Chris
It was the first week of the fall semester. He was 5'10" 130, with pale skin, glasses, splotchy stubble, and a punk rock t-shirt falling off of his bony shoulders. Not my type at all. I liked the foreign boys: Russians, Israelis, accents, black leather, bad boy vibes... My jaw dropped as he confidently sidled up to me after class to ask me out. Not just because of him; because of me! I was the heaviest I'd ever been and I hated myself for it. My diary overflowed with loathing and self incriminations and my life reflected the darkness within.
Persistance is how he won me, that and honest admiration. It melted me and seeing myself through his eyes, I started to love myself again. He would reach for my hand in the hallways and walk with me, proud, possessive. I loved it. We spent our breaks in his little red '92 Nissan NX, going over memory work, smoking Salem Black Label cigarettes and having deep conversations while his hand rested casually on my thigh, igniting fires but not pushing anything.
Sweet, warm smoke and a beautiful bubbler under his front seat. Head thrown back and relaxed, and under my skirt, a garter belt for him to find. He was patient while he waited for me; I in my naivety thought we could last forever playing the game.
One February night when his parents weren't home I drove out to his house. Every inch was lotion and shaved, and I wore a little slip of purple silk to please him. In a river, in a second, he slipped inside of me and it was done. I went to the bathroom and shed a tear for my lost virginity. Then, I went back for more.
My first real lover, my first real boyfriend, the first man that I told, "I love you." We learned a lot together: how to rent an apartment, how to get car insurance, how to get along with roommates, how to live with a partner. We helped eachother write essays and study for school. He taught me how to play beer pong, and all about sports so I would watch Sabres games with him. I went on birth control so we could have sex all the time, everywhere. In the car, in the park, as loud as we wanted. Maybe that's how I lost all of the weight; I looked better and better. We had threesomes and did Molly, and every Valentine's Day I bought him a bong. We pooped with the door open. We ate ramen and Hamburger Helper with Mountain Dew and endless cigarettes. The butts piled up in ashtrays and the kittens that he got me were always knocking them down. For awhile, we had a squatter living with us, until I kicked him out. I met his family and he met mine. We talked about getting married, but it never did feel quite right.
I think that Chris really did love me, more than I loved him. He just couldn't resist our friend though: the female version of himself, but in a Barbie's body. I tried to forgive him, but things were never the same after that. I would try to break up with him, but he'd use his magical debating powers to talk me out of it. Resentment grew, and the space between us.
I started to go the gym more and more in the morning. Sometimes, instead of the gym, I would go to my manager's house and lie in HIS bed for an hour while HE loved me. I never touched him, just received. I did everything I could to get away from Chris; I didn't want to go home because there I just felt sad, and depressed.
A friend invited me out one night. I didn't want to go, but she convinced me, and we ended up at a Latin bar. One shot of tequila later I'd kicked my clunky heeled loafers aside and was dancing barefoot, totally in love with salsa dancing. It became tradition: Every Friday night at 10:00pm I would get dolled up and put on a little black dress. I would smoke a bowl with Chris, kiss him goodbye and leave him to his video games while I went off to fly. I loved the music. I loved the connection. I loved the attention.
Salsa made me mad to learn, any kind of dance. I started samba classes and tango classes, and all of the sudden I was dancing, at least 3 nights a week. One Monday tango night I stuck a 2 page breakup letter onto the bulletin board and left the house. I walked to the tango teacher's place, and when I arrived I sent a text message to Chris telling him to read the letter. He messaged me back and I told him I'd be back home in a few hours to discuss. Then I turned the phone off. He had hours to digest the content, while I spent the night with singing nerves, flirting with the tango teacher.
It was not a bad breakup. I jumped right into another relationship. A month or two after the breakup I got a long, beautiful letter from Chris apologizing for the things that he had done. He told me he didn't blame me but that he was sad, because he'd lost someone really special.