Site Presented By
Sunday, Nov 8, 2009
I liked having a boyfriend, someone who loved me, called me at night, said I was his pulchritudinous girlfriend, and waited for me in the morning on the front steps of our high school. I liked leaning into him in the hallways, giving him an erection. I was jealous of all his ex-girlfriends, especially Jody, who was a cheerleader and had much bigger breasts than mine. I'd see her in the hallway and think, "He sucked on those tits," and it would just tear me up inside. But I never doubted how much he loved me and that was something new in my life. I'd been madly in love with my forever absent father, and doted on my little brothers, but this, of course, was different.
With Mark, I had a solidity in my life I had never known before, tenderness, respect. In my diary, I counted out and marked every anniversary: one month, two months, three months and four days, and I would draw a big heart around these dates, color them with red felt-tip pens. We had our songs -- "Color My World" and "Saturday in the Park." I went shopping with my mother for formal dresses, long filmy gowns with spaghetti straps, satin or silk shawls, low-heeled sparkly sandals. He showed up dressed like a nouveau gangster: wide lapels, a felt hat, polished boots. We were such a pretty couple.
We managed to finally make love on the night of our spring formal. I wore a long, bright blue gown; he pinned an extravagant orchid to my breast. I kissed his cheek. Entering our school gymnasium, with his arm around me, we were the envy of everyone. But we stayed less than an hour. We were anxious to consummate our love, again in the back seat of his father's car, now completely prepared for our tryst. It was equipped with several blankets, pillows, condoms, a destination planned -- the big state park at the edge of the city, less likely to be patrolled by voyeurs, perverts or the police. And with a midnight curfew we had plenty of time, plenty of privacy. There was to be no more shyness or awkward fumbling, no more whispered, "Do you like this?" or "What about this?"
We knew what we liked. We had explored each other's bodies with as much abandonment as is possible with our parents or siblings in the next room, upstairs, or expected home at any moment. At the dance, I saw Trudi, now dating the captain of the football team, wearing a skin-tight gown, her breasts spilling out, catching the eye of every man in the room, including the chaperones'. I pulled her aside and whispered in her ear that I wouldn't be staying long. I was never jealous of Trudi having sex with Mark and in fact was relieved that I wasn't his first lover. At least one of us would know what to do.
Finally, finally, we were alone in the middle of a primeval forest of trees and moonlight. We kept the windows rolled up, the doors locked, but I could still hear the wind, see the bright stars. Finally, finally, I could minutely explore every inch of his ears, his forearms, his fingers, my Italian delicacy. I took my time dipping my tongue in his ear, draping my arms around his shoulders, slowly opening up to him, slowly kissing his lips as his fingers were up inside me, sliding my blue gown down around my hips, easing his dress trousers down around his skinny legs, asking him to keep his socks on, tasting the skin on his calves and thighs.
He put his mouth on my nipples, but reverentially, first the right, then the left, telling me they tasted like strawberries, telling me he loved me while his mouth slid down to my belly, tickling me. I started laughing. His warm breath in my ear, his hands around my waist ... he entered me, finally, finally. I let out a small gasp, and this inflamed him further and he pressed in further until he was completely inside of me. Instinctively, my hips rose again and again to meet his, and then it didn't matter that my legs were scrunched up against the dash, that his left arm was braced against the window, that it was awkward, that our clothes were rumpled, or even that my orchid lay underneath his socks on the floor of the car.
When it was over, when he lay on top of me breathing heavily, he whispered again and again, "I love you, I love you, I love you." That moment became a signifier, an emblem, against which I measured all other intimate moments with all the men that followed. Was there that same warmth, that same ease, that same intimacy? Was or is the man lying next to me as sweet, as funny, as sensitive, as passionate? We closed our eyes and languished in our nakedness, knowing that this was as close to paradise as it gets. The next day there was a picnic at the same park, a group of friends, a bucket of chicken, a bottle of sweet cheap wine, a blanket spread out across the cool grass, the sun high overhead. In his arms, on the blanket, I knew I was home.
Though we stayed together five years, our high school graduation marked the long beginning of the end for us. It became harder and harder to remain faithful. We were both young, good-looking, talented. There was a series of betrayals, lies. Once I knocked on his back door, to be met by his mother, who said he was downstairs with "Mary," his art teacher at the local college. I knew what they were making, and it wasn't art. Once we agreed to a ménage à trois, and didn't speak to each other for a month afterward. I fell in lust with several rock musicians and couldn't resist the lure of sleeping with the lead singer or the drummer, couldn't resist the glamour of snorting cocaine, then having fast, meaningless sex. Again and again, we broke up and got back together. Until finally I moved to Florida, and he to Colorado.
Now, 26 years later, he is one of my dearest and closest friends. He's married and lives in the East Village, but we get together for brunch every Sunday. His presence still calms me down, restores my faith in myself. We talk about our shared past -- we have a bond that can't be broken. He's my first love; we came of age together. I like the fact that he's known me my entire life, that he knew my mother when she was alive, that my brothers consider him their brother because they bonded playing basketball all those years ago. I like the fact that he knew me when I was a girl. I like it when he reminds me of this, because he says he can still see it in my eyes.
