College: Broadening Your Horizons (1992 - October 1993)

[beccnigga]

Jessica - You, little missy, surprised the hell outta me, I gotta say. You were the sweetest little thing with a nose like a bunny rabbit and one of those ponytails that always seems like it's in mid-bounce. And you were so nice. Not even fake nice but genuinely nice. You helped me find my class my first day on campus and when I saw you later on the main floor of Schaeffer Hall, you waved and smiled and asked me how I liked the professor. You had only been with one guy, your boyfriend all throughout high school, but you broke up over the summer for some reason I don't even remember anymore.
You always drank Dr. Pepper and ate Skittles. When we found out we lived in the same neighborhood, it was then that I realized you were Baby Blue Jogging Suit Girl - the girl that I would always see jogging down the sidewalk at 5:30 in the morning as I was getting home from whatever party I'd been to. You loved the color lilac, and I loved to see you wear it. It looked great with your skin.
But you were too nice and that made it kind of hard. You were so naive, just this sweet little thing void of all cynicism, even after losing your high school love. So optimistic.
It started as just hanging out - grabbing a drink, some coffee, maybe catching a matinee. Before I knew it, I had switched out my jeans for pressed khakis and you had switched out your sweatshirts for a nice blouse. I wore cologne, you wore perfume. And then one day, we decided to get dinner at this Italian place down the block from the bar we were in, a candlelit place done up in mahogany and maroon and velvet. We went to a movie afterward, some flaming crappile featuring Harrison Ford, and maybe a quarter of the way in to it, you reached across the armrest and held my hand. That's when I realized we had crossed a line somewhere. Suddenly, we were dating. Man, I was freaked out.
Don't get me wrong, it's not like you weren't girlfriend material. It's that I wasn't boyfriend material. I couldn't, in good conscience, pretend that I wanted to be your boyfriend because I didn't. I didn't want to be anyone's boyfriend. But honestly, if I had, you would have been pretty high up on the list of potentials. I guess that sounds arrogant, but I don't know how to say it so it doesn't.
Your house was just right around the corner from mine. You asked me if I wanted to come in and for a second I really thought I was going to say no. I was sure of it. But 'no' isn't what came out and then...we were in your bed. It wasn't like any kind of sex I'd had before. You were graceful if that makes any sense. Everything was very slow, rhythmic. You kissed my face and my neck, but just light kisses, soft kisses. Not wet, feverish, passionate ones that have nothing real behind them except for uninhibited lust. You wrapped your arms around me. You sighed. You smiled. It was...wow.
I stayed awake the whole night while you slept soundly on my chest. The ponytail was gone now and your chestnut hair was splayed out on my arm. I watched you, I stared at you, and I thought to myself maybe...maybe I could do this with her. But I couldn't because I knew who I really was. I knew I'd hurt you - I mean really, really hurt you, far beyond breaking your heart. I'm the kind of guy that would rip out your heart and tap dance on it at your mother's funeral. I didn't want to be the guy that turned you in to the jaded girl that all other guys fear.
So that's why, when you woke up the next morning and leaned over your dresser drawer, picking through socks to find a pair that matched, I told you I didn't think we should date. I wasn't looking for a girlfriend. I wanted to be friends. I had a great time with you. Last night probably shouldn't have happened. I'm sorry if I gave you the wrong idea. Cliche, yeah. But definitely not lip service. I meant every word.
I saw your entire body go tense. You were silent for a few moments and then you said, in this very soft and dangerous tone, "What did you just say?"
"Jess, I'm sorry. I really am."
Then you turned and you looked me dead in the eye, not even ashamed of the tears already brimming in them, and you said, "You're sorry?" You took a deep breath and then: "Get the fuck out of my house."
I had never seen quite so much fury in a woman's eyes before. I mean seriously, you were pissed like I had never seen before. But before I really had time to mull this over, you pointed at the bedroom door and screamed, "NOW!" I jumped out of bed and left as quickly as possible. I even left my shirt and pants on your floor, though I at least had boxers on. The walk home was still a cold one.
When I got home from class that day there was a little white plastic grocery bag on my front steps, the handles tied neatly at the top. No note or anything, just the bag. And in it were my clothes of course, but do you know what really hurt me about opening that bag? It's just a small thing, but it showed me who you really were and made it very clear that I really was a heartless fucking prick.
You folded the clothes.
That's how sweet you are, Jess; it's what I mean by too nice. I slept with you and then told you I didn't want to date you when you so obviously thought that's what we were doing - and pretty much the number one way to hurt a chick's feelings is to tell her she's good enough to screw but not good enough to date. I hurt you, I made you so angry...but at the end of the day, you're still the girl who folds the asshole's clothes before dropping them on his porch and never speaking to him again.
Trust me on this one: you deserve a hell of a lot better than me.

Claire - You were the first in a fairly long stretch of casual sex partners. I picked you mostly because I liked your hair - it was long, blonde, wavy, thick, soft. You didn't have much of a personality, instead choosing to borrow the personalities of the friends that surrounded you. I always got the impression that you sort of went along with life instead of actually living it. I don't think I ever heard you state an opinion or even disagree with someone.
I slept with you anyway. And thanks for the blow job you gave me in the elevator before class a couple weeks later. That was nice of you.

Stacie - Boring. Loose. Next, please.

Amber Lynn - Okay, okay, so I know I broke the code by sleeping with my best friend's ex-girlfriend. Especially because I did it the same night the two of you broke up. And because I was the one that came on to you. And because I never told him about it. Which reminds me - thanks for not saying anything. That was cool of you, because you really could have burned the guy if you wanted to, and simultaneously taken me down with him. But you didn't, so like I said - that was cool of you.
I don't know if you're, you know, fat or missing a limb now, but man, back then you were gorgeous. Golden skin and these big green eyes, long legs and slender arms. You had these pouty pink lips that drove me wild. To be honest, I'm surprised I didn't try to get at you while you and my buddy were together; it just goes to show that I do have a little integrity. But only a little.

Theresa - How could I forget you? I set your bra on fire.
It was ridiculous, the way it happened, and thank God it happened after we'd had sex. Right after, in fact. Your drink - vodka with ice - was still on the nightstand, and as I reached out my arm to light your cigarette with my until-then lucky Zippo, my elbow knocked against your glass. I dropped the lighter in surprise; the lighter landed on the bra just as the drink spilled on it, and WHOOSH. It was a nice bra, too, as I recall. Skimpy, lacy, black - so at least the burned parts didn't show up.
I beat out the flame pretty quickly - ruining my own shirt in the process - and you sat wide-eyed and watching on the bed, still loosely wrapped up in your floral-patterned sheets. I hardly knew you at all, had just met you a week prior, so I wasn't sure if you were going to flip out or what. I looked at you expectantly when the fire was extinguished, and you stared back for a moment. Then a grin began at the corners of your mouth; this became a full-blown smile and finally an eruption of laughter. You had such a brilliant, sparkling laugh that I had to laugh with you, even with a ruined $50 shirt in my hand and mild burns on my fingers.
So I remember your laugh, too. Your charred brassiere, primarily, but your laugh is a close second.

? - This particular instance of anonymous sex didn't work out so well. You were younger, less experienced...this was probably your first one-night stand. You told me your name, but I don't remember it. We couldn't find a condom, so I had to drive to the gas station up the street and get one. It was rushed, kind of sloppy. Not bad. But not good enough to remember your name. And hey, I was no champ either - I'm sure you don't remember mine.

Brittany and Olivia - THANK YOU. OH MY GOD, THANK YOU SO MUCH.

Gayle - What can I say? I was going to get a C in algebra and I lucked out by having a professor who didn't much care about school policies regarding student/teacher relations. You were only 35 and really pretty without your glasses. And the way it sounded to me, you were in dire need of a proper fucking. So I call it a fair exchange.

Arden - You know what blows? Not realizing that you want something until it's too late to get it. But I guess you wouldn't know anything about that, would you? You've always gotten what you wanted and I guess it's no wonder - you're practically a goddess. Tall, slender, blonde, beautiful, rich, and smart. But hell, that's pretty common, you know. What made you special was that you didn't want a boyfriend. You wanted a guy you could hang out with, be friends with, and sleep with from time to time. You would sleep exclusively with that guy - though you didn't require that he return the favor - and when you got bored, you'd stop sleeping together. If the guy still wanted to be friends, great. If not - oh well. You were extremely selective about who you slept with and consequently you really hadn't been with a lot of people, but you'd been with enough to know what you did and didn't want. And one of the things you didn't want was a boyfriend. You must have broken a thousand hearts, girlie.
But you were perfect for me. We were right there on the same page - no strings, just sex. All I had to do was convince you that I was worth sleeping with. So I focused solely on you for four months - that's right, no sex with anyone. Eh, all right, I got a blow job from some drunk girl at a party but oral doesn't count.
Wooing you, so to speak, never felt like a chore though. I liked hanging out with you. You played video games and drank Highland Park scotch (neat) like it was apple juice. You played violin and classical piano and had seemingly read every book on the face of the planet. You'd been to Europe countless times, but you never spoke of your travels in a haughty, elitist tone. You fascinated me.
We had some mutual friends that we went out with all the time. One night we were at a bar and as the evening went on, those friends began to depart one by one. Eventually we were the only ones at the bar. You were pretty drunk by then - we both were - so I called a cab. The guy stopped at your place first, but you were completely passed out in the backseat, your purse cradled in your arms, your carnation lips parted just a little. I carried you in to your house and put you in your bed. Then I left.
I guess that's what it took. I suppose you figured I was admirable because I didn't take advantage of you while you were totally blitzed. You called me the next afternoon to make sure I got home all right myself and then we decided to meet up for some coffee - sans mutual friends, which was a first. We must have sat outside Vinny's Cafe for three hours talking, laughing flirting. When it was obvious that they were about to close, I asked you what you wanted to do and I expected you to say you were going to head home. You didn't. You wanted to take a walk along the river. So we went to the river. We walked along it. And we had sex in a patch of grass underneath a dilapidated bridge.
Oh man, I felt like I was on top of the world for the next couple of months. Like I was the luckiest guy in the world, no kidding. Here was this damn-near-perfect woman, sought after by pretty much every guy that laid eyes on her - and she was mine. She picked me. You can't imagine how wonderful that feels. And to top it off, I didn't even have to commit to you. Not one fucking iota. If I wanted to take a girl home, I could. I could - but I didn't. At least not for a while.
You know what they say - old habits die hard. Thing was, I felt guilty afterwards. Like I'd done something wrong. And I never told you about it...but I think somehow you knew. I don't know how you knew, but I'm pretty sure you knew all the same, which makes the 'how' pretty unimportant. We had sex a couple more times after that, and it was always fantastic, every single time. Then you started calling less. And when we did hang out, it seemed to be more with the aforementioned mutual friends than just with each other. It started to dawn on me what was going on: you were done with me. You'd had your fill, if you'll pardon the pun.
I took a chance and called you one Saturday to ask you if you wanted to catch a movie or something benign like that. And you told me, "Oh, I can't, Brody. I've got a date tonight."
So at least I had my answer. And yeah, it was a little rattling, maybe even a little eye-opening to be...discarded. Replaced, even. But that wasn't even the end of it, oh no.
When you said you had a date, you really meant it. It wasn't the way we had a date. It was a date that was the first in a series of many, a series that eventually led to the very thing you had so assertively avoided: a committed relationship. This guy - and I'll never forget his name; it was Jason Hughes- became your boyfriend. Your fucking boyfriend.
And I was bitter as hell, though I didn't admit it to myself or anyone else. Suddenly I knew how a lot of the girls I'd slept with had felt. I was wondering what it was about this douchebag Jason that made him better boyfriend material than yours truly. What was it about me that made me not boyfriend material? Now, was that to say I wanted to be your boyfriend? Did that mean if you had tried to pursue a relationship with me, I would have been up for it?
Well, after I had bitched to my friends for two weeks straight about the whole situation, my good buddy John finally said to me, "Man, if you wanted to be with her, you should have made your move. Now someone else has her, and it's your own fucking fault, dude. Walk it off." I'd be lying if I said that didn't sting a little and I'd also be lying if I said it wasn't true.
So yeah, I guess I really did want to be with you. I was just too dumb to figure it out until you'd gone off and gotten yourself a boyfriend. Of course, I obviously wasn't good enough to be with you anyway - and you're pretty much the only woman I've ever known to realize that.
I still laughed like a little girl when I found out you and Jason broke up, though. Actually, that he had dumped you. I'm sorry, but I did and it felt great.

Desiree - You weren't worth it.

Mao -You were a gymnast. A fucking gymnast. Of course I had to sleep with you, even though I'd never really been much for the Asian ladies. And I'm still not, actually, but let me tell you - you gave me a new respect for flexible petite women. That thing you did with your leg? And when you bent that weird way with your - anyway. You know what you did, you little minx. Nice dismount.

Geraldine - My second shot at a redhead turned out considerably better than my first. Considerably. You were ravenous. Insatiable. It was great. But there were other things, too.
Funny thing is, I met you in a bar and I'm pretty sure that we both went in to it thinking it'd just be a one-night stand. Only it didn't work out that way. We drove out to this little spot by the lake - I was having my house painted and staying with my buddy Christian because the fumes were noxious and you had two roommates. You rolled a joint in the passenger seat without the aid of the overhead light, and told me stories about your trip to Milan the previous summer. I told you about going to my uncle's ski cabin for Christmas vacation every year since I was six. "Oh, you know how to ski?" you asked. "Nah," I replied, and that made you laugh.
We sat on the shore and we didn't actually have sex for probably an hour after we'd gotten there. We started just as the sky was turning from pitch to purple and finished by the time the surface of the lake was pink and gold.
After about five minutes of post-copulation silence - silence that is usually awkward when it's a one-night stand, but this time it wasn't - I said, "Man, I'm starving."
You said, "I know a great little place uptown. You like greasy, hole-in-the-wall diners?"
I tossed you my keys and said, "Lead the way."
And we spent the whole day together. We walked around for hours, occasionally stopping to look at something interesting in a shop window. And we talked the entire time about an encyclopedia's worth of topics. We sat outside a coffee shop, you with your cappuccino and I with my black coffee, and read the newspaper, you with your New York Times and I with my USA Today and told each other about the articles we found interesting. Then I helped you with the crossword. We didn't finish it.
When I dropped you off at your apartment, you still hadn't asked me to call you or said that we should hang out again. But I liked hanging out with you and I definitely wouldn't have minded sleeping with you again. So I said, "Would you mind if I called you sometime?"
You smiled coyly and without a word, produced a pen and a slip of paper from your purse then wrote down your number. You leaned over, kissed me on the cheek and said, "Thanks. I had a really great time."
I waited a few days to call you, of course. That's in the handbook all guys get once they start getting hard-ons at the sight of breasts in a low cut top. Or just breasts in general, really. Anyway, you were slick. Real slick. Do you remember our conversation? I do.
"Hey it's Brody."
"Oh, hey!" You sounded genuinely happy to hear from me, but not like you had been sitting by the phone waiting for me to call. A good sign that you were in to me but not, you know, psycho.
"I was wondering if you wanted to get a drink tomorrow night? You know, if you're not busy."
"Oh...oh, man, I can't, I'm going to my mom's for the weekend. But hey - what are you doing right now?"
"Now? Not a lot."
"Okay. So why don't you meet me at The Olive around nine?"
"Sounds great." And it did.
But seriously - bravo for turning that whole situation around. Never before have I known a woman to so subtly, so passively, slip herself in to the role of leader. Woman do that sort of thing all the time, I know, but rarely do they do it without making the man feel somewhat emasculated. Smooth, Geri. Very smooth.
We hung out a lot. Eventually I started hanging out with you and your friends and you started hanging out with me and mine. You would come over and we would stay up till two, eating popcorn, drinking beer (you were Irish - you could drink), and watching bad movies on cable. We went to baseball games and gallery openings or took long drives to nowhere. We never ran out of things to talk about. I kept waiting for our relationship to turn in to the one I'd had with Jessica, but it never happened. You never tried to act like my girlfriend or press me to act like your boyfriend. Sometimes you would point at girls across the restaurant or campus quad and say, "She's cute, yeah? I think she was looking at you."
I probably could have slept with other girls, but I didn't. What for? So I just slept with you for six months. At the beginning of senior year, you left to do a semester abroad in Greece (you were an Art History major, with a focus on Greek sculpture) and you met some guy there from UNCC, fell in love, and moved back to North Carolina with him. I was happy for you, though, and when he broke up with you the summer after we graduated college (idiot), I flew to Charlotte the day after you told me and spent a month with you, just friends, no sex. The sex part of our relationship was over, and I think that because of that our friendship became stronger. If I were gay and you were Jewish, we could have been Will and Grace.
We met when we were stupid 21-year-old kids. Fourteen years ago. I was there when you got married, got divorced, and got married again; I was at the hospital with you holding your left hand while your husband held your right when you were giving birth to my goddaughter. We still go to greasy diners for bad coffee and great omelettes and we still go to contemporary art exhibits and laugh the way we did in college. We've still never finished a New York Times crossword puzzle. We're best friends with a mutual desire for nothing more than that.
I guess sometimes your soulmate isn't necessarily the person you're in love with.

Dana - Halfway through my first semester of senior year, my English professor pulled me aside and told me I was on the verge of failing his class. He told me to talk to you, his student aid, to get help on my essays and if I really committed myself to the next two papers I might be able to pull off a C+. I had gotten through three years of college with a 3.3 GPA - not great, but definitely not bad - and failing an English class would be sure to drop it a considerable amount. I agreed that I would meet with you the following day at the library and I did, fully expecting to see a typical teacher's assistant - mousy, maybe a little on the rotund side, with moles or acne scars.
Oh, hell no. You were divine. Holy Mother, you looked like you fell out of the pages of a catalog. A catalog with unbelievably hot women in it. I won't even try to describe you because I don't think I have the writing skill to do you any justice. I'll say you were black-haired, blue-eyed, tall and fair and anyone who reads this will just have to use their imagination.
You were probably the one who made me cocky bastard I am today. Well, all right, I was cocky before you. But here's the deal: when a guy like me, a better-than-average-looking, intelligent, moderately charming guy, has sex with a girl like you...do you realize that sleeping with someone that looks like you is basically half a step down from fucking a supermodel? Yes. You're that hot. So the knowledge that someone with your extremely pleasing features actually wanted me to pin her against a bookcase and ravage her in a musty corner of the Andrew T. Wilbaugh Library is one hell of an ego boost.
Personally, I don't even care if you were a total hosebag. You were a freakin' goddess, and had I gotten gonorrhea from that single sexual tryst, it still would have been worth it.
Again, yes. You're that hot.

LATER: THE YEARS OF PAIGE (1994 - 1997)