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December 8, 2011
Jesse was my first real boyfriend. I include the qualifier "real" because by the time I met Jesse during my first year in college, I had been around the block my fair share of times, mostly with boys who told me that we were "together" but failed to tell me how flexible that term was. For these and many other reasons, I was incredibly excited to be in college, fully convinced that male college students were completely unlike male high-school students.
And, in some ways, I was right. For one, male college students were incredibly gorgeous. The men I saw during my first days on campus were attractive in ways I had only described in my worst hormone-fueled poems. Everywhere I turned there was a new beautiful bearded man waiting to be engaged.
I can't be that girl, I thought. I can't take him back.
But then I turned and saw Jesse — Jesse with his shaggy blond hair tied into a knot at the nape of his neck, Jesse with his cheekbones that could grate cheese, Jesse who made me feel like I was seasick while on dry land — and all the other beautiful men faded away. In three days we were sleeping together. In one week we were calling each other pet names. In a month I was calling my older sister and excitedly babbling about how we were planning on living in South America for a few years after graduation and that I finally knew what love felt like and I simply couldn't survive without my man.
Then I walked in on Jesse and the redhead from his Political Science class having sex in his dormroom. If you have ever seen an episode of Cheaters, I don't have to go have to go into much detail about what happened next. There was screaming, there was crying, there were more than a few threats (I think I said "I will gut you like a fish"). Jesse kept sputtering apologies. At a certain point, he even looked like he was about to cry.
About five minutes and a few fistfuls of hair later, Jesse and I were over. I didn't know what to do with myself. I didn't know what to do without him. Stupidly, my first semester in college had centered entirely around him — his friends, the organizations he wanted to join, the places he wanted to eat, the parties he wanted to go to. At school, I existed only as Jesse's girlfriend. When I realized this, I was disgusted with myself. I decided at that moment that I would never let myself be sucked into another person so utterly ever again.
For the next year I stayed true to my word. I made my own friends. I joined the college's literary magazine and put my new hate-filled poems to good use. I rediscovered the pleasure of having full ownership of a bed. I was becoming "me" again a little bit more each day. And then, the inevitable happened — I saw Jesse. It would've been hard not to; he was sitting right outside of my door. With his head hung down in shame and his chest looking bangin' in my favorite shirt, he told me how much he missed me, how sorry he was that he hurt me, and how stupid he was, how fucking stupid he was, to have ever slept with that girl.
I can't be that girl, I thought. I can't take him back. I was preparing my best Rhett Butler-esque speech when Jesse raised his eyes to mine. He was crying. Crying. I had never had a man cry over me before — hell, I had only seen a man cry a handful of times. Suddenly, my resolve crumbled. I could be that girl. Hell, who was "that girl?" I could take him back. I wanted to.
Jesse and I got back together, and it was good. But "good" wasn't what I was looking for. Our first relationship had been passionate and all-consuming and crazy. I liked Jesse, sure, but I had left all my crazy in that dorm room. The second time we split up involved fewer dramatics and no threats of gutting. Despite our eventual breakup, I'm glad that I got back together with Jesse. At the very least, it taught me to make my own rules. I've never been that girl who worries about being "that girl" ever again.
— Chloe
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Commentarium (6 Comments)
Ah man, if the call for these stories had come six months from now I might've had something really special to share.
These are all really good though. Enjoyed each and every one of them. Complex subject and fittingly complex emotions for the stories about it.
A little background: in high school, five of my friends died in drunk driving accidents. Another of my close friends is missing a large chunk of intestines from when a drunken lady friend wrapped them both around a telephone pole in his camaro. My grandfather and my father are both inveterate alcoholics--I wrote my grandfather out of my life after he left me stranded at a debate competition, he was on his way to pick me up when he was pulled over and arrested for driving drunk. To say I'm a little paranoid about drunk driving is putting it lightly: I won't drive after having had a even a single beer, and I'm leery of letting any of my friends drive after drinking, even if they're probably under the legal limit. I drink like a fish though, and I have no problems with boozing or drug use as long as there's no driving involved. Summer into junior year of college, I dated a townie named "Tom". We had met at work three years prior, but both of us had always been in a relationship and then he transferred to a different location. That summer, I ran into him on campus and we started hanging out... and by hanging out, I mean the first night we spent together ended up being in my bed as we talked and made out until dawn. We didn't actually have sex until two months later, but our relationship was crazy intense, at least for me. Things changed gradually and Tom seemed more interested in partying with my friends than in just hanging out, but whatever. One thursday night, Tom was hanging out at my house as the 7 other people I lived with got ready to head out to the bars for the night. I lived with all seniors, so they didn't really have any work to speak of. On the other hand, I had an intense assignment due the next day at 8am. Tom pouted and wanted to go out, I shrugged and told him to go have a good time--I had homework to do anyways. I had one condition : come back after the bar so we fuck. Sexin' is a major source of stress relief for me. Apparently, my friends gave Tom an intense amount of shit all the way to the bar for ditching me to hang out with them... none of them particularly liked him. Tom got angry, came back to the house, got his car, and went home. I finished my project at around 2 am. Bars close at 1 around here, but it's not uncommon for people to head out to house parties after. One by one my room mates straggle home, but no Tom. I'm getting increasingly worried about him. I texted him, no response. It's 4 am. It's 5 am. It's 6 am. There's no answer. Tom was a heavy drinker and prone to starting shit when drunk. I was freaking out. I called the nearest local hospitals, and then I called the drunk tank in my town, and in Tom's. Tom finally gets back to me the next day, says he got mad at my house mates and decided to go home. Even though he parked his car at my house, knew I was expecting him later that night, and was aware of how weird I was about drunk driving, he decided to just disappear. Then he told me I was overreacting and criticized the close friends I lived with for not being nice enough to him. I promptly dumped him. I couldn't go through another night agonizing over whether he was alive or dead, and I refused to stay with a man who didn't care enough about me not to make me worry like that. The next week, he asked if he could come watch walking dead at my house since he didn't have cable at his. We ended up fucking and getting back together. The sex was as good as it had always been, but I didn't trust him anymore and I think he was hurt that I would cut him off so quickly. A week after we got back together, Tom told he was getting off work early and asked if I wanted to see him. I was out with friends, but I said yes nonetheless. Tom worked weekends as a short order cook at a pub near his house, and he was apparently sauced after his shift. He got into a minor accident, it had been raining and after a particularly sharp turn his car spun out into a ditch. Again, I waited all night for him to show up. He didn't, he claimed his phone had died or some such shit and sent me pictures of his car in a ditch. I promptly dumped him again (for good this time). When he picked up his stuff from my house a couple days later, I looked at the bruises on his face and wondered what I had ever seen there.
Lol @ me for reading this.
@Yawn, I second that sentiment. I feel like I should get to lock the OP in a car driven by a drunk for the same amount of time it took me to read this crap!
love this. all of them
Man, the last sentence of this is such a beautiful image.