twenty-something

The imaginary camera pulls back to reveal:

I am alone in my parents' bathroom, looking into the mirror. Oldest trick in the book.

I grimace at my delivery and try the line again, and again, never quite getting it right. It's a delicate thing to say to someone and, no matter how I, the seventeen-year-old dating the twenty-something med student, am convinced of this truth, I can't quite sound convincing enough when I say it aloud.

Yes, I'm quite convinced that I wished for Jay and that he, the man of my dreams, is the true answer to a desperate prayer. It took some convincing myself, some sleepless nights, some freaking out. But within a week after meeting this man, within a week under his powerful charms, I knew, as unbelievable as it sounded, that Jay was meant (and sent) for me.

Things are going well. Jay is, officially, my boyfriend. He says so. He sends me cute emails, many times daily, each singing sweet nothings though AOL. On the phone, he says I'm amazing. He calls me "sweet pea." He already talks about us living together that summer, after my graduation, going to the British Isles together for the month of August, and then living together that fall, as he thinks I should attend the University of Vermont. When we discover that we both love pineapple-and-bacon pizza, I decide that we'll be married by the time I'm 20. All this, and we have seen each other, in person, only once since our fateful meeting just a few weeks prior. But the second time, in Burlington, is powerful although brief. Bundled up, we walk around an ice-covered Church Street, have a nice lunch, and make out in his car atop a parking garage. We part and, for once, my heart does not ache. I feel no insecurity in this. I know I will see him again.

Things are going so well, in fact, that I have decided that I must let him know how it is we came to meet. It's only fair to let him know that he is a gift from some higher power, that we are soulmates.

And I will tell him all this in just a few days, as I am headed up to Burlington that weekend to spend the night with him at his apartment. It promises to be romantic and amazing. And to say that I can't wait for what will be the most important night of my young life is a given. Even though I didn't know it until this very moment, this is the night I've lived my life for.

"I prayed for you, Jay," I practice again, still dissatisfied with my delivery. I have to get it just right or else I'll sound crazy.

It's a snowy night in Burlington when he picks me up at the Vermont Transit station. He drives me to his house near the airport and he makes me dinner. We watch Beautiful Thing and Grosse Pointe Blank in the dark, cuddled on the couch.

Soon he spoons me. I feel him pressed against the back of me. Before John Cusack makes it to his high school reunion, Jay is hard.

He asks if I want to go into the bedroom. It's hot and fast. We make out, grope, and finally undress. In that dark room, he is no longer that magic man from the coffeeshop. Naked, he is seven years older than me, average, hairy, perhaps a bit doughy. Sexy? Yes. Perfect? No. And because of this, I fall a bit more in love with him.

As we kiss, as I stroke him, I make up my mind. "Jay, I'm a virgin." It's true. While I have sucked a few cocks, certainly been blown, and definitely fucked another boy, I have never -- taken the passive role in gay love-making. It's something I've quietly saved for the right man, the right time. And this is it, all I've waiting and wished for. Someone I love -- and who loves me back.

There is no delicate way to say it, so I tell him that I've never been fucked. I feel him grow harder and I ask, "Will you?"

There's a flurry of condoms, of lube. It's more procedural than romantic. A towel is placed. I am positioned on my back, a pillow stuffed underneath me. Soon he is on top of me, looking strange without his glasses, his sweater vest, without his façade. Still, I stroke his prickly buzzcut and examine his face. He looks down, concentrating, struggling. I strain to kiss him as he slickly searches for me.

Finally Jay enters me. It hurts, but still I let him take me. And with the pain floods knowledge.

I knew he had a boyfriend before this, even if, for years to come, I will lie, to myself and to all I will tell this tale. I will say that I didn't know, not until after.

He doesn't start slowly. He isn't gentle, he's clumsy. He just pushes his average cock in and begins his assault.

I know, as I lie there, a boy on his back with a man inside him, I know about his boyfriend, have known since our second meeting. I know about Steve, the banker. I know that he is away for a funeral that weekend. I know that this is their home; that was their couch that we cuddled on, it's their dog whining at their closed bedroom door, it is their bed that we fuck in.

I know all this, and yet...

The pain. It burns, like Semele before me. It burns my insides, all of them. "Stop... stop..." I hiss through gritted teeth.

He won't. "You'll get used to it, sweet pea," he soothes, already sweaty, kissing my forehead.

It doesn't work. I close my eyes and realize this is exactly what I wished for. And this is my lesson. I should have been more specific.

He says he loves me and he is the only one who believes it. He hammers away in the same position, as missionary as two men can get, his sweat falling down on me. My dick lies limp between us.

This is an act of love? Of God?

This is not love. This is pain. There will always be pain. There will always be violence. And he's right. I will get used to it.

Moments later, it will be over. He will be done before I've even started. He will finish inside me, in the condom that will soon be discarded into the toilet. His body, suddenly chubbier in the afterglow, will weigh upon me heavily as he collapses for a long moment. I will want him off me immediately but at the same time I won't be able to stand the thought of him not there, not sweaty and distant, crushing me, inside of me.

Soon enough, he will roll off me, say it was a mistake, ask if I would take the couch, or if he should. I will lie there, naked, empty, seventeen.

Hours later, I will cry myself to sleep in that very bed, the sheets slick and cold, the stink of latex and KY and cum still heavy in the air.

Years later, he will move to California -- not with Steve, with another boyfriend -- and we will exchange emails before meeting again at that same coffeeshop in Rutland over Christmas. I will be a junior in college, nearly a year into my first serious relationship. He will be happy to see I am doing well and he never know that I wished for him.

Years later, and forever, he will still be "my first."

But for now? He is still inside me. We are still connected. He still moves on top of me. This is not what I dreamed about, what I thought I wished for, but it is real. It is happening. This is what I get, what I deserve. So I submit to it, to life, to reality. And I let it burn.

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