The mature notch

We sit at opposite ends of his slippery leather couch, holding drinks neither of us need. I watch him bring the glass to his lips, mustache momentarily disappearing, and I wonder what on earth I’m doing here.

He’s telling me about his job, something to do with engineering. I’m interested and I’m not – I feel as though he’s filling the time according to some rule of sexual etiquette I’ve never learned. Set the scene, chat up your prey, seduce them slowly and deliberately. That’s not the way younger men do things. It’s not unwelcome exactly, just unfamiliar.

He leans over, lifts my feet and settles them in his lap. Still talking, he massages them, making slow deep circles. I haven’t had a pedicure in ages and normally I’d be embarrassed by my rough heels and chipped nail polish, but I find I don’t care. It feels nice, but the smile he gives me as his hands start to travel higher, stroking my ankles and calves, doesn’t have the effect I think he intends it to. It’s suggestive and rather cheesy. I’m more amused than aroused.

We only met hours ago, introduced by a mutual friend, yet already he knows more about me than any one night stand ever has. That’s partially her fault – telling him over dinner that I write a blog, encouraging me to tell him my crazy stories. And because I didn’t think it mattered, because I looked at him and saw nothing but a friend of a friend whom I’d likely never see again...I did. We shot pool and threw out statistics and sordid tales like playing cards.

“I’ll stay because I’m drunk, but I’m not having sex with you”, I’d said only a short while ago. The streetlights in the parking lot made him look like a pirate when he smiled – black hair, whiter than white teeth, deeply tan skin and that damn mustache. We both knew I was lying.

We stop speaking and he stares at me, the cheesy smile becoming a dirty leer. I can’t help but grin back because this feels rather ridiculous. I’m going to fuck him for sport, because he’s 20 years my senior, because I’m drunk and curious. I’m not sexually attracted to him at all, though he’s moderately good looking. I’m even more amused when I realize his reasons may be similar – he might fuck me for sport, because I’m 25 and I doubt women my age beat down his door on a regular basis.

He stands up and pulls me to my feet, leading me down one hallway then another. His room is open and spacious, shuttered windows cover two walls. The bed is tall, headboard cattycornered causing it to jut out into open space. Soon I’m sprawled across it naked and for once, not even a second of self-consciousness plagues me. Maybe I should stop sleeping with men I’m not initially attracted to more often.

I’m surprised by how good he is, how attentive and tireless, how kinky. For someone I’m sleeping with just because I can, he’s exceeding my expectations. But occasionally he looks at me in a really intense way, almost glaring, and with that mustache...I have to stop myself from laughing.

I fall asleep next to him, which is something I never do. Not the sort of cat napping I tend to do before sneaking out with my panties in my purse, ensuring they have no idea that I snore and occasionally drool, but hard sleep, only waking when he nudges me for more sometime near dawn. I scratch “low libido” off of my older man mental stereotype list.

*****

He asks me out to dinner and, before I really have time to think about it, I say yes. He’s been reading my blog and he likes it. It’s strange to know that a one night stand could read what I write, but even stranger still that I’m seeing him again. I’m not sure I can write about him, knowing he’ll read it.

There’s standing room only at the bar while we wait for our table and I suck down three Jack and Cokes before we’re seated. He has just as many, but I have a feeling that’s a regular occurrence. I want to have sex with him again because it was good, but I’m not sure I can do it sober. His age is no longer a novelty notch for my belt and more like some strange self-experiment I shouldn’t be doing.

He asks if I like wine and I say that I do. He asks if I like red or white and I say that I prefer white. He says he prefers red and orders that, assuring me I’ll like it.

The waitress pours a little in our glasses and though I consider it, I don’t do the pretentious swirling and sniffing. We both raise our glasses to our lips and he nods at the waitress. I nod too, even though I think it’s rather bitter, and she fills our glasses, leaving the bottle on the table.

“Do you like it”, he asks.

“Yes”, I say, to be nice.

The dynamic has changed with this dinner. I’m nervous for the first time and I think it’s because it feels like a date. I’m filled with mixed emotions about it – I’m amused, horrified, excited. Somehow just sleeping with him doesn’t seem as bad as going out with him.

We empty the bottle of wine and I feel infinitely more relaxed. I totter out the doors in my heels, pausing to pull a pair of sandals out of my purse – it’s a long walk back to the car and I doubt I can manage it in those death traps. It’s a nice night for it though and the conversation and laughter flows easily. His laugh is very high pitched and it makes me laugh harder, turning it all into a big vicious cycle.

When we get back he offers me a drink. I take it, shedding shoes and pants as I meander back through the hallways to his bedroom. I climb up on his bed and decide I’d like nothing more than to jump on it.

I haven’t jumped on a bed in years, but here I am in my lacey boyshorts and shirt, drunkenly bouncing around his mattress like it’s a trampoline. I have no idea what he makes of this, since I’m too busy laughing and enjoying myself, but when I stop, he’s right there at the edge, pulling me to him. I wonder if he thinks I’m finally acting my age.

*****

He invites me over to his place to watch the bowl game. I’m reluctant because I have my period and that means if I go, I’m going for the express purpose of hanging out and nothing else. Spending time with him without sex on the menu seems like a waste, and possibly another step in a direction I’m not sure I want to go, but I’m bored. I don’t care if he sees me looking bloated in a pair of leggings, with minimal makeup.

We drink beer and watch the game, playing beer pong at half time. When my team is still losing badly in the third, I make him turn it to something else. We get on his computer, look up YouTube videos that make us laugh and share them with each other. I sit on his lap and it feels a little awkward, but most likely just for me.

Moving to the couch, I watch some sort of criminal drama show he’s put on. When he returns from the kitchen with more beer, it’s to a commercial with a Star Wars reference. Laughing, he bends down in front of me, eye to eye, and says, “Aly, I am your father.”

I’m appalled and I know my mouth hangs open as proof. He is, indeed, almost exactly my father’s age. I internally shake myself and laugh to hide how much that goofy little sentence rattled my cage, but I doubt it’s convincing. I’m not sure which part bothers me more: The fact that he could be...or the fact that he said it, even jokingly.

*****

We go out for drinks and play pool at a bar around the corner. I’m having a good time and getting fantastically drunk until a group of young couples comes and sits in our empty area. They’re playing other games and apparently waiting to use the pool table I don’t want to give up.

He solves this problem by inviting a couple to play against the two of us. Soon we are laughing and chatting with them and he’s buying everyone rounds of shots. The girl playing opposite me is a hair stylist and we talk shop. She gives me a business card with her name on it and drunkenly mentions a discount. We are fast friends now, as only two drunken women who are strangers can be, and she rolls her eyes at me when her boyfriend admonishes her for not paying attention.

“So are you two dating”, she asks. Her face says she’s genuinely interested in the answer and when I look up at him, his expression mirrors hers.

“Um, ha ha.” I shrug and laugh, then decide to go the easy route. “I don’t know”, I say looking at him again, “are we dating?”

My knee jerk instinct was to reply “well, we’re fucking...”, but when I saw his face I wasn’t sure if I should.

“Yes, I guess we are”, he says.

A short time later, I see someone I know. It’s only Travis, my cousin’s old high school boyfriend, someone I only speak to out in public, but I’m suddenly very self conscious about my...date. He starts to come toward me to say hello and, rather than letting him come all the way over, I meet him halfway.

We hug, exchange pleasantries, cover the usual “who have you seen, who’s doing what” topics and he introduces me to his girlfriend. I see Travis glancing over at our pool table curiously, but I offer no explanation about my company.

“Who was that”, he asks when I return.

“Oh, that was just an old friend from high school. He dated my cousin for a long time.”

He makes a comment about me not introducing him and I feign surprise, apologize. I’m drunk after all – social niceties easily escape me. But I’m relatively sure he isn’t buying it.

The boyfriend of my new, drunk friend tells him how lucky he is to be taking me home. Maybe he thinks so too. Maybe that’s why he chooses to ignore my poorly concealed slight. Maybe we really are using each other equally.

He makes me breakfast the next morning and we sit at his dining room table. This is new.

I look at him and try to imagine introducing him to my friends and family as my boyfriend. Premature, yes, but all this time I’ve been spending with him makes me picture it and, in my head, it looks painfully awkward.

*****

We go to a Mexican restaurant near his house. I order a burrito and he laughs at my exaggeratedly Southern pronunciation. But this dinner feels different. I think we’re both losing what little bit of interest we’ve had in each other.

I’m not around often enough, I don’t contact him much, and I happen to know that he’s seeing other women, going out of town with them. I don’t mind, since I’ve been sleeping with someone else when the mood strikes me, but I have a strange feeling that he thinks I will.

Or, maybe I’ve had it all wrong from the beginning. Maybe he’s not my fuck buddy that I’m sort-of-but- not-really-dating because classifying it makes me feel weird. Maybe I’m his...and all these dinners, drinks and hangouts are just bonuses for sharing the fountain of youth.

*****

That was the last time we saw each other.

The next time we spoke was through text message, discussing plans to hangout. He was supposed to let me know what we were doing and after the original “let’s do something”, and my affirmative reply, he just never wrote back.

I didn’t even pursue it, didn’t bother to ask what the hell happened, because I already knew. He’d fallen in love with another woman he’d been seeing, someone closer to his age. Go figure.

I wasn’t hurt and when I look back on it, we had a good time together. You can’t really regret great sex and fun dates. I was, however, a bit angry about the invitation he never bothered to cancel – I found it extremely rude. But still, even after that slight, I couldn’t write about him.

He asked me once, after we’d seen each other a few times, why I hadn’t written about him yet. He was well aware that I generally don’t leave an interesting man, date, or sexual encounter untold.

At first it was because I thought he wouldn’t like it – no man I’d slept with or dated had ever had access to my blog before. I figured he wouldn’t want me to put all of his personal business out there. It’s certainly not for everyone. But no, he seemed to really want me to talk about him. Maybe it had something to do with ego.

When he told me to go for it, that he didn’t care, I was actually excited. I’d been a little disappointed that there was finally something I wasn’t technically allowed to write about.

But when I tried...the words wouldn’t come. Somehow, knowing he’d be reading it had me blocked. There was the tiniest part of me that didn’t want to offend him in any way, but the main problem was this: What if he disagreed about our time together? What if he said it didn’t happen quite that way? I didn’t want to be challenged.

That was last year and I’ve since realized a few things about writing and relationships.

Everyone sees things differently – writers especially. There are details that stand out in our minds that other people find so insignificant, they don’t even register. And more importantly, everyone feels things differently. Everything I’ve said about my time with him is true – it’s what I felt, it’s what I thought and if it differs from the way he remembers it, that doesn’t make it wrong. It just makes it mine.

I’ve wasted a lot of time these past few months trying to avoid things, people, emotions. It’s one of the reasons I’ve had such a hard time writing...because writing, for me, is the opposite of avoidance. This story is my way of giving fear and avoidance the middle finger, a step toward getting back some of what I feel I’ve been missing. And, of course, to finally give him the post he deserves.

The lunch date

Our first date happened almost seven years ago and I wasn’t attracted to him then. I was young, bored and I liked the way he complimented me with a serious expression, refusing any protests, feeble or otherwise. I let him take me out, I let him kiss me, and I let him buy me things to the point of being ridiculous.

But eventually I got tired of trying to like him “that way”, of letting him touch me when I didn’t really want him to, and stopped returning his calls. I found someone else and conveniently forgot about him, until his name would show up randomly on my phone or I ran into him in town.

Most of the time I ignored his texts and calls, saying only the bare minimum to be polite. I would wave and hurry away when I saw him out. But every now and then, he would catch me in a rough patch. Whether it was due to boredom, loneliness or deflated ego, he’d happily step in and boost me back up. And with an attitude that said I was clearly doing him a favor, I’d let him.

When I didn’t need him, he irritated me. I hated that he always seemed to show up everywhere I went. I felt like he was stalking me at times, but really, if I’m going to be honest (and this is all going to be brutally honest), he wasn’t doing anything that I didn’t allow him to. I never would have admitted it to myself, or anyone else, back then...but I wanted him on the back burner, just in case. Telling him off might have meant alienating him completely. And too, he was so fucking nice that I just couldn’t bring myself to really be mean to him.

Except now I realize that I was cruel to him all along. I knew he was crazy about me, possibly even in love with me. And instead of calling time of death, I let him repeatedly shock our relationship back to life. Let him hopefully watch a bunch of feeble lines on a monitor and wait for them to get bigger, all the while knowing what he didn’t – my heart would never work properly for him.

Seven months ago I made a stab at behaving like a decent human being. I had feelings for someone and, no matter how at odds their words and actions sometimes were, I knew they didn’t feel quite the same way about me. Because they never came right out and said “I don’t want you”, I kept thinking “it could happen”. But it didn’t, it won’t, and I knew there was a distinct possibility they were doing to me what I’d done to him, whether they realized it or not.

So when I received a message asking me to hang out and, as usual, telling me how wonderful I was...I finally said what should have been said ages ago. I told him that he wanted to be more than friends, he always had, and I didn’t. I told him that I couldn’t hang out with him unless he was prepared to accept that. I was proud of myself for not dicking around, for saying it in what I thought was a decent, but clear way. He responded that he was sorry for making me uncomfortable, which made me feel like an ass, and then he promptly disappeared.

I thought about him for awhile after that. I wondered how he was doing and if he would come back around and try to be my friend, or if maybe that was something he’d never be able to do. I crawled even farther up my own ass, and wondered how long it would take him to get over me. How much time was I worth? But after a few months without a word or a glimpse of him, I forgot to wonder.

Then a few weeks ago I was driving home. I’d had one of the toughest, most emotionally charged days of my life. I don’t cry that often, but when I do it’s...volatile. I’d been blubbering for most of the hour it takes me to drive home when my phone went off. It was a message from him. He’d passed me, seen what a spectacle I was, and wanted to make sure I was alright.

Of course that set me off more, but I replied that I was okay. Then he said, after seven months of silence, “I always hoped it would work out between us. I’m still crazy about you.” Etcetera, I’m gorgeous, etcetera, he misses me.

And instead of saying “don’t” or “I’m sorry”, I latched onto those words like a life raft. I said “thank you” and sent a smiley face, knowing it wasn’t a good idea.

“Why didn’t it work out?”, he asked.

“I don’t know”, I said, all the while hating myself. I was feeling rotten and I wanted someone to make me feel better and I knew that, with a few noncommittal responses, he’d do just that.

He comforted me, asked me out to lunch, and I accepted. I was back on the vicious cycle, attempting to justify my behavior like I always had before – by telling myself that maybe this was it for me, maybe I was supposed to be with someone that loved me more than I loved them. He was a great guy, with a lot of qualities just screaming “settling down material”. Maybe I’d read too many romance novels and was overlooking what was supposed to be my chance, while I waited for a passion that didn’t exist. But I knew better – even though I was stepping back into the ring, this time I was completely aware of what I was doing. I was going to sucker punch him, and apparently no amount of self-loathing was going to change that. If I was cruel before, I was downright sadistic now.

Two days ago he showed up right on time for our lunch date. Everyone else was gone when I let him in the front door and he followed me back to my office. I was nervous, but it wasn’t the fluttery nervousness of a normal date. It was a nervousness born of knowing I was doing something wrong, and wondering if he’d call me out.

“You look nice”, he said.

I was surprised by how relaxed and casual he was and I forced myself to calm down too. He didn’t reach for my hand or my arm as we walked to the café, like I thought he would. He didn’t touch me at all.

I’d made jokes about getting a free lunch out of him, because that’s what I do...make terrible jokes. But when we arrived I waved away his protests and paid. I couldn’t have that on my conscious too. And apparently, buying him a club sandwich was supposed to make me feel better.

We sat down at a table by the window and we talked – about our kids, our jobs, and all manner of things we’d missed out on in the months we hadn’t spoken. I found myself laughing with him and feeling comfortable. He didn’t question me or compliment me, he didn’t look at me like he wanted to peel my skin off and wear it like a wetsuit. It felt normal – like two friends having lunch.

On the walk back I looked at his face, relaxed and confident, and I wondered if he knew. I wondered if he thought he was “wearing me down” or if, like me, he simply couldn’t stop himself from gravitating to what he knew would never work, out of some unfulfilled need.

In the lobby of my building he hugged me goodbye and kissed me on the cheek. “That was nice”, he said. And I agreed, smiling and waving as he walked out the double doors and into the parking garage.

But my smile didn’t stick around very long. I’d no sooner sat down at my desk when I thought, “Wait...what just happened? Is he over me? He’s never that casual. What was wrong with him?” I knew I was being an egotistical asshole, but I couldn’t help wondering why he didn’t fawn all over me like he normally would.

Two hours later I received a text message that said, “Thanks for lunch, had a great time. You looked stunning, as always.”

That was more like what I’d come to expect. And because my vanity knows no bounds, I grinned like a Cheshire cat.

I’d be willing to wager that I’ll hear from him again soon, and I’m not really sure what will happen. After exploring every unflattering angle of my behavior, and branding myself with labels I hate, yet completely deserve (like needy and cruel), I know something has to give. I know that, no matter how many times I may try to pretend or convince myself otherwise, he isn’t what I’m looking for. Now I just have to figure out if I’m the kind of person that needs something so badly, they take what isn’t rightfully theirs. I hope not. I hope I can find the courage to push him away for good and learn how to be truly alone, because maybe that’s all fate, God, or whatever decides these matters, is waiting for.

Wanderlust

The South is famous for its sedate pace. Its inhabitants never seem to be in as much a hurry as the rest of the world. Even in the larger cities their bustling has an air of nonchalance. Their attitude often clearly says, “Yes I’m late. No, I don’t care.”

But ever since I was a little girl I dreamed of leaving this quiet place and moving to a big city – somewhere like New York or even abroad to London or Paris. I loved everything about being on the move and much of that was contributed to my ADD. As a child I was given Ritalin, but if they’d paid attention they would have realized that the same effect could be achieved without medicine - I could drool on myself just listening to them drone on and on about their dull workdays and interests. “She just cannot sit still”, they would say in the parent/teacher conferences. Silly, narrow minded adults. I would sit still for hours with a book in my hand or a travel documentary on the television. I didn’t need the zombie side effects of Ritalin, I needed stimulation. To my knowledge, there’s no drug for selective ADD.

I never minded long road trips. I was comfortable curling up in the backseat with a pillow, my portable CD player, and a book or two. I’d watch the landscape whiz by with complete contentment, happy just knowing we were getting further and further away from that dull place called home. Hotel rooms, no matter how rudimentary, held a certain charm. I was sleeping in a foreign bed, living out of a suitcase, and eating “continental” breakfasts. How exciting!

The first time I set foot in an airport I was fifteen. I was going to Spain for two weeks with a tour group and for a small town, middle class girl it was the traveling lottery. My birthday would come and go while we were away, so my father hired a limo to drive me and my friends from our house to the airport in Charlotte, two hours away, as an early present. It was a very strange gift, but at the time I thought it was wonderful.

The trip was a scant three months before 9/11 and getting through the airport was a breeze. Checking bags was free, carry on rules were pretty lax, and security was friendly. Completely different from flying today.

I spent the entire flight to Barcelona fighting to stay awake, to take every single bit of it in: the in flight movie, the peanuts I hated but was determined to eat none-the-less, the tiny bathroom I insisted on inspecting, storing my luggage in the overhead compartment, the noises the plane made. I loved it all, but perhaps the part I loved most was getting off: Gathering my things together and striding purposefully up the gangway, collecting my luggage from the carousel, standing in front of the terminal and looking out at the people and the cars...knowing that I was actually standing on the other side of the world.

And wouldn’t you know it – the first hotel we stayed at was breathtaking. It was small and quaint – crammed together with a bunch of other buildings. The outside walls were old and peeling and the street out front was steep and narrow, but when we ventured inside everything was immaculate, shiny, and new. Our room had a set of tall double windows that opened up to a small wrought iron balcony, vines weaving their way through its bars. I remember leaning on that railing, looking out over the crowded city and having the sudden urge to cry.

We went on a whirlwind tour across the country. If I hadn’t taken picture after picture to prove it, sometimes I feel as if I’d never been there at all. Barcelona, Valencia, Granada, Toledo, Seville, Costa del Sol, Madrid - I’d have to locate my old itinerary to do our schedule justice. It’s funny, the things and places I remember most aren’t the guided tours and planned outings (though the tour of The Alhambra was brilliant) – they’re the free nights and afternoons when we were allowed to explore. Dancing in a discotheque, strolling along the Ramblas, eating lunch in a crowded plaza, drinking daiquiris at a beach hut, buying a sword at the factory in Toledo, my first encounter with a taxi AND a subway (both of which left me just a tad scarred).

We took the ferry and did a day trip into Morocco which was a bit terrifying. It might have been the men with guns, the snake charmers in the crowded streets, or the camels. Take your pick. Our tour guide claimed his name was Michael Douglas. “Just like the actor!” I had a strange, and overwhelming, urge to punch him in the face.

The market places were interesting, but there were children everywhere, reaching out for you and demanding your attention, trying to sell tiny drums and fans. I suppose my favorite part was lunch. We ate in the strangest looking restaurant – very ornate floors and iron grills, men balancing trays of candles on their heads. Everything looked sort of faded and surreal. We ate couscous from giant platters in the middle of the table and drank Coca Cola from small glass bottles.

It was the trip of a lifetime. And when I returned home looked even less appealing to me than usual. I became even more obsessed with travel than I’d been before. Unfortunately I’ve yet to leave the country again. Oh, I’ve been to various places in the US and enjoyed it very much, but everything gets stacked against Spain and falls flat.

This past weekend I realized why that was. (You know, aside from the fact that it’s another country and that’s exciting and romantic.)

Sunday morning I slept late. The kid finally wandered in to wake me up, struggled up onto the high bed, nestled against me and giggled when I tickled her sides. We drank coffee and ate breakfast together in the living room while cartoons played in the background.

After dishes were washed and put away my sister and I agreed to take her swimming. As always, with that promise, a brief flurry of activity commenced. Towels were gathered from the hall closet, bathing suits put on, sunscreen applied, ice cold drinks made, and all other necessary items were stored in beach bags.

We spent several hours lounging on the dock and on floats, swimming in lazy circles, and drenching each other with cannon balls off the high dive platform. It was the epitome of relaxation. (With the exception of Larry the goose attempting to drown Air Hose in the shallow end. The poor fat kid squalled like a wounded cat until we rescued her. For some reason Larry has recently gotten in the habit of sharing our floats and was under the impression that Air Hose would allow him to perch on top of her life jacket/head. Not so, unfortunately. )

It was later, on a long leisurely boat ride, that I started thinking about Spain. Stretched out on a seat, towel arranged under me, I lay on my stomach and watched the waves. I listened to the engine, the splashing, the radio pumping out country music. The sun beat down on my exposed skin and my hair whipped out behind me.

I realized that one of the reasons I felt so at home in that beautiful country overseas was the attitude, the feeling of the people. They’re unrushed; they take siestas in the afternoon. “Yes, I’m late. No, I don’t care.”

The language might be different, the architecture might be older and more ornate, the food more interesting, the music exotic – but the feeling of contentment and happiness I had on that boat was the same as the one I had wandering the beautiful gardens of a Spanish palace.

I’m lucky. I haven’t lost my wanderlust, but if I never get to travel again, at least I’m finally aware of the beauty in my surroundings.

There’s something to be said for my little corner of the world.

Part Two: The chicken wasn't the only problem.

The only thing on my mind as I ran alone through those dark woods was: Get as far from the campsite as possible, get as far from the campsite as possible. I knew things were about to get ugly and quite possibly...loud. It wasn’t until I picked a spot and commenced dying from the inside out that I had time to think about anything else.

I turned off the lantern to lessen the risk of being found by a neighboring camper, or worse, the one I’d left sleeping. Not that anyone in their right mind would approach an area emitting sounds like that willingly. Unless they thought I was being attacked by a razorback.

And of course with that thought, and the sudden blinding darkness that did nothing to muffle my agony, I became terrified that I would be mauled by a wild boar, bitten by a snake, or eaten ass first by a crocodile...bless his heart. I was damn near tears by the time Satan loosened his hold on my bowels.

On my way back to the tent I walked slowly, holding the lantern high and swinging it wildly from side to side. I was consumed with paranoia and every rustle was like a gunshot ringing in my ears.

When I finally reached the campsite my relief was short lived. Fear of wild animal attacks was replaced with irritation, anger, and disgust. I felt horrible and there was no way I was trying anything with him. I crawled into the tent and moved as far away from him as I could without losing any blankets. He was still sleeping the heavy sleep of the inebriated, but I would have no such luxury. I lay awake most of the night, only catching a few minutes of sleep at a time. As I watched the sun creep over the tent walls, my resolve plummeted.

I didn’t tell anyone about my little stroll in the dark, but I watched the others for signs of illness. Apparently I was the only one that had issues with chicken on a stick. I left them to their breakfast and went off to take a shower.

I was miserable all day and didn’t accomplish more than the shower, a few bong hits, and a nap. I lay spread eagled in my tent, wore as little as possible, and prayed that night would hurry up. The heat was oppressive. It felt like being smothered by an invisible pillow and though I don’t remember any conversations that took place that afternoon, I’m sure my only contribution was whining.

That night, wrapped in blankets against the welcome chill, we talked about nothing in particular. Random whispers in the dark until we both fell asleep. As badly as I still wanted to make a connection with him, I’d lost my nerve.

I woke sometime in the night to the sound of heavy breathing. It seemed to be coming from behind the tent and I stared quietly up at the open netted window on the back wall, seeing only black. I immediately thought it was a dog or some other large animal. The breathing was obviously wild and feral. Something had followed the stench of my defeat back to the tent and was going to kill me.

As I silently began to panic I heard whispering. Comforted by the realization that I wouldn’t be eaten alive, I listened intently, trying to determine what was going on. I started to catch a few words here and there. “Fuck...yes...” This was followed by more heavy breathing. “Harder...”

That’s right. The cherry on my camping sundae was listening to my friends fuck each other in the tent next door...all while lying next to the guy I should have been fucking, but wasn’t. I tossed and I turned and I put my pillow over my ears, but it was in my head by then.

I eventually fell asleep, only to be awakened again by pounding rain. I secured the flaps over the windows and moved everything away from the edges of the tent. It was relentless and loud. And while he slept on, I sat Indian style in the middle of the tent and cried.

The next morning we packed up our soggy campsite as best we could. I loaded my things in his car, said goodbye to my friends, and we started the long drive home. He was in a good mood and feeling very chatty as we pulled off. For the first few hours I made conversation, laughed, and sang along with him and the radio. But it was an eight hour drive and soon I was crashing.

I would fall asleep for a few minutes and he would do something to wake me. I knew he didn’t want to drive in silence while I slept, but I honestly couldn’t help it. I told him that I was sorry and that I didn’t get any sleep. He still couldn’t let me be. And even though he smiled and tried to make it funny, I finally snapped. I don’t remember what I said to him exactly, but it was along the lines of “leave me the fuck alone”.

And that was the beginning of the only fight we ever had. He snapped back at me and the gist of it was “you can walk home”. A few more heated back and forth sentences and it was over as quickly as it started.

True to form, he was smiling and turning it into a joke, smoothing things over. Outwardly I let it go, but inside I was still seething. It wasn’t just the fight that was bothering me. It was the whole disastrous weekend. I wanted to cry, but I couldn’t. If I let him see me break down if would all come tumbling out. All of the embarrassment and the planning, everything that didn’t need to be said in a car with four hours left and nowhere to hide.

We were fine for the rest of the trip, but by the time we pulled up in my driveway I desperately needed to be away from him. But of course it didn’t work out that way. He helped me bring in my things, settled down on the couch, and started discussing what we’d have for dinner with the rest of my family. I stayed in the shower for an hour and got it together. When he finally left that night I hugged him goodbye at the door and promised to call him soon.

But I didn’t.

Weeks went by and I played busy. I was just so tired of the emotional roller coaster. And, yes, I could have ended it. I could have said everything I wanted or needed to say and no matter what his answer would have been, at least it would’ve been over and I would KNOW. But, of course, I didn’t. Fear has a way of silencing the outspoken, casting doubt on the certain, and locking the free in a prison of their own making.

I spent our short time apart trying to fuck him out of my system by way of my old standby. The Fireman didn’t know about him, likely wouldn’t have cared if he did, and if I was a bit more aggressive and a bit more available, so much the better.

When I thought I was ok, that I could block it all off again, I called him to hang out and things when back to normal for awhile. We resumed our dinners and our movies and working on his house. I was coping.

But one night, after spending the majority of the day together, we rented a movie and took it back to his place. The TV wasn’t hooked up yet so we set the laptop up on the coffee table in the living room and sat on the couch to watch. I was skeptical about his choice, but it turned out to be tolerable. It was a spy drama called The Tailor of Panama and there was just enough sexuality in it to make me bite my lip a little nervously. I’d never been good at watching sexually charged scenes in front of certain people and he was at the top of that list.

About halfway through the movie he stretched out on the couch and put his head in my lap. He grinned up at me, I grinned back, and we returned our attention to the screen. I started absentmindedly running my fingers through his hair, which was longer than usual and falling over his forehead. I continued playing with his hair and massaging his scalp until the end credits rolled and he looked up at me again. My fingers, still wound in his hair, were motionless as we stared at each other.

We’d had these moments before - Moments when we looked each other straight in the eyes and didn’t move or say a word and there was this feeling. It’s like putting opposite ends of a magnet together and they want to meet straight on, but they just can’t. They circle each other, the pressure building each time they try to move closer, until one of them snaps round and they’re in their original positions again.

He broke it first, sitting up and chattering away about something or other. I didn’t want to leave, but I had to. He walked me to my car and hugged me goodbye. As I drove away I played the scenario over and over again in my head. About ten minutes later, before I could stop myself, I picked up my phone and called him. When he answered I quickly said, “What are we?”

“What do you mean”, he replied.

“I mean...what are we? Are we just friends?”

I’d pushed out the words in a rush and they hung between us, suspended, each second like the pop pop pop of a fraying cord about to snap. They weren’t the words I’d meant to say, but they were out and there was no turning back.

Finally he said, “I don’t know what you mean.”

“Yes you do!” I threw it back immediately.

He paused again before stuttering out, “I mean...I like you...I...I think you’re really pretty. (pause) We’re really different.”

I had no idea what to say to that. At the time it sounded like a rejection, simply because it wasn’t what I wanted to hear. Thinking about it now I still don’t know what it was he was trying to say and I should have pushed him for a clearer answer rather than simply pausing and saying, “Ok.”

And after a few moments of silence he said, “I’ll talk to you later, ok?”

After I hung up I couldn’t stand the silence or the tangle of thoughts in my head. I popped in a random CD and out came Howie Day’s song Collide. And I cried...wailed...while it played on repeat all the way home.

Then I got angry and did something I never do – confide in my mother. She listened and petted me and though she’d always loved him and thought the sun shone out of his ass, she said, “I always knew he was gay.”

Unfortunately, weeks later I still had no idea what to think. We never talked about that conversation again. I went back to visiting the fireman several times a week. When in doubt, have sex and forget about it. There’s nothing quite like a vicious cycle.

At the beginning of the end, we went out drinking downtown with a group of friends. We were having a good time and definitely drinking more than we should. It made everything seem normal for awhile. We stood together with our arms around each other’s waists, we danced and we laughed.

There was some drama (in a college bar...imagine that) and several of us decided to leave. He and I walked arm and arm, trailed by Rachel, some lesbian girl I worked with, and my cousin.

We paused to regroup in the parking lot. One minute I was leaning up against a car in the parking lot, waiting on everyone to quit bickering and laughing long enough to get situated. And the next he was pressed up against me and we were kissing. Really, wrapped up in each other, passionately kissing. I forgot about everyone around us the moment his lips touched mine.

It ended as abruptly as it started. He turned and left, heading for his car. And in my drunken memory, I can’t recall if we said goodbye. In my drunken memory, all I have is that one shining moment that I’ve forced through sheer will to remain intact. The kiss I waited eleven years for.

The next clear memory I have is after he left. I stood in that parking lot, wide eyed, fingers pressed to my lips. My cousin was staring at me with a huge grin on her face and the lesbian coworker was slouched over on a low wall, looking exited but confused. And I said, “He kissed me.”

“I saw it”, my cousin yelled jumping up and down. She was one of the few people that knew about every detail, every moment of our complicated history and exactly how I felt about him.

Tears filled my eyes and threatened to pour down my cheeks as I whispered it over and over to myself. “He kissed me...”

For the next several days I rehashed that scene in my mind, making my cousin recount her version. Then I waited for him to call.

He didn’t. After three days I caved and called him. We talked for a few minutes and I waited for him to bring it up, but again, he didn’t. So I prodded him. I talked about that night and how crazy it was. I knew he remembered. He’d had a lot less to drink.

Nothing. He didn’t acknowledge it. And when that happened, I drew back. I thought about just coming out with it. My emotions raged from anger to hurt and back again. In the end I decided that all signs pointed to one thing: He didn’t want me. I might have beat around the bush, but I attempted to talk to him about it. He shut me down.

And too, if I came out and said the words, talked about what that moment was like for me, there was a possibility he could take it away. I wanted to keep it safe and whole and mine. It was all I had.

We stopped calling each other. We didn’t see each other. Months and months and months went by. I resigned myself to that time apart. I knew it was necessary if I was going to stop obsessing. I saw people, I did things, and I replayed the kiss in my head less and less.

One day I called him and left a message, but he never called me back. I kept trying.

A year went by and still nothing. No response to messages online or emails. Nothing. I looked for him everywhere, terrified I’d see him and heartbroken when I didn’t. Then one day, out of the blue, my godmom asked me a question.

“Why is he mad at you?”

She was good friends with his mother and the word on the street was, no, he didn’t want to talk to me. The first thought I had was, “Oh god...what did I do?”

And that was my constant thought for a very long time. I had no definitive answer. I racked my brain for months trying to figure out what it was I could have done to make him never want to speak to me again. I beat myself up for a long time about one thing or another. “Maybe it was this...maybe it was that.”

But I finally had to stop.

I’ve forgiven myself for any mistakes I might have made. That may sound silly, but it helped. I realized that I did everything in my power to make amends; even though I had no idea what I would be making amends for. And I’ve taken from our relationship some important lessons:

Never let fear stop you from telling someone you love them. Getting rejected is better than a constant internal battle – it can truly make you crazy.

Don’t accept anything less than what you deserve. If you want it all, you should have it all. If they can’t give it to you, move on.

You can’t will love to go away and you can’t will someone to return it. But you can heal.

And, of course, never ever eat chicken on a stick if you plan on seducing someone.