twenty-something

January 1998.

"Futility, in its essence, breeds desperation on every level."

This he tells me, his seventeen-year-old long-distance paramour, a few days after taking my virginity and discarding me. This is Jay, the twenty-something med student who came out of nowhere -- well, the internet -- to sweep me off my feet, my boyfriend-with-a-boyfriend.

The morning after my first time, I woke to him in the bed next to me. With kisses and apologies, he wore down my defenses. We spent the morning in bed and the rest of the weekend together. And it's fantastic, really. But to his great frustration, I will not let him fuck me again. He becomes that strange, mean man he transformed into after deflowering me. The drive to the bus station is awkward and we leave on a sour note.

The next day he sends me romantic emails again. He calls me every night.

Days later, at the end of the school week, he becomes that strange version of himself, without provocation, and he feeds me his line. "Futility, in its essence, breeds desperation on every level." Who says that? Strange words from a stranger version of my boyfriend. And I will remember every one forever.

I am in my kitchen after school, on the phone. It's black out, not because it's late, but because it's January. I wrap the long phone cord around my body as many times as I can, as tight as I can, as I begin to respond, formulating my argument even as I speak, even though I don't understand any of those memorable, strange words.

"It's not futile -- just difficult." Of this I'm convinced. "It would be a lot of work, but it would be worth it. I think we could do it, with bus trips and weekend visits and stuff like that. I could--"

But he interrupts, simply: "Our being together is impossible."

Impossible? Hardly. A challenge, maybe. And I love a challenge. I launch into my reasons and defenses -- I'll be eighteen and graduated in just five months; I'll spend the summer in Burlington, then go to UVM in the fall; we can do this, we can be in love -- I tell him all this, but --

But he interrupts, again: "Listen, sweet pea."

The way he says 'sweet pea' makes my stomach drop. It's soft and sweet and patronizing. With that, I know it's over. And knowledge is a bitch.

"You know I have a boyfriend who I live with."

"I know that." I wonder, does he call him 'sweet pea,' too? "But you don't love him. You love me." And as I say it, I begin to understand the desperate thing. He doesn't really respond.

Instead, he repeats, firm and final: "Our being together is impossible."

It's not a denial, not of the fact that he loves me, but of me in general. Of us.

I am speechless.

He sighs. "What did you expect?"

I expect the world. I expect respect and love and fireworks. I expect a happy ending. I expect -- and assume -- the best in people, and in myself, to the point of self-delusion. Clearly, I expect too much.

Expectations can't change the truth. They can't make a cheater not a cheater. They can't make an impossible situation possible. They can't make you love me, no matter how much I wish.

"I'm sorry, sweet pea." His tone tells me he means it, and that tone I will hold dear, if only to convince myself that, somehow, this was all real. "You're amazing, but -- you're just a kid."

A kid? Why didn't you realize that a month ago? I want to scream this at him, but it's no use. Futility, desperation, all that.

I am just a kid. A seventeen-year-old kid who you deflowered. You are the adult who told me he loved me. What did you expect?

I let you consume me. And for that, I burn.

It's been a few months since I've received any hate mail. Granted, it's been a while since I've been in the papers or on the nightly news. My rampant, high profile homosexuality and activism have slowed that I'm hardly a blip. Even in the slower pace of the state of Vermont, fame -- or infamy -- is fleeting.

But today, without media prompt and at my home address, I get a letter. Anonymous. Similar to before, but not quite the same.

I'm a sinner. An abomination. I'm going to hell.

I didn't need hate mail to tell me that. I'm an adulterer, or some variation on it. And I'm consumed with guilt. Maybe my anonymous enemy is right about me. Maybe I belong in hell.

I decide, then and there, that two wrongs will make a right. I cheated, or rather knowingly helped him cheat, and now I will lie. I'll say I didn't know Jay had a boyfriend, that I was duped. And ignoring that simple detail will make me a good person again.

For that, I will pay a karmic debt for years, perhaps forever, for my sins at seventeen. Anyone I fall in love with will cheat on me, brutally. And I will deserve it. This will be my curse. But at least those I tell the Jay story to will think that I was an innocent -- and really, aren't I? I'm an innocent who couldn't deal with the knowledge I was given.

Among my other mail, I look at the weeks-old acceptance letter from the University of Rhode Island, the handsome scholarship attached. I've kept it there as a reminder.

Love and college. In exchange for becoming a good person. That was the deal.

Only a kid would believe that a late night prayer would be answered by a handsome stranger and a college scholarship.

There is no God. And I am not a good person.

I give up.

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