Looking back...
He really was perfect for a one-night stand: he was the opposite of what I admired, and appealed to what I never let myself desire.
I always found darker hair attractive on men-anything from a light chestnut brown, to a deep black-blue. His hair was so blonde…so ash-blonde that it seemed silver against his fake-tanned skin. It seemed beached, save that his lashes were the same shade. Girls visiting tanning salons are bad enough-it’s unforgivable in a guy.
His body…it gave me no reason to disbelieve his claim that he models part-time…it was the hard, lean body of a seasoned runner. Normally, the absolute last thing I “look for” in guys is their physique: If you can carry an intriguing conversation, I really don’t give a damn if your abs are harder than mine. If you can’t-then there’s not much hope for you as far as a relationship is concerned. Or a friendship, for that matter. With him, it’s one of the first things that I always remember…
I remember the reek of alcohol and sweat…I remember the salty taste of his skin. I remember his eyes, which, even when he looked straight at me, never saw me. I remember his touch, his voice-slurred by the second shot of the tequila.
I don’t remember his name.
Michael. James. It was something common-and utterly irrelevant. We were two classes together both semesters, and I never bothered to learn his name. It mattered even less at the moment, as I was already packed to leave. It was the night before finals, and we were both transferring out of Earlham.
I don’t remember his eyes either, only that they seemed so repulsive that I could never look closely at him. Eyes have always been the most important feature to me…not the shape, or the color, or the size…but the expression hinted within them. When I looked at his, I only remember dropping my gaze.
I often look back on that night and wonder WHY. When I had passed him in the halls earlier that night, I stepped against the far side of the wall, nauseated by the stench of alcohol. Yet half an hour later, I was fighting that same nausea with his tongue in my mouth.
Why didn’t I stop him? Even drunk, he was polite. When I finally asked him to leave, he gathered his clothes and said “good-night” on his way out. There was reluctance on my part…but he couldn’t have sensed it: my morbid curiosity was much stronger. I can’t blame my lapse of judgment on the shot of tequila he had help up to my lips-I sucked the lime and handed the drank back to him. I can’t even blame it on uncontrolled passion…hard body or not, the smell and taste of the alcohol made him about as appealing as an angry porcupine.
I still don’t have an answer to that question…no more than I understand why I finally stopped him. Not that “it didn’t feel right”-the entire damn encounter didn’t feel right from the start. I knew how wrong it was…
I just don’t know why I let it happen. It’s the typical rape victim’s self-reproach-except that I don’t have their victim status.
I called my boyfriend even before he was out of my room. I was calm when I told him what happened. After an eternity’s silence (I will never forget the pattern of the hall rug-which I memorized in that long pause), he told me that he forgave me. No reproaches, no accusations-I wouldn’t, couldn’t have defended myself if he did become angry. But he didn’t-he only asked me the same question that I’m still asking myself: Why?
He didn’t dump me. I was the one who left him: He forgave me for what happened, but I find it hard to forgive myself as long as I still don’t understand-Why didn’t I stop him, when I didn’t want him the first place? Why didn’t I push him away-when I knew the consequences of my actions?
Why? Why in the world did I tolerate a foreign tongue against my mouth, reeking of tequila?
Now you know why I refuse to drink.
I always found darker hair attractive on men-anything from a light chestnut brown, to a deep black-blue. His hair was so blonde…so ash-blonde that it seemed silver against his fake-tanned skin. It seemed beached, save that his lashes were the same shade. Girls visiting tanning salons are bad enough-it’s unforgivable in a guy.
His body…it gave me no reason to disbelieve his claim that he models part-time…it was the hard, lean body of a seasoned runner. Normally, the absolute last thing I “look for” in guys is their physique: If you can carry an intriguing conversation, I really don’t give a damn if your abs are harder than mine. If you can’t-then there’s not much hope for you as far as a relationship is concerned. Or a friendship, for that matter. With him, it’s one of the first things that I always remember…
I remember the reek of alcohol and sweat…I remember the salty taste of his skin. I remember his eyes, which, even when he looked straight at me, never saw me. I remember his touch, his voice-slurred by the second shot of the tequila.
I don’t remember his name.
Michael. James. It was something common-and utterly irrelevant. We were two classes together both semesters, and I never bothered to learn his name. It mattered even less at the moment, as I was already packed to leave. It was the night before finals, and we were both transferring out of Earlham.
I don’t remember his eyes either, only that they seemed so repulsive that I could never look closely at him. Eyes have always been the most important feature to me…not the shape, or the color, or the size…but the expression hinted within them. When I looked at his, I only remember dropping my gaze.
I often look back on that night and wonder WHY. When I had passed him in the halls earlier that night, I stepped against the far side of the wall, nauseated by the stench of alcohol. Yet half an hour later, I was fighting that same nausea with his tongue in my mouth.
Why didn’t I stop him? Even drunk, he was polite. When I finally asked him to leave, he gathered his clothes and said “good-night” on his way out. There was reluctance on my part…but he couldn’t have sensed it: my morbid curiosity was much stronger. I can’t blame my lapse of judgment on the shot of tequila he had help up to my lips-I sucked the lime and handed the drank back to him. I can’t even blame it on uncontrolled passion…hard body or not, the smell and taste of the alcohol made him about as appealing as an angry porcupine.
I still don’t have an answer to that question…no more than I understand why I finally stopped him. Not that “it didn’t feel right”-the entire damn encounter didn’t feel right from the start. I knew how wrong it was…
I just don’t know why I let it happen. It’s the typical rape victim’s self-reproach-except that I don’t have their victim status.
I called my boyfriend even before he was out of my room. I was calm when I told him what happened. After an eternity’s silence (I will never forget the pattern of the hall rug-which I memorized in that long pause), he told me that he forgave me. No reproaches, no accusations-I wouldn’t, couldn’t have defended myself if he did become angry. But he didn’t-he only asked me the same question that I’m still asking myself: Why?
He didn’t dump me. I was the one who left him: He forgave me for what happened, but I find it hard to forgive myself as long as I still don’t understand-Why didn’t I stop him, when I didn’t want him the first place? Why didn’t I push him away-when I knew the consequences of my actions?
Why? Why in the world did I tolerate a foreign tongue against my mouth, reeking of tequila?
Now you know why I refuse to drink.