Escapade

We never made love, and that's probably why my memories of him are so fond.  Sex with a male friend kills a relationship, and even though I was twenty and a recently deflowered virgin, I knew that sex would ruin our relationship.

I preferred to play Trivia Pursuit in Neuman Hall drinking wine coolers and listening to REM and Janet Jackson.  He respected my preference, although he always hoped I'd change my mind.

Pictures of RoboCop and Army recruiting posters hung like sentries on the cinderblock walls painted institutional beige.  I cried a lot in his presence, and he would hold me and say, "Fuck 'em, Apanewicz.  Fuck 'em."

We were both misfits.    He was an outcast because of his bizarre conduct while drinking--he once pissed in his friend's mother's potted plant; I was different from the rest of the girls--a point not missed on him.

"You're the last of the good girls," he would say as we snuggled on his single bed.  Sure, we made out.  I remember he kissed me languidly like he had nothing else better to do.  "MMM, you stink nice," he would say as he nuzzled my neck.  I laughed.  He loved my perfume--Passion by Elizabeth Taylor.  He commented on it all the time, and it was my signature fragrance.  Dressed in an oversized T-shirt with my bikini underwear,  we held each other.  He usually wore a green Army T-shirt and boxers; he was in ROTC and looked more than handsome in his uniform.

From him I learned the fine art of the hand job.  From him I learned to respect myself--to know that I didn't have to have sex to make boys like me.  He liked me the way I was, and understood my fear of getting hurt.  From him I learned that Janet Jackson's "Escapade" could launch two-hour discussions on where we would go if we ran away from school.  From him I learned more than 100 adjectives to describe my eyes--his were green and blood shot; mine hazel but tired.  "They glow like a tiger's in the dark," he would say.  "I think you're drunk," I would respond.   We would make out; sometimes his lips were chapped and rough.  He was a decent kisser, and his hands didn't roam as much as they could have.  We'd laugh and play strip Trivial Pursuit until 3 a.m.  Then we'd curl up on his bed and sleep the sleep of the innocent.

When he graduated he visited me my senior year.  I made him a spaghetti dinner; he got a girl pregnant over the summer and was going to marry her to do the right thing.  I didn't know the girl, but I felt sad for him.  I thought he was too young for that responsibility.

After I moved back to Philadelphia I ran across him.  He had more children and took up gardening as a hobby.  We planned on meeting for drinks, but life happened.  I haven't seen him since, but I heard Janet Jackson today and thought of him.

Smurf Puppy, this one's for you.