twenty-something

My activism efforts still bring me joy, they're still going well, but the sting of backlash grows as time moves on. The status quo begins to creep back into school and I wonder, Have I made a difference at all?

I've met a few guys, but no one I connect with. I hook up a couple times, but sex in the woods or in the backseat of a car is starting to lose it's magic.

College has me stressed out, too. My father won't pay. I don't know where I'm going. The future is hazy.

I've seen what's out there. I've tasted happiness, young love, and success. And I want it back. And I want more.

So that night, the day after Christmas, I lay awake, thinking, brooding. And I sort of pray in my agnostic way. Never a big believer in God, I sometimes still pray, on my terms.

I have always had this odd way of doing so -- it's more of a monologue with the higher powers, a conversation with the Almighty. But that night -- whatever could hear me, whatever had the ability to answer my prayer -- it didn't matter.

"God or Buddha or Satan or aliens or whatever -- I don't care anymore. Just... listen up."

On that cold December night, in that state of mind, I curse the fates and, eventually, try to strike a deal.

My plea is simple. To whomever or whatever can hear me, give me two things: love and luck.

First, let me find the man of my dreams before the New Year. That guy, the one I'm supposed to meet in college? Bring him now. Give me someone to love -- who will love me back.

Second, let me find the place I'm supposed to me. Get me into college, allow me to pay for it, make me choose the right one.

That's not too much to ask, right?

In exchange, I bargain, I will make myself a better man in the coming year. I don't know what that means, I don't care what that means. Go to Church? Do more volunteer work? Change the world?

"You tell me."

My prayer/vent-session ends and I am satisfied.

I fall asleep quickly, unusual for me, and I completely forget my vow.

* * *

The next morning, I am called to the phone by my mother. It is some guy named "Jay."

"Jay?" I ask.

"Jay... from AOL," he tells me. I've never heard this voice but it's quite appealing and, somehow, familiar. "We chatted a couple days ago."

My mind is a blank. I start to wonder how he has my phone number. As if he heard me:

"And you gave me your number. Said to call when I was passing though." A beat. "I was in Manchester for Christmas, headed back up to Burlington and I'm in Rutland right now actually..."

Jay?

He's a good sport about all this, which makes me think this is a prank. He is patient with my mind as it struggles to recall him.

"I'm a med student up at UVM. We had a nice chat..."

There is no other way out. "Oh, of course!" I lie. "Of course I remember you. I'm sorry. Christmas break has me out of it."

"Are you still up for meeting for coffee? Like we talked about?"

"Sure sure. Sorry I forgot. I guess I figured that you wouldn't call."

"I'm a man of my word," he says matter-of-factly.

I smile. That sounds nice.

Then this stranger begins to ramble and it's quite endearing. "I'm downtown now actually, just walking around. Well, actually, I'm not walking around right now. I'm stopped at a payphone now, but it's sort of outside a coffee place, the Coffee Exchange, I guess. Are you nearby?"

I don't know who this person is. But he sounds cute. And harmless. So I say yes.

* * *

What can I say? He has me at hello.

We'd made arrangements on the phone to meet outside the movie theater. I park the family mini-van there and head towards Cinema 9, leaving my glasses behind and walking towards a vague shape that becomes a figure that, as I approach, as I squint, becomes --

An awkwardly, yet disarmingly, handsome man. Who examines movie posters for future Oscar nominees -- Titanic, Good Will Hunting, As Good As It Gets -- with an interest and contentment that is contagious. He is completely enraptured by the posters as I am completely enraptured by the sight of him.

He pulls off a bulky, warm-looking parka with style. Under it, he wears a grey wool Gap sweater over a red-and-green plaid shirt. He's got on cords and man-clogs.

His dark hair is cropped close in a buzzcut. His Greek skin shines, tan, edible. He's bespeckled, and it suits him perfectly. He's got a passing resemblance to Tom Cruise, back when that meant something good, but he's his own man.

An unassuming, perfectly balanced, handsome, happy-looking man.

My examination of him -- and his of the movie posters -- is becoming obscene. I need to meet him.

"Jay?"

He turns to greet me with a big smile and, instantly, I feel so comfortable with him that I want give him a huge hug. I don't, but his presence is just so immediately inspiring. From his handshake alone, I would do anything for this man. I would follow him anywhere.

He leads me to the coffee shop. And within the two hours we spend at there, we are at ease. We have known each other for years. Our conversation flows like it's perfectly scripted -- we're both funny and smart as we chat, our best selves, and we're connecting beautifully. That connection between us, at our tiny corner table, it crackles.

I squint at him without my glasses, through his, into his eyes. He grins wide and warm.

Sparks, I think. This is a movie. This is falling in love.

I begin to remember our online chat. It was as comfortable and effortlessly good as this one. I'm a struck by the recollection of staring at his typed works in an instant message, thinking, "He is too good to be true. He is a fake."

But there he is, in front of me, in the flesh that I desperately want to touch, very real -- amazingly handsome and incredibly charming. A former Ivy Leaguer. An ex-college soccer player. A great dresser. He likes Anne Rice novels, Kraft Macaroni & Cheese, and Batman cartoons.

How could I not fall for him in an instant?

He throws his hand down on the table, a gesture that isn't harsh, but it's enough to rattle our empty mugs. "I'm sorry, but we need to leave," he announces.

I panic. My heart races, starts to break at the thought of not having him before me. I want to cry.

He leans closer, his smile gone. I can't help put lean in too, rapt. He whispers -- no, not a whisper, he speaks normally, perhaps loudly, but the delivery is so intimate that I swear only I can hear the words -- He speaks a proclamation, an order. "We need to go somewhere where I can kiss your face. You are so amazing" -- He really says amazing -- "that I need to kiss you. And I might not be able to stop."

I am powerless, charmed, and all I can do as I gaze at him is murmur something, a wordless agreement. We're already fucking with our eyes, making passionate love in that coffee shop. I feel like I could cum right there, in that moment. I'm amazing.

For one split second, he reaches over and, with the same hand that hit the table, touches me. His strong fingers barely graze my hairless chin. It's over in an instant, but it's so sensual that the move, in public, seems almost dirty. It's enough to break my trance.

"If we don't get going," he says as he stands, "I'm going to have to take you right here."

As I grab my jacket, careful to hold it in my lap before standing, I realize, I would have let him.

* * *

I am chewing WinterFresh gum in his car -- a VW Jetta, no less -- on a ten-minute journey outside of Rutland to find our perfect place. For what? Kissing? Fucking? Getting married? Downing puppies? At that point, I don't care. We just need to be there.

We're on a barely-plowed road, seeking a rural hideaway and Jay is apparently as impatient as I am. There have been no obvious turn-offs for miles and so, finally, he just stops the car, right in the middle of the road, about 300 feet from a quaint little inn. He pulls on the emergency break and turns to me. The sun bounces off the white hills and the world seems to glow.

The kiss is, of course, magic. I can't get enough the feel of his lips, his tongue, my fingers stroking his buzzed hair. The WinterFresh is still in my mouth during our first embrace. I feel like a fool when, twenty-minutes later, during our first breather, he tells me he swallowed his gum before he even leaned towards me.

No one travels the road we are stopped on. We are the only two people in Vermont then and we kiss forever. Our make-out session seems to last longer than my whole life and, certainly, is more important than any of my seventeen years. My neck is strained by our passion, restrained only by the center console between us.

I could live in his mouth, but I want more of him. I want all of him. My hands, having wandered the whole time, finally settle on his corduroy-covered crotch. I feel him for the first time, rubbing, savoring.

The corduroy is soft. He is stiff and glorious.

I undo his belt.

I undo his fly.

And I get only a glimpse of his ratty Tazmanian Devil boxers before he puts his hand on my wrist.

"No."

Again, my heart sinks, breaks. I want to die.

"Not here, now."

"But—"

"Next time. In my bed. You will come stay with me. It will be amazing."

I can't protest with amazing.

"I promise, kiddo."

I zip his fly.

I buckle his belt.

I look back up at him. He smiles and repeats, "I promise."

We go back to making out forever again. But forever has to end. Hours have passed. The sun is starting to set.

We don't stop until he releases the e-brake and, even then, we steal kisses as he drives down the road, away from our perfect place.

I stare out the window onto the still-shining, snow-covered world as he drives us back into civilization. Next time, I think.

I am the luckiest guy in the world.

* * *

I come home from my rendezvous with Jay, all smiles, with promises of emails and phone calls, and a "next time" that will not only be amazing, but soon. My family -- it seems like dozens have descended upon our home and won't leave -- is none the wiser.

I come in and start to head right up stairs to my room. But my grandmother catches me on the way in, calls me back to her.

"Patrick," she says. Her grin matches mine. "You got a letter."

I step back down and she meets me at the bottom of the stairs, hands it to me.

It's heavy. It's from out of state. It's my first college letter. I breathe. This is momentous. I must savor this.

And I do -- for all of five seconds. Then I tear into the envelope.

I am accepted to the University of Rhode Island. With nearly a full ride.

I have met the man of my dreams and the looming college question seems a lot easier to answer. Life is suddenly --

Wait.

"What is it?" my grandmother asks. I realize that my smile it gone. I'm frowning. And she's looking at me as if I've just turned purple.

"Oh my God," I whisper, not to her, but to myself -- and to whomever or whatever can hear me.

I grip the banister as I grow weak in the knees.

What have I done?

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Posted by Patrick on 07/13/05 at 3:24 PM
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