerr at the top of the Empire State Building or whether Tom Hanks will fly across the country just to see if he makes magic with Meg Ryan. Those men are the exception to the rule. If they are out there, I haven't met them. Or if I've met them, they haven't properly introduced themselves or stayed around long enough for me to get to know them. Whose fault is that? Don't men want love as much as women? Why wouldn't a man want a woman to love and cherish and nurture? And what about the sex?
There are so many fuckin' rules about dating. What you can and can't say, do, and wear. Women can't talk about their past relationships. Even the mere mention of an ex, makes the guy's skin crawl. He looks visibly uncomfortable. Like, he didn't think you had ever been treated to a cheap dinner before he existed. I guess there's a hope for newness and excitement, so if a woman talks about past guys, she's not as new as she was before the appetizer was served-she is pre-owned. I think, by the same token, that's why some guys have a fascination with the idea of sleeping with a virgin. It has nothing to do with making the experience special or significant, or being 'her first'-it's that she's untouched, pure, no other guy has marked his territory. It's not even as if the guy is necessarily planning on it being his territory for more than that night-he just wants to know he planted his flag in her land before anyone else.
Another rule of thumb: Don't kiss on the first date. Yeah, that's a good one. First, let me tell you about two people I know, Annie and Sara. Both of these women are now in loving, committed relationships and have been for years. Neither of these women abstained from kissing or anything else, for that matter, on the first date. Go figure.
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Saturday November 18, 2000
Annie met Josh through a friend of a friend. They officially 'got together' at a party. We arrived, all decked out in the latest trendy outfits. We could barely breathe, but the way we looked was entirely worth not being able to eat anything. I caught the eye of some loners, some cute guys, and some cuter guys and smiled at them all, not really thinking anything would come from it. There was a tall, good-looking man standing by the table lined with various bottles of liquor. He was smiling and was engaged in conversation with a short perky blond girl. He had blond hair and dark eyes and Annie became giddy as soon as she saw him. She knew him from before, and her whole reason for attending the party was to make sure that he saw her there. They made eye contact and he waved both of us over. “Ah, the party can start now! What are you two drinking?
“Vodka tonic”, we said simultaneously. As he began to mix the drinks, Annie nudged me to move so she could stand closer to him. I obliged and ducked out of the way, like the good friend that I am. “So Annie, I'm really happy you made it. I told Stacey I'd love to see you again.” Shyly, he stared at the floor, then looked up to see if she bought the “little boy routine.”
“Oh, that's so sweet Josh,” Annie exclaimed!
Josh looked from Annie to the couch and then he motioned upstairs. “Do you want to go somewhere and talk? Somewhere that's not as crazy and loud and we can really get to know each other?” Subtext: Let me take you somewhere quiet, away from all these people where we can drink in privacy, make futile small talk and I can fumble with your bra strap and give you wet smothering kisses and let you know you're the reason I came to this party? She smiled knowingly and took his hand as he led her up the staircase. Shortly after Annie and Josh's disappearance, sounds very similar to those of a banging headboard could be heard, even over the pounding beat of the bass on the stereo.
I didn't see her again 'til the following morning. She didn't look rested, but God did she look happy. Look where being a slut her! In my experience, if I meet a guy at a party, even someone I knew from before, we get along great, or at least well enough to “go somewhere and talk”. We stroll upstairs to the chosen bedroom, the one where the host has stripped off the “good sheets,” specifically because people are expected to fool around. I sit on the bed. He sits down, unassuming, next to me. He doesn't waste any time, tells me I'm beautiful, maybe goes to brush a lock of hair away from my face and makes his move. He smiles a winning smile. He speaks in a sultry and seductive voice, planning his attack the whole time and because of the alcohol and the excitement of being with someone new or maybe, just not someone who's already let me down, I let him. If I'm being honest, maybe it's actually because I'm weak and there's nothing I can do to stop him. He doesn't take advantage of me. I let him take advantage of me. But that's simply too introspective. If only I could be like Annie and stray from my typical behavior, which in this case, is being less like Annie was with Josh that night and appear to be much more like a virgin, maybe I'd manage to lasso myself a good guy. Ah, a girl can dream, can't she?
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Sara, my old roommate, on the other hand, now she was a partier...til she met Zack. She went to a bar one weeknight when she was supposed to be cramming for a test. She says she got restless and was lookin' for some fun and everyone else was sleeping. So, she got all dolled up, in tight jeans and an even tighter shirt and headed out to find a good time. She tells me now, she specifically intended on having a one-night stand. She drank like a fish and when I got up to make coffee and cereal the next day, she was humming in the kitchen. She looked exhausted, but satisfied. I knew exactly what she had done. I have to admit, I was proud. I began to question her, what he looked like, how he kissed, if he was good or not. Yes, women do this too. Don't act so surprised, you know it's true.
She couldn't stop giggling and filled me in on all the juicy details, but then she started talking about his future plans and where his family lived. I saw this sparkle in her eye. She told me she was going back upstairs to snuggle some more with Zack.
Now, anyone who's ever had a one-night stand knows, you get the hell out of there. Or, you kick his ass out of bed so you can go about your day. You do not, under any circumstances, have snuggling time. So, I knew she wanted more and I sighed, fearing that her feelings would be unrequited.
Well, as her luck would have it, Sara snuggled with Zack for four hours, almost missing that test for which she had been cramming the night before. They dated for a long time and I was forced to get to know him and his friends, a group of which there were no single men. He was hot, but he was also funny and warm, and romantic, and intelligent. They made each other laugh and she was constantly happy. I was incredibly jealous. Her one-night stand soon became her fiancé. She called me, years after we graduated, squealing into the phone. I was happy for her, but I was sad for me. Yes, I know how selfish that comes across, but what could I do about the way I felt? I smiled and tried my best to be happy, to hear about presents, and the dress, and the ring. Oh, God, the ring. It was gorgeous. If diamond size is any indication of how a guy feels about the woman he's proposing to, Zack was absolutely crazy about my roommate. She would extend her hand anytime we went anywhere. It got quite nauseating. But I tried to give myself a pep talk, saying that it was only sickening to my stomach because I wanted it so badly. I wanted someone to smile when I walked into a room. I wanted to feel a warmth rush through my body, knowing that someone's heartbeat quickened ever so slightly because I was his girlfriend and had accepted the proposal “for better or worse”. So, to make a long story short, they're due to get married in three weeks and I have gained ten pounds since I last tried on that damn bridesmaid's gown. Life just isn't fair.
Anyway, where was I? Ah yes, so those are two cases of women who put out and got so much more than instant gratification; they found love.
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There's “dating” language that only those who are unfortunate enough to go out on numerous failed attempts at love can truly understand. When he says, “I had a good time. I'll give you a call,” consider yourself dumped. There is no chance that the phone is going to ring and you can just quiet down with your protesting because you know, as well as I, that I'm right. Now, if he said, “Emma, I had a great time with you. I'd love to see you again…Are you free this weekend?” That would be a horse of a different color, but when he is vague and nondescript, there isn't any way you'll ever cross paths again and he will make sure of this fact.
There's a certain amount of physical contact a couple must exchange on a first date, otherwise there is no guarantee for a second. How crazy is that? If he goes to hold your hand and you're interested in him, you reach for it like it holds your future, which it may in fact hold.
If you don't hold his hand the first time he reaches for it (usually after the first drink-after all, he's looser and less inhibited now), consider yourself one lucky girl if he tries again before the night is over. Note: If you think you could be interested in him and he does not try to touch you-in any way, shape, or form-a kiss on the cheek to say goodbye, hand-holding, even something as seemingly inconsequential as leaning in to talk to you, dust yourself off and try, try again next Saturday night.
A hug can be confusing, however. If your bodies press together and he holds you just a few seconds longer than he probably should, then you are most definitely desired. The same thing goes for a kiss on the cheek, but I'm not talking about cheek-to-cheek bullshit. Picture this: he holds your arm, pulls you in so close that you can smell his aftershave and he turns to you, brushes his lips against your ear, or breathes in your hair. You can feel his hot wet breath getting closer-as if this is all in slow motion. And it's just the right amount of moisture mixed with heat on your skin. You know it's good and long lasting when you're licking your lips, awaiting that perfect combination on your mouth on the next date.
I've been kissed many times. I've been kissed well a handful of times. I can count them without taking off my shoes and socks. I'd say that's pretty pathetic. But I don't know who's more pathetic, the men for not knowing what the hell they're doing, or me, for going back each and every time, thinking that this time will be different.
It's easy to describe a bad kisser-someone who is deceptive in his technique, starting out slowly and gently and once both mouths are open, he shoves his tongue in there and wriggles it around. All you want to do at the point is chomp down to stop that thing from moving in all directions. Then there are the lickers. These guys will lick your face, your neck, your ears, then your lips and will start to pucker up, but by that time, you're so goddamned frustrated with the whole thing that you've completely lost interest in the activity. And what about those guys who open their mouths, with their arms at their sides and just expect you to do the work. Like, hello? This is a joint effort, here-don't stand there limp and useless. I strongly believe that the way a man kisses is indicative of how he will be in bed. If he's gentle at all the right moments, but strong when he feels you need him to be, if he can sense what you're yearning for and knows how to deliver it, if he doesn't overwhelm you, but can make you quiver with intensity, then he'll make you cry out for more.
I knew this would be inevitable. I knew I would have to tell you about Scott. One thing you never want to have to do is talk about someone with whom you never really got the chance to be in a relationship, but every part of your body, including your heart, aches for him, even now. I would have killed for it to work out, but I suppose God just didn't have that plan for me to be happy with someone who was intelligent, funny, respectful, and attractive. It was just too good to be true. “
Friday, August 2004-
“So then, I'll see you tomorrow at 7.”
“7 sounds great. I'm really looking forward to it, Emma.” He sounds sincere. But they all sound sincere when they want something from you. Despite myself, I'm looking forward to going out tomorrow night. I've had a rough week, work piling up, the boss giving me crap, not having enough time to do anything I need to do which leaves even less time for what I want to do. I could use a drink. A friend of mine set me up with this guy, Scott. All I know about him is that he's, in her words, “smart, kind of cute in that dorky way, has a great sense of humor, and he hasn't had a girlfriend in awhile”.
God, I hate set-ups. Worse than that, I hate blind dates, when you stand outside a club or bar or coffeehouse like an idiot, waiting for the guy who probably won't look like he sounds or writes, or how his personals profile portrays him. Depending upon the venue, he's dressed with his shirt tucked in, his shoes were probably shined that morning, and most probably, he looks like a tight-ass, like he's uncomfortable in his own skin. But you can always tell that he's the one you're supposed to be meeting. You both share that I can't believe I'm doing this for a fourth time this month look; a look that says, I'm tired of searching for my soul mate, can this not suck so that I can lower my standards and I'll be set for life?
With Scott, it was different. I knew I'd like him, at least, as a person. I had this sense from the moment we exchanged that first email. After a week and a half of “lol” and “ttys”, I became tired of typing, so I left my phone number printed underneath my name. I didn't ask him outright if he would call because that would have been way too forward. I just left the digits hanging in the email and waited impatiently. Via email, we talked about anything and everything for about a week and a half. Would we have anything to say to each other if/when he picked up the receiver?
About six hours after I hit send on the email that contained my number, my cell phone rang. I didn't recognize the number, but I answered it anyway. In a seductive and deep voice, he began the conversation, “…so I finally get to hear what you sound like. Your voice is really sexy.” I smiled blushing and silently thanked the Lord that he couldn't see me being such a girl at the first hint of flattery. For the next hour or so, we talked about life, our families, the future, relationships, and we joked around and laughed a lot. Scott was bright and funny and clever and he kept saying things that made me smile. It wasn't a complete surprise when his voice became a bit more serious than it had been for the previous hour and he said, “Emma, I know it's last minute, but I just decided that if you're free tomorrow night, I'd love to finally meet you.”
So that's how it all began with Scott. After that first talk, we had numerous more like it. Never tiring of one another, switching plans to spend more time together, learning about the other's likes and dislikes, laughing at nothing, and talking about the future. I'm embarrassed to say exactly how long this amazing, cannot-possibly-compare-to-anything-else connection lasted, at least as an official relationship (more about that later), so let's just say that it was a very short time, but it felt like I had known him all my life.
I'm a complete idiot. I know this. I don't know why I do this to myself repeatedly. He was incredible in every way imaginable. Scott was the total package. His blue-green eyes crinkled when he smiled. He dressed impeccably, as if he spent a good five minutes (which is about 4 minutes and 29 seconds longer than most of the men I've gone out with) deciding how he was going to look to go out for dinner with me. His dirty blonde hair fell into his eyes when he leaned in over the dinner table. His eyelashes were every woman's envy. He had a muscular build without being unhuggable. We agreed on certain things, we bantered about others. We skipped the, I'm-trying-hard-to-impress-you-so-I'll-pretend-to-be-something-I'm-not stage of the dating game. We were real with each other.
It always fascinates me how some people are just born knowing how to sing or have a talent for playing baseball while others need training and years of lessons. And others still, will be tone deaf or unable to field a grounder for their entire lives. I believe the same thing exists with knowing how to be good, attentive, and respectful in bed. And here's the whole reason why I was forced to bring up Scott in the first place: He was an excellent lover.
I can't even begin to explain how I felt when he touched me. And I am not even talking about that kind of touching. I shivered when he laced his fingers with mine. My heart would pound in my chest when he took me in his arms, even if it was simply to say hello. Although, I have to state here, in a bit more detail than before, (more to satisfy my own heaving and yearning rather than yours), that in addition to handholding and snuggling, Scott made me claw the floor and scream with pleasure. He knew how to make love, but let me tell you-the guy was a fucking champ. He would moan and gyrate. We'd sweat all over each other and breathe heavily in unison. He would pull my hair with force and suck on my neck and I'd dig my nails into his back. When it was done, we'd fall asleep in each other's arms, exhausted and satisfied. I'm getting a little hot just thinking about it now.
But there are a lot of guys that can make a woman reach an orgasm, even if he just uses his finger. There are also so many men who are able to hold an intelligent conversation, (no really, there are), or who are nice to look at. The trick is finding all of those in one guy. Scott encapsulated everything I wanted and needed in someone. He had the ability to break down my walls of cynicism and detachment to reveal a six-year-old in pigtails who dreamed every night of being whisked away to the castle with her prince, where she would rule the land of Love and live happily ever after. Scott could make me believe in the unbelievable. His touch, his voice, his eyes, were the reason I thought I could be happy again.
Saturday, a short time after
But, obviously that didn't happen; otherwise I wouldn't be rambling on like this, with a far away nostalgia that might make me sick if I keep this going. No, instead of living in billowy white sheets where we'd make glorious love all day, his shadow of inevitability cast a death sentence on my hope. He told me he couldn't fall in love with me.
I know I had only been with him for a short time, but I recognized the almost uncomfortable beginning buds of falling in love starting to take root. There was a dull pang in my stomach every time we were together-as if I was too nervous to breathe. I wanted to spend all my time with him, which I didn't see as unhealthy because he was just as eager to be with me. I smiled all the time. I mean, all the time. I went from being bitter and jaded to sunny and fucking Polyanna, looking for the positive and happiness in everything. I don't know what people thought of me. So one fateful night, I brought up when we were going to make it official that we were a couple. I should have just shut up. I should have stopped being such a goddamn girl and enjoyed the dinners and the movies and the handholding and the orgasms. Oh, the orgasms.
My question of asking if we were ready to be exclusive was met with a deep and heavy sigh. It was a combination of frustration, annoyance, and pity. It was clearly the “breakup” sigh. He didn't want to do it, but he knew he had to do it. Was it better to keep living this lie? He knew he was about to cause my world to come crashing down on top of me. He told me he thought I was fantastic and sexy and intelligent and wonderful, but…and that's when it happened. As soon as I heard that tiny word, something that hadn't happened in years, that I hadn't let happen for fear of being seen as something unthinkable, such as vulnerable or as female, took hold and the dam broke and…I cried. And I couldn't stop. I bawled like a child who doesn't understand the workings of the world. And then I begged. I pleaded for him to stay. To just give it another week or two. I'd be everything he'd want me to be. He lowered his eyes, ashamed to be in the car with a lunatic like me, or perhaps he just felt sorry. Sorry for ruining the night. Sorry for not being able to give me a good enough reason. Sorry for not being smart enough to get me to give him head in the driver's seat before he ended it. I don't know what he was feeling, but I knew what I was feeling. First came the anger, then screaming profanities and irrational and impossible things…”I'll be different, I'll be better!” Finally, I was in despair. I thought the world would end and I would shrivel up and die.
When you're in the moment, it's so easy to think that life is going to end when you don't get what you want. And when you take a step back, you still realize that life is sucking royally, but somehow it's all more palatable because you're not staring into the face of the reason you were miserable last night, because you slammed the car door, tear-stained while shouting something about how he would regret this forever. Forever is a long time.
To be quite honest, the story with Scott doesn't end there though, although I know it should. I didn't have to get over Scott completely because we didn't stop seeing each other. No, we became what sixteen year olds all over the country now refer to as “friends with benefits” or “hook up buddies.” This means, for lack of a better term, we call each other “friend” but all we do when we spend time together is have sex. It's not healthy. Again, as much as I know when I'm doing something stupid, at the very least, I can admit it's stupid. I don't live in denial. And I'm not trying to convince myself he will see the error of his ways and fall for me. Well, not anymore. He likes spending time with me and he likes to talk to me and he likes coming inside me, but when it comes to looking for someone to love and marry, I'm not his girl. And even though I wasn't someone with whom he could fall in love, clearly I was someone with whom he could fall in lust. For the longest time, I held onto the rationale that Scott would fall in love with me if we kept the intimacy in our relationship. I can hear a groan from the audience out there, wondering why I haven't learned my goddamn lesson yet and I just don't have an answer. Believe me, I wonder the same thing. But, you'd know that it wasn't just sex between us if you had experienced one night - those nights where after we'd sleep together, he would put his arm around me and press his body against mine and we'd drift off…
This went on for a long time. Too long. And still, he would share friendly stories about whom he was dating as I'd hold my tongue from screaming “she's not good enough for you! I am the one you should be with!” And I wouldn't see him for weeks at a time when he was “serious” about someone. But as soon as that girl would undoubtedly say to him, “this just isn't working”, he'd be back in my apartment, on my couch and I'd be on my back. All too recently, I threatened him with the end to our friendship if we didn't stop having sex. I expected him to take the easy way out and tell me to fuck off. But he didn't. He remained a person who made me laugh and who, when I looked my worst, told me that I looked beautiful and although I harbor this feeling for Scott, having him in my life as my friend was better than losing him forever.
Although things improved between Scott and me, I haven't yet gotten back the wings on my feet that I had when I was with him, when I thought the feeling could be or at least, have the potential to be mutual, that which lifted me high above the despair; the light-hearted air that made me want to trust in the fairy tale. I don't expect it anytime soon. My heart still resonates in my chest when I fantasize about him sleeping next to me or kissing me passionately, but I suppose we all have to grow away from fantasies at some point in our lives. But this thought remains a part of me and I simply won't rest until I find it:
I want to someone to love me the way that I love him. Is that too much to ask?
Saturday, July 3, 2000-just starting the night
“You're beautiful and sweet and kind and I'd really love to kiss you.” Astra is petite and she barely comes up to my shoulder when we stand face to face. She has graceful dancer's legs, smooth and tanned and toned. Her fingers are delicate as she caresses my face. It feels incredible. Well, of course it would because everything feels good and better than it does in reality when you've taken two hits of ecstasy. I shudder as she touches me; that tingle lasts for thirty seconds longer than it would on any other day.
The beat of the music feels like it's my own heart and my eyes are wide with excitement and because that's one of the side effects of the drug. I'm sweating, yet another thing that happens when you're “rolling” and it's so hot in here. There are so many beautiful people crowded into this tiny little room, I'm dehydrated from the drug-induced dancing, and I'm hot…for Astra. We've only just met tonight, through a friend. I kept hearing about how she was fun and lively and now, all I can think is that she is breathtaking and the feeling appears to be mutual. We're now holding hands and talking so closely that we can feel our warm breath against the other one's cheek. She, too, is experiencing an ecstatic high. I can't believe that I've found someone this wonderful who could want to be with me.
Everything about being with a woman makes complete sense. She is sensitive and caring and her kisses on my hair are sweet and gentle-exactly what I want in a man. “I love you, Emma,” she says. “I never knew that I could feel this intensely about someone. I want to take you in my arms make love with you.” Making love with someone, as opposed to “to someone” is exactly the way it should be described. It's something the two of you share and it's a completely interactive experience, especially when it's about the connection between two women.
For those who have never experienced an ecstatic high, there may be some confusion. The myth that this substance will cause you to do something you do not want to do is utter nonsense. If I did not have a propensity to be attracted to women, I would never have been involved in a conversation like this with her. Simply put: the drugs did not make me fall for Astra. They merely accentuated how I am already feeling. I will, say, that the music combined with the amazing body rush, plus the deep green of her eyes, make me believe I can fall in love with her.
She slides her hand from my shoulder to the small of my back. She draws me close to her and I can't stop looking at my own reflection in her eyes. I seem relaxed and something that has been lost for years has finally been found-a connection. Here is someone that knows what I want, is sensing what I need and is making me want to figure out who the hell I am.
The upbeat tempo of the techno starts to slow as my pulse begins to race. I move my hand from her shoulder to the small of her back. We embrace. This is an amazing sensation. I smile at her and then whisper into her ear, “I've been waiting for you.” Her grip around my body tightens and I take her earlobe into my mouth, sucking gently. She pulls back so that we're face to face and she kisses me. It has never felt this good. I forget that I'm on drugs and I trust that this is why I have been alone for so long, why men don't seem to understand my desires. She is the answer to everything. Her tongue is soft and wet. She moans softly and my grip tightens around her waist. My free hand explores the contours of her fragile frame. Tracing the silhouette of her breast, moving my thumb over her erect nipple. She does the same to me and I start to breath more heavily. Our tongues are circling and my mouth covers hers. She has the sweetest smell, but now it's mixed with the smell of arousal and excitement.
We're in a crowded dance club, but we don't seem to notice that there is anyone else around us. The female vocals in the music echo my every desire, moaning and howling with animalistic passion. We're sweating and breathing heavily, mostly because of the little pills we've swallowed, but partially from the fire igniting between us. She pulls on my hair and she sucks my neck with a fierceness I've never known, but all I can do is feel better than I've ever felt. If this isn't love, then what is? I feel safe, comfortable, thrilled beyond all my expectations, and I never want Astra to stop touching me. But she does.
She has to at some point. We hold each other a little while longer and when we break away from our embrace, she smiles and says she's hot and we should go for a walk. So with the attention span like that of a child with ADD, we walk away hand-in-hand, to find some water or something that sparkles to stare at in amazement.
Astra was a phase. Astra symbolized everything that I wanted in a relationship, but it wasn't entirely possible to achieve it with her. For one thing, my feelings for her seemed to cool down a bit once I had come down off my high. She was still attractive and graceful, but she didn't have that glow of beauty that I saw on nights when we rolled on ecstasy. Reality rears its ugly head and I wonder why I did these things that are silly and “unlike me”. But what is like me?
For another thing, even though she didn't play mind games and always called when she said she would, she was not who I was looking for. Although, we did attempt to have a relationship, a long distance thing, but it failed just as all the others. It was “hot and heavy” for a while just like all relationships should be in the beginning stages.
Saturday night, not watching a movie
We watched movies in the dark, with our hearts racing, knowing that we weren't going to see the end of the film because we'd be too caught up in the passion between us. Since I was a virgin to lesbian sex, she guided my hand and was a kind and patient teacher. Astra ran her fingers through my hair and led me to her warmth. She whispered when it felt especially good. Her essence was something about which I had never even given a second thought. Why would I ever need to know about how a woman tastes? If it was anything like giving a blowjob, then I wasn't missing out on much. But this was a completely different experience. It was excitement and awakening combined with fear and desire. Astra tasted sweet just like everything else about her. Her voice was soothing and as I put my mouth on her…in her, I couldn't stop myself from falling in love with eating her. There was exhilaration, newness, and a feeling of “I've never done this before with you” and she taught me a lot of things about women, drugs, myself, and the world in general. However, even though I had “tendencies” and the desire to explore, I wasn't a full-fledged lesbian and yes, I wanted someone with whom to cuddle, but I also longed for the way a man and a woman can fit together perfectly when making love. I did not dismiss the idea of being with a woman casually, because it was fun, dangerous, a bit taboo and felt wonderful, but as a model relationship it would never be for me.
I met Jon many years ago.
Saturday, March 21, 1996
He was shy and awkward; he clearly didn't know how to be around me, or any other girl for that matter. He was scared and I was fearless, or at least I attempted to be. He had big brown telling eyes and curly brown hair, the kind you love to move your fingers through. And he had, still has, this smell. The combination of cleanliness and smoky cologne haunts me and when I walk by someone else with that smell, I have to stop and catch my breath. Jon wasn't like the other boys I knew. He was quiet and he was smart, he was a musician and he was sensitive. He didn't talk a lot, which was okay because, back then, I felt like I could fill the silence with wonderfully profound statements and he would sit and listen. The feelings he aroused in me were not something as trivial as puppy love, this was something that I knew would last for a long time after our initial introduction. True, we were young. And some may argue, young people don't know what love is and maybe they're right, but we shared something indescribable. Even now, I can't come up with the words for what I felt, and sometimes still sense about Jon. Something that was better than drugs, something that was even better than chocolate, if that's possible. He was older than me, but not necessarily wiser and somehow I wound up taking the reigns on our relationship. I didn't want this control, nor did I know what to do with it and often, I was careless with it…with us, but that was how things unfolded. I don't know if I'd change it now because I don't think anything else in my life would be the same, but if I could just alter one aspect and have everything else that I have, it would be to have been much more careful with his heart. Because as we all learn, hearts are fragile and they may easily break.
There are so many subtle levels of love. Jon was the one who first stirred feelings in my heart and in my loins. He should have been my first, but he wasn't. We weren't together and I was in a relationship with someone else while Jon traveled somewhere that was beautiful and mountainous. He wrote to me, telling me how he wanted me to be there with him to share the scenery, but I didn't think that sentiment counted for anything; I didn't believe that it meant anything unless there was something tangible, someone who was actually in the room with me, holding my hand.
I don't regret being with the other guy. As far as first times go, I really can't complain at all. It was wonderful and I cared about him a lot, but it was nothing compared to the rush I felt when I even thought about Jon. Please don't misunderstand the situation. Jon and I slept together. I don't' really remember it. Isn't that sad? I do know that it was in the days where I was looking for a “good time” and Jon produced a muscle-relaxer and screwed open a beer and we feel asleep. I woke up and we were kissing. My body felt limp, like putty. Because of the drugs, the kissing was somewhat sloppy and wet, but he seemed so strong and forceful. I looked at him, into those brown eyes that made me weak, and instantly, I knew I wanted to make love.
Relationships. What does this word really mean? Is it simply the connection that two people share whenever they first make any connection-like saying hello on the street or in a coffee shop? Is it a date or two or three? Is it when one person gives herself completely-heart, mind, body-to another person? Or is it just acquiring the title “boyfriend and girlfriend”? Does anyone really know? I think that's where the definition of what Jon and I were to each other became cloudy. We didn't know what we were because we didn't know who we were. We were young and fresh and innocent and experimental and rebellious. We had urges and questions and we looked to the other to fulfill these needs and desires.
I've been extraordinarily weak at times in my life. The role men played in my life caused me to believe that I was, in fact, the weaker gender. Just because I was female, I was weak for having emotions and crying and wanting to sleep with someone I love. Jon was a constant love in my life for a long time. When things didn't make sense with other committed relationships I was in, I turned to Jon for solace, the tenderness of his touch, and the warmth of any body. Jon was a constant weakness in my life for years as well. He was my fallback and I was his excuse. I think he knew it and I knew it, but no one ever wanted to say that. When something with a guy would fail miserably, I'd call Jon to come over and take away all the pain. In a way, I supposed I was addicted to Jon. I hungered for the feeling that I had when I was with him. The sense that it would all go away, that whatever relationship I was currently in would get better because Jon and I had shared an hour of passion. I'd get my fix of him and then I'd snap back to reality. And the reality was that I was using and abusing him, the same way alcoholics turn to whiskey. And the sex wasn't even that great, in all honesty. Of course, I didn't have anything to compare it to and why would I? The emotion attached to the act was the intoxication I craved. Every other bond I made was nothing in comparison to feeling like Jon knew me inside and out. Only characters in books and movies made those kinds of connections. I'll admit, I was a little obsessed with how I felt about him, but that didn't stop me from looking for others. He, on the other hand, didn't do any searching and wouldn't let go.
I felt responsible. I was the reason he never found someone else. It was his feelings for me that paralyzed him and made him scared to date other women. I guess we used each other, which was fair and all, but it sure as hell didn't help us grow. Years had passed and we were still playing our childish games. He had entertained the notion of being with someone else, but nothing ever worked out. I had been in many other relationships, but never stayed faithful because Jon was somehow always there to provide what I wasn't getting elsewhere. We spoke about where our relationship was headed and decided we weren't good for each other. A very mature thing to do. But, like any drug or addiction, if you needed it before, there may be a time when you long for it again. And the cycle would repeat itself. We hurt each other and we fucked each other. We'd scream at each other, horrible things that would effect us for days after and then we'd fuck again. It was no longer about love or emotion; it was about familiarity and meeting expectations. Being with Jon made me feel safe
Some Saturday night, 1999
Jon was doing drugs, just as most college kids do for at least some part of their school career, and his attitude and behavior changed dramatically. He was addicted to both illegal substances and me. He was constantly depressed and because I could relate to him and constantly feeling as if there was a way to self-medicate, I wanted to be there for him in any way I could to help him feel better. We were in his dorm room, watching cartoons while tripping on LSD and he put his arm around me. I nestled my head into the crook of his arm and closed my eyes, content with life and love. My head was swimming with thoughts and crowded with images and I had many questions. Acid is an introspective drug and if you're not okay with how you're feeling before you take it, you shouldn't expect a fun time while you're on it. I knew this, but somehow I seemed to have forgotten as I slipped the tiny tab onto my tongue and it melted away. I felt myself disappear along with it and I saw colors and happiness and everything I thought I should feel, but then my hands started to get numb, which can be an indication of the drug not working properly or worse, starting to wear off. I didn't want to be myself yet! I wanted to stay in this fantasy, even if it didn't live up to my expectation entirely. I expressed my concern to Jon and he said the solution was to take a hit of X. I wasn't terribly knowledgeable in taking drugs back then and if Jon said to do it, he must know best. After all, he was the one who introduced me to everything I ever put into my body. Should I thank him? I do realize that if it weren't for him and those nights I can barely remember, I wouldn't have had some of the greatest and worst nights of my life. However, this experience of eating acid and then ecstasy, which they call candy-flipping, was close to indescribable. We were in our own protective, rainbow-colored bubble where snowflakes taste sweet and ice cream falls from the sky. It was an exhilaration straight out of Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory. Nothing real could reach us from up here. We talked for hours and hours about what we meant to each other and life and nature and happiness. I asked him for a kiss so I could feel the softness of his lips and the wetness of his pink tongue. He obliged because 1) why wouldn't he and 2) no one wants to disappoint someone on ecstasy.
One single sweet kiss turned into ravenous passion. I could barely catch my breath as I took the idea of Jon into my already crowded mind. I was overwhelmed by the enormity of what this kiss could mean. Was it a declaration of love and everything being right in the world? Or was I taking advantage of being high and using Jon for my pleasure? Or could it be that my senses were heightened and a kiss that normally felt great was unbelievable? I didn't want to stop kissing him; I didn't want his tongue to ever stop flirting with mine. I was starting to feel as though nothing in the world would ever compare to this feeling right in this moment. We breathed heavily; exhausted from the eternity we spent smothering one another, but we didn't want the ecstasy to go away. We moved from the couch to the bed and he undressed me slowly. As my shirt came up over my head, even the light breeze caused by the cotton rising up over my skin felt terrific. He was beautiful; I could see myself in the hazel pools of his eyes. His hair was silky and smelled as sweet and as tempting as cinnamon rolls. He thought I was beautiful and he moved his warm hands over my body and held me with care and attention. We were going to make love and it was going to be beautiful too. The experience lasted until the sun shined through the window. There was soft music lulling us to dream. We fell asleep in each other's arms and didn't wake up until dusk.
It's amazing that when you're on a substance that helps to bring out who you really are or what you're too afraid to admit you are, you find yourself acting like a child. This makes me wonder if I secretly long for the days of Lincoln Logs and Tinker Toys. All we had to do was learn to add numbers and share our cookies and juice. I wish I was still innocent…untouched…unknowing.
Our night that Saturday that is buried deep in the recesses of a clouded-over brain went on for hours. It was great and memorable. Well, that's what I was told and I sort of remember being unable to catch my breath or basically breathe at all. I was overloaded with good feeling. It was something foreign for my body and my heart to experience. I didn't know how to handle mental pleasure at the same time as physical pleasure, even if a synthetic substance fabricated it. Sometimes, I find myself staring out the window, longing for those days where I'd throw caution out the window and I'd dance all night long. Now I'm afraid to dance, for fear someone will laugh or judge my style and rhythm. I can't recall times where I felt completely content and I had a surplus of happiness and smiles. It happened that night, with Jon. And I guess, because it was with him, I felt as if he, and not the drugs, was responsible for making me feel that way.
__________________________________________________________________________
I could write an entire book on my experience with Matt even though it lasted less than a year. It's hard to believe that someone who had such an intense impact on my life was really only in my life for such a short time. Although, it felt like an eternity and I can't forget about his presence, his smell, his blue eyes stay with me, even now when I have a moment between things or when I'm closing my eyes to go to sleep. Matt haunts me.
“You are a whore and a slut and I can't believe I ever let you get naked with me.”
"But I love you, Matt," I beg him to stay. I grab his sleeve and try to pull him to bed, knowing that when he sobers up, I won't be in this hell. "Sweetie, just come back to bed.”
"Back to bed? I wouldn't sleep next to you even if you paid me. You hear that? You're a dirty whore and I wouldn't give you shit!" I can't cry. Not anymore. He's done this too many times for me to feel anything, for me to get mad or hurt or shed one more tear for him…for him…for me. I know I didn't do anything wrong. And I know if he would just come back to bed, this nightmare would end. I sigh resigned, knowing what I have to do in order to get any peace of mind or peace and quiet. I gather my pillow and my blanket and I go downstairs to sleep on the couch. He slams the door as he screams after me, "that's where you belong, bitch."
The sun rises around six and I haven't slept at all. The couch is incredibly uncomfortable and my back is killing me. I have a headache, a feeling resembling a hangover that I know all too well, since I drank a lot last night too. I always drink when Matt and I are together. It's what we do.
I don't make a move to start the coffee or even turn on the TV, so as not to upset the quiet in the house. There is hardly ever any quiet here. When Matt's finally gone in the mornings, I try to breathe deeply and collect myself to shower or get dressed and head to wherever I'm supposed to be, usually class or work, but I can't-there's an obstruction; it hurts too much to love someone who hates himself so much that he doesn't even know when he's being hurtful to someone he loves.
He must love me. He just has to. Otherwise nothing makes any sense. He is so commanding, so powerful in life and in bed. I am almost like his daughter rather than his girlfriend. God, that's sick. But it's also somehow a turn-on. No, I don't want to sleep with my dad…I'm dysfunctional not disgusting. But the feeling that someone, when he's sweet and kind, will hold me in his arms and take care of and protect me…that's the greatest feeling. Do I need protection? Protection from what? Well, last night, it seems I could have used protection from Matt himself. Isn't that ironic? He's aggressive and I shy away and he pulls me back, demanding to know what the hell is wrong with me. I can't tell him what I want and what I don't because when I speak, my voice is too soft, almost inaudible. He steps on my spirit and squashes it like this pest on the kitchen floor.
When he's sober, Matt is wonderful. The problem is that he's hardly ever sober. He is either smoking a joint or taking some pain medication for this ongoing pain he can't seem to get rid of or he's drinking his beer. Matt drinks a lot of beer. He drinks the same kind of beer in the mornings before work and in the afternoon when he gets home, and then again with dinner and afterwards while he's watching TV; it's his trademark. Years from now, I'll get nauseated at the sight of the can...not that it will stop me from having my own drinking problem, but nevertheless, it will still haunt me. But I don't know this. Of course I don't. Matt always said hindsight is 20/20. He was right.
We drink and smoke and do drugs together because these are social activities. And we are a couple. We associate with his friends since mine don't want to come over anymore. In fact, I don't really see anyone I used to know. Matt doesn't seem to notice that my friends aren't around, not even the ones who live here. They lived here with me before he did. We had great times, just the girls. We would sing and laugh and gossip. We'd blend mixed drinks with colorful umbrellas floating on the top. Sometimes Matt or one of the other guys would join in the fun, but it was always the four girls united as a sisterhood, protective of the other three. Each boy who expressed interest in entering our circle had to get a seal of approval and usually, it was easy to do. He needed to treat our sister with love and respect and recognize the importance of friendship. He had to be able to keep up with the sarcastic repartee and understand that if Sara was upset about a guy or her family or a bad grade, this took precedence over him wanting to come over to get laid.
Matt was the exception to this rule. He was demanding. He made it sound as though any time he needed me or wanted me, it was my duty to go to him. And even though I was too smart to buy into any of that, I went to him. He gained strength by feeding off my weakness, my desire to make him happy regardless of how alienated from my friends or for myself I became. He was a vampire sucking the life out of his prey. I felt weaker when I was with Matt and because I was weak, I needed his strength to protect me.
Matt came over to socialize with the sisterhood and we granted him approval. He was funny and smart and you always had an interesting time when he was around. But it didn't take long for my friends to realize that Matt had no concept of sisterhood and respect or love. He always seemed insincere and he made fun of me in front of them. Jill, the one with the acerbic tongue, told him to start treating me right or to fuck off. I couldn't bear the thought that they believed I had no strength to stand up for myself and I'd say, “It's okay, he's just joking around guys. I do the same thing to him in front of his friends.” But I never would have done that. Because when we'd all be together, Matt, his friends, and myself, I was outnumbered. Six or seven guys drinking beer and maybe two or three girls who wore black nail polish and collars around their necks and prim and proper Emma, or if not a good-two-shoes, then at the very least, someone who had the potential to get up every morning and go to class and do well and succeed in life. I was practically a joke to them; I was dainty and fragile. I would get silly when I drank and do even sillier things like throw up on my brand new shoes or make phone calls in the middle of the night insulting people Matt asked me to chew out. He gets too rowdy when he drinks. He confronts the police and steals and screams and runs away from me when he's drunk. And I chase after him. I do this because I love him.
What is love? How can you love someone who screams horrible things at you and makes you want to take your own life in order to stop the insanity that you don't even recognize as being your life? My friends ask me these questions. They tell me I'm smarter than this. They tell me; by the time I realize what I've gotten myself into, it will just be too damn late. I reply with a quiet indignation, but sometimes with tears already building up in my eyes, “You just don't understand. And I don't want to kill myself all the time.” No one understands this connection we have. Sometimes, not even I understand it. We are on this perpetual down spiral, Matt and I. And I no longer believe that he's going to catch me if I fall.
I have this secret I have to tell him but I have to wait for the exact moment to tell him, otherwise he might get angry. And I don't want to make Matt angry because then he'll quell the anger with beer or weed and then we'll start this all over again. Plus, it's the weekend and I can't possibly deal with this shit during the day. It's bad enough to have to be the brunt of the jokes and comments in front of his friends, while they drink and belch like truckers and sit around listening to angry music.
He comes downstairs noisily. I hear him begin to make coffee and he finds me pretending to be sleeping. He says in a whisper, "Baby, are you awake? Em, did I steal the covers again? You must be freezing down here!" He has no idea what transpired the night before and I sure as hell am not going to be the one to tell him. All I want is to forget.
And he slides in next to me on the couch and cups my breast with a warm hand. I can feel his body pressed against mine, it's familiarity, and I smile at how we fit so well together, knowing that now is the time to talk to him. But Matt doesn't want to do any talking. First, he licks my neck and puts one hand under my cotton underwear and I can feel him become erect as he realizes I'm already wet, waiting for him to make love to me, so that he can transport me to another time and I can forget all about last night.
Saturday Night, out on the town (in progress)
Patrick is the perfect person to write about in a story. He is attractive, intelligent, makes a good living, has a great apartment and a handful of close friends. He suffers from an anxiety disorder that prohibits him from being able to go farther than an hour away from his great apartment. He comes down with a headache and needs to recuperate after we have a night in the city. He refuses to see a therapist and claims he can't afford it. However, he chooses to spend his money on his subscription to Barely Legal, countless pornography tapes, and his most recent investment-penis enlargement surgery.
He hides behind his problem so he doesn't have to take risks. I guess that's my own opinion and maybe a psychologist would feel differently, saying that there really is something in his brain that makes him feel that traveling anywhere outside of his tiny little town is dangerous and that the big bad people are going to come and get him if he drives anywhere outside his comfort zone. And I can totally relate to someone with issues. Clearly, I have a dependency problem of my own. Did I hear a “duh!” Well, knowing is half the battle, isn't it? And I take all the steps I possibly can to feel better and think differently and react more intelligently. However, Pat isn't like that. He hardly ever ventures outside his safety zone. He works about ten minutes from home. Home is an apartment in the town in which he grew up as a young boy. He lives close to his parents with whom he doesn't like all that much, but I suppose the idea of having a supportive family is as close to the actual supportive family as he's going to get. He holes up in his room, reading dirty magazines, watching porn, and listening to horrible and degrading radio shows. He's not a sick-o. At least, I don't think he is. He has normal conversations, talking about things ranging from entertainment to current events. He holds down a good, stable job in finance and has a great smile. If only I could get him to drive out of his town and into the real world.
Saturday, December 4, 2004 (change narration)
Jason
"So where are you from?" Oh God. Now comes the, "let's make small-talk" part of the date.
"Suburban town you've probably never heard of, USA." I usher the chicken into the extra sauce that's made a pool in the center of the plate. Making the food skate across this dish is much more stimulating than this conversation. He's attractive though. He suggested they go get a drink afterwards. Does he not think this sucks?
"Oh, that's cool. Anyway, Emma..." Shit. He remembers her name. Maybe he's just trying to reinforce it so he won't call out the wrong one later on.
"Yes, uh..." She blanks. What the hell was his name? There have been at least three this week. Is he the one who is estranged from his father? Or is this the guy who dreams of living in a houseboat? She can't remember. Jesus, she's being such a guy. She tries to buy some time by smiling sweetly and lowering her lashes, giving him that, "I'll do nasty things to you" look, if he'll just move on with the conversation.
He waits expectantly. Man, this guy has no clue he's just a notch in my dating belt; one that will never make it to the bedpost. Or at least not while I'm sober. And then it just doesn't count, does it? I mean, I probably won't sleep with him...I'll just let it feel good for a while. Get him off so he feels like he's made out like a bandit. Oh, don't get me wrong. I'll expect something in return. I'm no fool. He probably won't know what to do anyway. I swear, some guys just have a knack for getting a woman to moan. And some don't even seem to know that they even have a tongue at all.
I'm not a slut. Let me just come out with that right away. 'Cause you're probably sitting there thinking, wow, what a whore. And even if you weren't thinking that before, you are now. But I'm not. In fact, I care deeply about making love to someone. When I was younger, I believed in not having sex until I was married. Didn't we all? Then, by the beginning of college-slowly, but surely-I thought to myself, well, only if I'm engaged or married. Then it became, well, only if I'm in a serious relationship. Onto, there's a difference between making love and fucking. That's where that leaves me. And the humorous part of it is that they think they're the ones fucking me. Like, they're pulling one over on me, or something. But, women can be just as sex-crazed as men. Of course, I'm always left with the need to justify it, whereas the guy just says, "sweet, I got off".
I won't just fuck anyone. If I can't talk to the guy before, like on the date, I can't sleep with him. I can't stand stupid men. I honestly don't see how a guy can sleep with a dumb girl. It has nothing to do with respecting her. What does it say about him? If he can't make me laugh, how can I let him try to make me come?
"So, Emma..." Oh, right. I forgot about...Jeff? Mike? No, Mike was Wednesday. Now there was a pathetic soul with absolutely nothing to contribute to society. Painfully shy, lived in his parents' basement-does it get any sadder? Didn't even pay rent or do his own laundry and he couldn't even afford to buy me dinner. What the hell is this guy's name? Jason! Jason? He looks like a Jason. He has a nice smile and, at least, he's givin' it the old college try. Gotta give him a BJ for effort.
"Do you want to get outta here?" I look up from the mess that I have made on my ceramic roller rink with my chicken and sauce.
"Sure, where to?" I know where he's going with this. There's one of two responses that can possibly follow an uncomfortable outing such as this. Either, "my place isn't far from here", which means he's tired of staring at the top of my head and would much rather be staring at my bare back, as he comes at me from behind, or he could say, "there's a bar down the street. Want to check it out"? This statement means he doesn't have the balls to do anything, not even have a conversation, without being wasted first.
And sure enough, he tells me about a local dive that he read about in the paper just this morning. I'm surprised that my date is literate. So I say what the hell. I could use a vodka tonic anyway. They probably serve cheap crap there so it'll take three or four to be able to completely enjoy myself.
The good news is that I confirm his name is Jason by noticing the signature on the credit card receipt. Good, I don't feel too much like an asshole. But, I mean, men do it all the time-I've actually been called the wrong name in bed. One guy actually forgot my name in the middle of a conversation and referred to me as, hey you". So, I think it's only fair, if I allow them to see they are not as important to me as they may think they are. So we go out, to the bar, make out a little and then I think he just got bored. Typical male with the attention span of a gnat. If I wasn't letting his hands explore my body, he wasn't stimulated enough. He even tried to pretend to hold my hand and guide it to stroke his cock, over his pants of course. After all, we were in a public place. I was toasted from the vodka tonics. Since it was Gordon's, I had lost count of how many I gulped down. So it took me a full minute to realize what he was planning on having me do to him.
I pulled away from our embrace and just simply shook my head.
"Aw, c'mon baby." He slurred his words and smelled of beer.
"No, thanks Jay. I need to be up early tomorrow." I reach for my bag on the chair, "It's getting late, I should head home."
He processes what I've just said and then slowly, he begins to look pissed. Like, why did I allow him to pay for my chicken and pasta dinner when I had no intention of going down on him?
"Tell you what babe, if you can say you want to take me home and actually use my name in the sentence, I'm as good as yours."
He stares at the floor, slowly tipping over to the side, all the while chanting, "shit, what the hell was it," over and over again.
After about ten minutes, I got up and went to leave. He called after me, "You're such a cock tease, bitch."
And I shout, over the music..."My name's Emma, dickhead!”
