Anyone who thinks that sex is like the movies has clearly never had any that involved a second person in the room. People are delicate, slimy, gross, irrational, and unpredictable. The world is full of variables that you cannot predict or control. Sex is a fucking minefield of awkwardness, embarrassment, and unintentional injury.
It was a miracle that I had the chance to date this girl in the first place. I’d dated her best friend for a year, and you don’t typically get to cross that line. But, her friend had spent many of her lunch-hours telling the tales of our adventures from the night before to their clique. My ex had thought she was bragging, but she was actually advertising, and her girl-next-door best friend was enjoying the vicarious debauchery. The reputation my ex had given me had built to the stuff of legend among her inner circle of lunch-table friends. Though I had no idea at the time, she would be the greatest thing to ever happen to my neophytic love life.
This is a good lesson for young men to learn. Girls talk, and though they hide it well and enjoy the better half of social standing in this regard, they’re just as filthy and depraved as men are. You cannot control whether they talk about you or not – it’s going to happen. What you can control is what they have to talk about. So, you’d damn well better give it your best and make sure they have nice things to say. Your reputation will be affected by it, and that largely determines your future.
My ex and I had dated for exactly one year, one month, and one day. It was a damn good year because of her. In the end we broke up over religious differences – she believed in fucking my best friend, and I didn’t.
After we broke up, I shuffled around our small-town group of friends where everyone dated everyone at some point, and the typical relationship had a half-life of about 3 weeks. From time to time a pair would match up and outlive the statistics. I had been lucky enough to do this with my ex, and after a few months of one week flings, I was again lucky enough to hit upon such a chance with my new girlfriend.
She, in fact, would be a relationship so pivotal in my young life that for decades afterward she would simply be referred to as “The Woman” with no apologies to Sir Doyle – he understands. The story behind that nickname, however, is a different story.
We had been dating for roughly a minute and a half when one afternoon my kitchen phone rang. She informed me that her family was at choir practice and that she would be home alone for the next two hours. My grandfather’s old Grand Prix and I made excellent time in hopes of an naked afternoon as we blasted down 6-Mile across the great nothing between Coopersville and Comstock Park – driven by the reckless optimism of a young man and his hormones.
After years of quietly carrying an Olympic-sized torch for this woman, after a month of navigating the minefield of the first feasibility, “anti-asshole” tests, after weeks of enduring the new relationship energy, and after blasting the population of an entire galaxy into a cement truck full of rock solid demolished sweatsocks… I was finally getting my chance.
My body was ready.
I parked on the street, and she met me at the kitchen door off the garage. I flew through the door riding my surfboard erection on a tidal wave of young hormones; I didn’t even slow down as I scooped her up in my arms and carried her across the house in what I believed to be a storybook display of young romance.
She smiled from ear to ear and let out a squeal as I carried her across the kitchen, around the jog into the hallway, and made the left into her bedroom. I gently tossed her petite frame onto the bed and dove in after her with a leap.
It was pure bliss, a moment of unrestrained joy for young lovers. It was the freedom of youth, the rarity of privacy, and the purity of love that we can only know at such a tender age. It was a memory I would cherish for a lifetime and a moment I could never recreate…
…because the moment I dove in after her, she rebounded off the bed and her knee plowed into my face so hard she knocked out my left-front tooth, shredding my upper lip into hamburger.
It hurt, a lot. It bled a lot more. It almost put a bit of a damper on my mood.
I held out hope and stuck my tongue in the hole to try and stop the bleeding as my balls screamed, “THE SHOW MUST GO ON!” It was to no avail. It’s hard to get a woman aroused when your chin, neck, and shirt are covered in blood. I mean, it’s possible, but this was years before I met that crowd of kinky people.
I was a good Christian boy, motherfucker.
She was trying very hard to be caring and kind, while also laughing like hell. There was gauze and ice, and she gave me a kiss on the cheek before sending me home, gap-toothed and unfulfilled, with a shattered ego and a small scar on my psyche.
A few weeks later, I would get a second chance. That was a much more sedate experience.
Despite our rough beginnings, we would spend the next half of the decade together and she would become a pivotal relationship in my young life. Even now, decades later, I still remember her with a smile.
It just sleeps in a cup at night.
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