He drove a red truck. I was a senior in high school. He was older and stilled lived at home with his parents. The first time we did it, he wouldn’t take off his shirt. The second time, the phone rang. He stopped and picked it up to look at the caller ID. He didn’t answer. I thought that was nice.
We met for the first time in person at a greasy 24-hour diner. He had long eyelashes and pale blue eyes. I was still living at home. We mostly hung out in his dorm room. We used to rent adult films and fall asleep. I was convinced he was the one.
He was in a band when I was in high school. I had wanted him to notice me. When he finally did, I wished he hadn’t. Even from hundreds of miles away, he knew what he could do. This went on for years. I blocked his number last year.
He was from a small town and would drive to come see me. He liked heavy metal and The Eagles. That should have been a sign right away. We would end things over coffee and eggs at a Waffle House. I cheated on him with Patrick and Jeremy.
Probably the best I’ve ever had. I wasn’t that into him, but he was around. He always smelled like olive oil. He would ask me why I never called him by his name. I wondered why it mattered. I liked the way it felt, sleeping in a warm bed.
This was my sophomore year of college. I liked his blonde curly hair and ripped jeans. He smoked a lot of weed. He liked to drink Makers and Diet Coke. He asked my roommate why I was so weird. I asked her why he thought I was weird. It was because I didn’t know how to be affectionate.
We used to listen to The Cure and make out in his car. I hadn’t slept with anyone in over a year. I had to take Plan B twice in less than a month. He broke up with me through a Facebook message.
He was married. We hadn’t seen each other for a few years. When he held my hand outside the bar I knew I was in trouble. He only lasted thirty seconds. I could often be found lying on my living room floor crying.
I went to live in a small town for a year. He liked me better there. I wasn’t a threat. Not yet. When I came home he was nervous. He told me I was too attractive for him. He told me I was going to leave him for someone with a beard and a record collection. Eventually, I did. I haven’t seen him since.
He had a beard and a record collection. He was divorced. He made me nervous. I liked the way he looked at me, but I knew it wouldn’t be for long. Sometimes we would sit on his front porch and drink beer. I remember the night I went inside to get another drink, and I began to cry. I didn’t know who he wanted me to be. This was when I finally understood timing.
The only time I’ve slept with a stranger. I was on vacation. He sat down next to me at the bar. He had an accent and a limp dick. I would remember all of this six months later. Except for his name.
Six months later. I could tell he wanted it. I knew when he asked if he could buy me a drink, but I pretended he actually wanted to see me. A few days later, something happened and we would see each other again. I wasn’t what I expected to be.
He was divorced now. He was starting to go bald. I wanted to know if he could still be the one. When he touched me I felt nothing. I wondered if anyone actually enjoyed the 69 position. He didn’t last long. I smiled as soon he walked out the door. I am more than I expected to be.