Leaving Isn't the Hardest Thing(39)

I had six that night with Dana. Could’ve been more, but I had to take a break to pee and give myself a pep talk in the mirror—something like “You will do this. You will go down on her and you will like it.” I did. She was the easiest first time I could’ve drawn. She told me what to do and made it sound hot instead of what I was used to—the wordless shoving of my head down onto a dick, followed quickly by the desperate removal of my head from a dick in serious pain. I’d gone from staring at the ceiling while some guy grunted on top of me to a woman choking me and calling me a whore while I came. It was like suddenly getting to play in the World Cup when all you’ve done is play pickup soccer with the local divorced dads.

   I rarely spent the night with guys, preferred going to their dorm rooms because it was easier to leave than throw them out. But even though my contacts were shards of glass in my eyes and I was wheezing from my cat allergy, it never occurred to me to leave that night. I wanted the whole experience. I wanted her to fall asleep on my shoulder. And she did.





How to Make an Enemy


The first time I tried to break up with someone, I planned that shit like a museum heist. I chose a bar where I didn’t work but knew the bartender—Jay, my roommate, my friend, who’d serve me free drinks once the deed was done. Walking distance to my house so I wouldn’t need a ride or have to wait for a cab. I picked Thursday night so she’d have to keep her shit together through work on Friday, wouldn’t be able to blow up my phone or show up at my door, and she’d still have the weekend to binge. If you look at it that way, I was downright considerate. I had to be.

This was a big moment for me. I’d never ended it first. I’d been dumped. As an airman, I’d faked a deployment once, okay, maybe twice. Hid behind the base gates. Allowed nature to take its course. But I’d never looked into someone’s eyes and said, “It’s over.”

I wasn’t passive. I was fucking play dough. Survival by bending, twisting, and flattening in whatever manner was required to keep someone from getting mad. Avoid conflict by being amenable. I fell into relationships just as casually as I eventually ended them. Easier to fuck someone than deal with what happens when you say no. Easier to stay the night than try to leave. Easier to see them again when they ask.

   She wasn’t my first girlfriend, though it’s hard to say exactly how many girlfriends I’d had. Dana doesn’t quite count, nor does whomever I slept with next because, like I said, it was easier than saying no. We’ll skip Michelle because, though I gladly would’ve dated her, married her, divorced her bitterly a few months later, Michelle wasn’t interested in dating. And we’ll move on to Allie, who I loved. I still do. She may have been my only intentional relationship. But she didn’t want to leave South Carolina and I couldn’t stay. She’s happy now, in South Carolina with her wife and their kids. I still mute her on social media. Because she’s happy. So I won’t talk about her here other than to say I loved her.



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Moving on. I met Rhonda one night at Nation. I was tripping balls on ecstasy and dancing in the heaving crowd when this woman started dancing on me. She had Emily Valentine hair, and her face was a blur of lights and smeared eyeliner. I liked touching her sweaty skin. I liked it when she kissed me. She tasted like the color orange. Because again, I was on ecstasy.

She said her name was Rhonda and I started singing that song. I could not have been the first. I said—and again, tripping balls—“That’s not so bad. I have a friend named Whisper.” She kept dancing. I was sitting on the rail at the edge of the floor. And she was writhing between my knees. I was coming down, and the thought of people with shitty names was depressing me. That she was still dancing after I’d started to come down was getting on my nerves. I wondered if she had any coke. I thought at least my mom didn’t do that to us, fuck up every future introduction with a name that required its own conversation. I said, “You should get one free name change when you turn eighteen.” (Maybe another when you turn twenty-five, in case you thought “Thor” would be cool.) She stopped dancing and I thought, well, that was fun making out. At least she’ll go away now. She said, “I love my name.” And I realized then she was completely sober.

   I must’ve told her where I worked because she showed up at Badlands on Tuesday, grinning wide to show off her gummy, baby-toothed smile whenever I walked past her, raising her shirt to show off her abs while she danced. I made a point to never be without a tower of empty glasses to leave at the end of a bar, a mop to leave in a bathroom, or the arm of an underage kid to leave outside the door. When I was a kid, it was a broom. If you’re carrying a broom, you must be on your way to sweep something. Too little had changed. She came the next night. And the next. Staying until close every time. I wondered if she had a job.

Because it was unthinkable to say, “I’m not interested,” I told her I didn’t get off until four a.m., an hour after the club closed. No, she couldn’t wait in the club. I’d been working at the club a while. “I don’t get off until four” worked so well to get rid of people, it had been a problem. So it should’ve been enough, I thought, to convince her I wasn’t worth it. And I had to convince her, or I’d have to fuck her and then, inevitably, date her. I did not want to date her. I didn’t want to date anyone. But it would have been nice if I were attracted to them while sober.