My First Anti-Boyfriend
Henry
Henry came looking for a job as a detailer with the highline luxury import dealership where I worked the front desk, and over the course of a couple of weeks or so, found himself a regular fixture at my counter as he tried to make connections, but mostly just killed time waiting while the hiring manager ducked his visits. He had a studied knowledge of and a passion for the Porsches and Audis we sold, and was hoping to put himself in a position where he could fondle them on a regular basis, but, he wasn’t really what the shop was looking for. I couldn’t tell you what the “it factor” that he lacked for that particular post was, I just knew that when it became obvious he wasn’t going to get it, he asked me out instead. I’m not really sure why I accepted… he wasn’t that attractive, and only thought he was suave, but I think he might have made me laugh at some point (though I’m not sure if I wasn’t just being polite because it was in the nature of my role to entertain the guests), and his presence had become enough of a habit by then that I think I felt bad for him for getting shot down on the job, and didn’t want to add to the rejection.
I was 19, and way too nice.
On our first date, at my local karaoke hangout, he pretended to splutter his sentiments all over himself in an obviously false-clumsy attempt at trying not to accidentally lose his grip on holding back the words, “I love you,” because, “[he] didn’t want to scare [me.]” I wasn’t naïve, and I did consider this a red flag, but, still, I didn’t treat it as the blazing red flashing turrets with screaming siren, clanging cymbals, and resounding trumpet-fare that it was.
I was 19, and entirely too forgiving.
The truth is, back then, I simply didn’t think it mattered all that much. I didn’t imagine I was going to get into a relationship with him, or likely even give him a second date, but, it was Friday night, and something told me he might be a decent lay.
I was 19, and far too horny.
But, oh my good god, how that man could fuck me!
If not for that, I might have actually kept my senses about me.
He was 31, and still lived in his mom & dad’s basement, where he collected me to spend every weekend for the next two years, but I never met his folks. His parents had a cabin up North, went there religiously every Friday night, and were gone until Monday, so we always had the house to ourselves, and were usually too preoccupied to leave it. We walked around the place naked, and used their corner lot backyard to hump doggie style in the black night of a thunder storm with the heavy rain pelting down on us, or for him to play pornographer while I posed for nude shots to be submitted to Hustler’s Beaver Hunt on a sunny summer Sunday afternoon, with cars finding reasons to slow down as they rounded the curb, and neighbors peeking through finger-propped blind slats. When we did get out, we fucked over parking lot bike racks and on park benches, in public bathrooms and restaurant booths, and only in a spot as ordinary as the Volvo if we were doing 80 on the highway at the time. He introduced me to the local swinger’s club, which I came to know as family, and we tried every position known to man, and a few that weren’t. There was hardly anything I wouldn’t do, and not much we didn’t try.
He loved to spout political rhetoric like he was a diehard Republican, but he lived like a Centrist - never quite staying consistent with himself. He’d sit up cross-legged on the fold-out couch he slept on, rocking his body back-and-forth with beer in hand and tears in his eyes as he watched the Sunday morning talking heads, waxing drunken philosophy and emotional drivel. He’d read the Wall Street Journal and The New York Times, blubbering about the state of affairs in the world. He’d tell stories of how he’d spent his heyday in New York City as a professional commercial photographer for clients such as Pepsi and Crest, hobnobbing with the likes of Lou Reed, until he blew it all up with a heroine addiction. He babbled a lot. Most of the time I just ignored him, figuring it was just wishful thinking and a rewrite of history on his part, but sometimes he was looking for something else. He had a habit of starting a major argument which would escalate quickly into a nasty fight just a few days before a major holiday, such as Christmas, Valentine’s Day, or my birthday, so he wouldn’t have to get me anything.
Henry never did “get me,” even though he loved to have me. But I can’t be had.
So, at least he doesn’t have to worry about getting me anything anymore.