Thanksgiving 1998

WARNING:

This blog is sexually graphic. It is so graphic in fact; I've blocked my mother and my sister from reading it. I don't know why I felt compelled to write about this experience, but don't say I didn't warn you. -Adam

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I wished it wasn't so cold out. It was two days after Thanksgiving, so I shouldn't have been surprised, but the cold really put a damper on what was happening to me right then.
I had too many layers on.
She had gotten my brown jacket off, but my green flannel shirt was stuck. It was stuck on the long sleeves of my "Sasquatch" t-shirt. Had I worn my flannel over a regular cotton tee, she and I would have no problems; the flannel would have slid easily off my bare arms. But that's not what I did.
I felt the need to double-sleeve.
And so now, in a fit of passion, the flannel was chafing against cotton instead of skin and I became convinced that any minute, she would start laughing.
I could stand anything as long as she didn't start laughing.

She was a wreck when I got to her apartment. Parent-issues. I was unclear what had happened, but whatever it was, it happened over the phone and it happened hard.
I came over to comfort her. It's what I understood a good boyfriend to do. I hadn't been in any relationship as serious as this before, so every action I took, I took cautiously. But driving 12 miles to my girlfriend's house because she was feeling bad seemed like a safe way to proceed.
I drove to her house quickly. I liked speed but tended to get caught a lot. I didn't get caught this time. I got a good parking spot, tipped my cap to Charlie the doorman and headed up to the fourth floor of her apartment.
It seemed as if she might've been leaning against the door in anticipation of my arrival because as soon as I knocked on the door and licked my hand to flatten the stray hairs flying off of my head, she opened the door.
She didn't ask why I was quickly wiping spit on the ass of my pants so I pretended I wasn't doing it.
Her eyes were red.
In time, I would come to see her red eyes as devilish and putrid, but tonight, they were just sad and bloodshot. So much crying.
I was in a difficult position because when I got there, I was so horny. I was horny almost all the time; it's a frighteningly typical characteristic in young men. Everything we do seems to be - even in extremely abstract ways - connected to sex. Honestly, the difference between the "nice guys" and the "assholes" is more often than not, that the "nice guys" have the energy to hide their libido from everyone else.
But she was crying. She was wearing a tank top and tiny pajama shorts, but she was crying.
She was naturally beautiful. This is what I thought at this time, standing there in her doorway.
And to be honest, standing in her doorway, watching her naturally beautiful body welcome me into her warm apartment, made me horny. It didn't take much, and it certainly took less than what I was being offered at that point.
But she was crying. And that made my horniness both inappropriate and unfortunate.

We sat on her couch. It was her roommate's couch actually, but her roommate wasn't here, so tonight it wasn't her roommate's couch. I didn't know where the roommate was tonight or why she wasn't home, but I assumed it had something to do with Thanksgiving and I let the rest fall out of my head.
That's not entirely true. I was slightly interested in where the roommate was because she liked me. I went on two dates with the roommate before I decided I liked my girlfriend better.
There was no closure. We'd hung out, but never discussed anything. I didn't feel right about it, but the roommate wore more makeup than my girlfriend and I feared the secrets hidden underneath her blush and her lipstick.
In hindsight, staying with the roommate would've made my life easier.
I don't remember what my girlfriend was saying to me exactly. She was crying and so I held her close, her head mostly buried in my shoulder. But holding her close only caused her to muffle all the words she was already slobbering while explaining what it was that made her so sad.
Again, this was all new to me. I was trying to do the right thing; I kept asking myself questions like, "Should I pat her on the shoulder? Play with her hair?" I was already hugging her, there wasn't much more physical comfort, I could offer.
That wouldn't be the only mistake in judgment made that night.
The problem was, while I was considering the best ways to comfort the girl I kinda, sorta, perhaps one day might love, I was completely oblivious to all she was saying.
In doing my best to be caring and supportive of her, I completely removed myself from the situation.
I just held her. I rocked back and forth for a few seconds, but that's what my parents did to me when I woke up screaming from a bad dream. I was dating this girl not parenting her, so I stopped rocking her.
Then she stopped. Stopped talking, stopped gently sobbing, stopped moving completely. Luckily, her head was buried in my chest and shoulder so I could feel her hot breath and see her back rising and falling underneath my arms. I knew she hadn't died.
She leaned back but kept her head down so I couldn't see her eyes.
Her puffy bloodshot eyes. Her hands clasped my jacket zipper.

I would like to state for the record that the sound of a zipper unzipping slowly is astoundingly sensual when the zipper in question A) belongs to a part of my own clothing but B) is not being unzipped by me.

And that's how my jacket came off.

She threw my jacket on the floor and moved to my pants, which seemed disorderly to me. Like listening to an album on random.
Track three followed by track nine followed by track one.
She undid my pants button with one hand, like a villain in old western movies flicking a lighter. A snap of two fingers and my jeans were loose.
I also remember the elation I felt when I remembered that she was wearing little pajama shorts. No buttons. This was lucky for me too because as I recall, she had a lot of pants with button flys. I may very well have been there for hours trying to flick those Goddamned pants buttons open with one hand all the way down her inseam.
But just as the elation swept over me, it disappeared when she left my pants and attended to my flannel shirt. We know how this goes. Not like the movies. I had spent about 65 percent of my life watching movies where the actors got frisky and took portions of their clothes off, but never once were any of them wearing flannel nor did they have trouble with the stripping.
Maybe Woody Allen did, but I would have hoped to be a little cooler than Woody Allen.
But I wasn't. The flannel shirt got stuck and she kissed my neck in hopes of distracting me from the awkwardness caused by shimmying the flannel shirt down my arms. She straddled my lap yanking this damn shirt off first one arm and then the other while I foolishly leaned forward, arms prostate behind me.
Because of our positioning, I found my face buried in her chest. This embarrassed me tremendously. I didn't know what to do. My mind raced with thoughts both confused and inappropriate. I wondered if I was still under some sort of obligation to be comforting. I wondered if I had done such a wonderful job that the current position of my face was my reward. I wondered if allowing her to painfully strip me of my worn flannel shirt was a continuation of her healing process.
Ironically, through all these thoughts, it never occurred to me that now was not the time to get naked.
After finally wriggling my flannel and my "Sasquatch" tee free, I was shirtless in front of her. The realization of what was happening hit me and I was somewhat jazzed about it.
It was important that I played cool. I wanted to show my excitement, but not get geeky about it. Getting geeky about my own nudity wasn't going to improve a situation that was already as fragile as a glass egg.
My jacket and both my shirts were on the floor. The roommate was gone. I did the math in my head. She'd been gone for at least four days and was the only one in the apartment I'd ever seen clean. I hoped that nothing gross was stuck to my clothes and made a mental note to inspect the floor later.
Later.


...To be continued in part 2.