Things I've Learned From Women Who've Dumped Me Part 6

I watched Alex like a dog watches steak.

Then it was my turn. I remember thinking that Wendy's v.a.g.i.n.a felt nothing like my right hand. It was . . . damper. More humid. And looser-much, much looser.

I humped away at Wendy. Then I started to worry. What if I couldn't keep it up? What if I couldn't come? If I couldn't finish, I feared Alex and Wendy would look at each other, say, "Oh my G.o.d, he's gay!" in unison, and then Alex would beat the s.h.i.t out of me for watching him like a dog watches steak.

I kept humping, humping, humping.

My concentration began to flag, partly deflating my erection, as condensation dripped onto my back from the top of the tent. I think Alex was getting frustrated-it was hot in that tent, and he was ready to split-but he was too gentlemanly a statutory rapist to leave before I finished. So Alex did something that I, at fifteen, figured Alex could do because he was straight. To help me get there, Alex reached between my legs and cupped my b.a.l.l.s.

It helped.

I slept with Wendy in part to scandalize my family with my blatant, and unexpected, heteros.e.xual behavior. I made d.a.m.n sure my mother "overheard" my late-night phone conversations with Wendy, theatrically whispered; I left notes and letters from Wendy laying out for my brothers to "find." I stayed out all night. My family had long suspected I might be gay-asking my parents to take me to the national tour of A Chorus Line A Chorus Line for my thirteenth birthday didn't help-but my family was Catholic for my thirteenth birthday didn't help-but my family was Catholic and and religious. So even though I knew I was gay, and even though everyone else knew, and even though I knew they knew, we also all knew-knowed? -that I was never going to come out. religious. So even though I knew I was gay, and even though everyone else knew, and even though I knew they knew, we also all knew-knowed? -that I was never going to come out.

That meant I had to learn to like p.u.s.s.y. So I had to go out there and find a Wendy, a series of them, women I could fool, women I could take advantage of. And, yes, I was, at fifteen, taking advantage of twenty-one-year-old Wendy.

These were my options: fake being straight or join the priesthood.

While the big house, fancy dresses, and naive altar boys were tempting, I had concluded the priesthood wasn't for me. So even though I could never truly fall in love with a woman and even though every fiber of my being screamed "No!" it was my intention to live a straight life. I was going to find a slightly boyish, flat-chested woman, f.u.c.k her just enough to fool her, keep her busy with babies, and bang the occasional callboy on the side.

But could I do it? Could I f.u.c.k a woman? Could I learn to like p.u.s.s.y? I had to find out before I married one.

The first time I slept with Wendy was a success, it's true, and I was relieved that I could do this thing. I could put my d.i.c.k in a woman and leave it there until I came. But I also knew that it wasn't enough for me to like p.u.s.s.y when it was full of some hot guy's s.p.u.n.k, or some hot guy was cupping my b.a.l.l.s and lying beside me. That set of circ.u.mstances seemed unlikely to occur with any frequency in, say, my antic.i.p.ated heteros.e.xual marriage. No, I had to learn to like how p.u.s.s.y smelled and how it tasted and how it felt all by its lonesome. Or learn how to tolerate it, like so many closeted gay men before me.

Alex wasn't around the second time I slept with Wendy. We were at one of her friends' apartments, just two blocks from my parents' home. This time it was just the two of us. We started making out. Wendy got undressed. I got undressed. And there we were, standing together, in the living room, the two us, bare-a.s.s naked.

I missed Alex.

Wendy guided my hand down.

I missed Alex more.

Today third base is-what? Double penetration? Pegging? Sucking off a she-male in the backseat of your dad's Hummer? In 1980 third base was finger-banging-it was a more innocent time-and I knew what I was supposed to do when Wendy placed my hand over her v.a.g.i.n.a. I slipped a finger in.

Then two. Then three.

It's hard to describe the sensation, but I'll try: It felt like I'd slipped my hand into a large, lukewarm piece of lasagna that had been stood on its side. Only this lasagna had a pulse.

And hair, this lasagna was covered in hair.

I kept my fingers in Wendy's v.a.g.i.n.a long enough, I hoped, to give her the impression that I liked hairy lasagna as much as the next guy. Then I executed what I, at age fifteen, thought was an exceedingly smooth move. I removed my fingers from Wendy's v.a.g.i.n.a and pulled her into an embrace. I brought my hand up her back slowly. I caressed her-but just with the palm of my hand and my thumb and pinky, the fingers that hadn't been in Wendy's v.a.g.i.n.a. I brought my hand up to her shoulder. I leaned way in to kiss her neck, positioning my nose so it was angled over her shoulder. I brought my wet index, ring, and middle fingers up to my nose.

You see, back in the tent I hadn't really got a chance to smell Wendy. By the time I got in there, Wendy already smelled like Alex's sweat and s.p.u.n.k. Not that I'm complaining, but the whole point of my adventures with Wendy was, well, learning to like p.u.s.s.y.

Wendy's v.a.g.i.n.a smelled awful. Really awful. Like no hairy lasagna I'd ever eaten.

I need to take a time out here.

For the record, I really don't mean to be ungracious about Wendy or her v.a.g.i.n.a. I want to make it clear that I'm not stating Wendy's v.a.g.i.n.a smelled awful. Although that is, um, precisely what I just stated. Hey, maybe Wendy's v.a.g.i.n.a smelled bad-maybe she had a yeast infection or something-but it seems likelier that the problem wasn't the v.a.g.i.n.a itself but the person smelling it, aka the v.a.g.i.n.a-smeller.

We know more about s.e.xual orientation today than we did in 1980. For instance, no one knew way, way back in 1980 that gay men's brains respond to male sweat, scents, and pheromones the same way straight women's brains do; nor did we know that gay men's brains respond negatively to female scents, pheromones, and sweat, the same way straight women's brains do. Researchers in Sweden added that interesting new item to the ever-growing mountain of evidence that h.o.m.os.e.xuality is genetic, not chosen.

Okay, let's get back to the hairy lasagna. . . .

After quickly pulling my fingers away from my nose I began to caress Wendy's back again. But this time I used all my fingers. I was pretending that I was pa.s.sionately caressing her when I was, in fact, vigorously wiping her juices off my fingers. I thought this sequence of moves-strip, finger-bang, caress, position nose, bring fingers to nose, smell fingers, wipe fingers while pretending to caress-was pretty slick.

"Did you just wipe your hand on me?"

"No," I lied. And then we had s.e.x. No sloppy seconds for me this time. Tidy firsts. And I could do it. I didn't need Alex there, my b.a.l.l.s in his hand. I could do this thing; I could have s.e.x with women. I could pa.s.s.

We f.u.c.ked around a dozen or so more times. Summer turned into fall, fall into winter. Wendy soon noticed that, despite her coaching, my s.e.xual repertoire was shrinking, not growing. I ignored her b.r.e.a.s.t.s, I kept my fingers out of her v.a.g.i.n.a, my mouth never ventured south of her collarbones. Then one day Wendy called with two important pieces of news. First, it was over. Second, she had missed her period.

I spent a week flipping out about the injustice of it all. How could I have gotten her pregnant? Didn't shutting my eyes and pretending that Wendy's v.a.g.i.n.a was the a.s.s of this boy I was in love with offer any protection at all? Why didn't my gay sperm, realizing where they had been deposited, turn tail and start swimming in the opposite direction of her eggs?

I didn't have to stress for long. The next day Wendy called to tell me she got her period. She also wanted to let me know she was seeing another guy now, someone her own age.

"It was fun," she said, comforting me. "I like you. You'll meet another girl."

G.o.d, I hope that never happens, I thought to myself, listening as Wendy let me down easy. I thought to myself, listening as Wendy let me down easy. It wasn't fun. I can't like you or any girl the way I'm supposed to. I thought I could do this, I thought I could fake it. I thought I could pa.s.s. But I can't, I don't want to, it's not fair. My heart isn't in it. It wasn't fun. I can't like you or any girl the way I'm supposed to. I thought I could do this, I thought I could fake it. I thought I could pa.s.s. But I can't, I don't want to, it's not fair. My heart isn't in it.

A month later I had s.e.x with a guy for the first time. In his apartment, in the middle of the night, in the middle of my sixteenth year. Jeff was twenty-one, with s.h.a.ggy brown hair and big blue eyes. I guess he's just another of the statutory rapists I have known and loved. Jeff smelled great. He tasted great. And no one needed to cup my b.a.l.l.s.

Lesson#15

Nine Years Is the Exact Exact Right Amount of Time to Be in a Bad Relationship Right Amount of Time to Be in a Bad Relationship by Bob Odenkirk

This is a transcript taken from a recent Bob Odenkirk Rocky RelationShip Seminar.

Hey. How are you doing, couples? Are you all ready to hear about my plan for you to get the most from your rocky relationship? I see one man over there who isn't nodding. Sir? Oh, you're a lesbian? Oh, I thought you were a man [really awkward laughs]. You're here with her? Oh, I thought she was a man, too. I thought you were a gay couple. No, I understand you are gay, just . . . well, okay, let's keep moving on.

As I've promised in my brochures, I speak from experience. Everything I am about to share with you is based on real-life experimentation. My theory has been tested in the lab called "My Past" by a doctor named "Me."

Is there a time limit for relationships? How long do you "hang in there"? What's a good "rule of thumb" for exploring every avenue before breaking it off and moving on?

The answer is simple. Nine years.

Now, I see a lot of heads not nodding at that. Probably you're thinking nine years is overdoing it, especially if you broke up for the first time at one and half years and then broke up again at five years and then, even though you were living in different cities thousands of miles apart, you somehow forced yourselves together again for another four years of difficult unpleasantness. Many people would say three years of general unease is enough, that it's time to "move on." No. You're wrong. You're wrong and you're pathetic. Nine years, you b.i.t.c.hes. Nine f.u.c.king years. Who's laughing in the back? That was a cough? I f.u.c.king hope so, because G.o.dd.a.m.nit I am speaking from some hard-won experience here and you'd better respect that s.h.i.t.

Here, my friends, is the only path to a "healthy breakup." Though before I proceed, I would like to remind everyone that this seminar is 100 percent nonrefundable.

Year 1 This is the year of "The Crush." Excitement, energy, warmth, and hope infuse every aspect of the relationship, making the possibilities seem limitless, rosy, and un-put-downable. Not much to say beyond that.

Year 2 Some afterglow remains. You begin to perceive shortcomings in your partner's psyche, which will severely limit your ability to grow as a couple. You get p.i.s.sed. You argue. Roses make things better. You start to notice how good food tastes, how interesting books are, how marvelously distracting distractions can be. Men might rediscover masturbation and think, "Hey, I'm a pretty good masturbator!" Your relationship is tumultuous, but in a cla.s.sic pop song sense-this is pretty fun, actually, you sort of feel like a tortured artist, except you're not creating art. Nor will you.

Year 3 Your friends tell you to get out. Her friends tell her to get out. You relearn each other's emotional limitations and psychological shortcomings on a daily basis. An hourly basis. You consider therapy. This is good. This is the beginning of a choice growing inside of you. But you are still five years away from therapy! So slow down! The drama of the relationship is tarnishing, which makes you suspect that it is not actually made of gold, but bra.s.s. Here is what you will find out: It's not even bra.s.s. Your relationship is made of mold, what you are seeing as tarnish is actually just more mold breaking down and feeding on itself. f.u.c.kin' mold, dude [uncomfortable coughs from the back of the room].

Year 4 A pretty good year. Some ups and downs in the relationship. Mostly downs, though. Even the ups are a bit downish. You are using this year to see if you can make your partner's shortcomings work to your advantage. Good for you. You will fail. People around you are "clamming up." They tolerate your relationship like they tolerate the clanking sound in a car engine. After a while it's just there, no reason to acknowledge it. You go on a trip with friends, without your partner. You have a real good time.

Year 5 Your mother tells you to get out. You begin to consider divorce, but then realize you aren't married yet. You think, well, maybe we should get married and with that commitment we can finally relax and let go of the "fantasy" of a happy relationship but find happiness in reality and a promise of undying okayness. And if that doesn't work, then the divorce thingy is a legit option. You are also entering into the arena of long-term relationshippery. You are sort of proud of this-good, go with that, you're going to need every bit of momentum you can get to make it through FOUR MORE f.u.c.kING YEARS.

Year 6 You are going strong, avoiding each other, not asking too much from the relationship. Many of you might think this is the time to move into therapy, to actually confront the many issues that make day-to-day life unpleasant and long-term plans unthinkable. Too soon! This bad relationship needs to run its course, and it is a marathon. If therapy tells you to leave now you will be prematurely abandoning the race-in its final push to the finish. Plan a long holiday. It will not be enjoyable. Attend a wedding for friends who met only two years ago. Look at them and wonder. You and your partner are now in sync, sharing a low-grade depression which swarms around you like hundreds of depressed bees. This is a good year to discover the artwork of Edward Hopper. There's something about his clean lines and composition that will speak to you.

Year 7 Same as year four. Three hundred sixty-five days, not that long as it turns out.

Year 8 Just doin' time. You're almost there. The couple who married a year and half ago after only being together for two years before that-they get divorced and don't seem too distraught over it. By the end of the year they will both be in new relationships. Wow. That's tragic. I guess some people are shallow. They have shallow relationships that start fast and end fast because they just aren't that deep. They aren't as deep as you, you tell yourself, at first confidently, and then, less so.

Year 9 The watershed. You can go to therapy now. Together and apart. You can do all those things you've been dreaming of: crying and collapsing on the floor, crying on the phone, crying in a restaurant. You can finally say, in public, "I think this has to end," and watch the unstartled faces of your bored friends as they try to care. Give your friends multiple chances to care. They will need them. Start to separate your nine years of memories, furniture, and collections and realize it's not that hard to do. It's fairly easy to acquire the Seinfeld Seinfeld box set and an Irish knit sweater you both wore. As it turns out, the Irish can't stop knitting. Spend that first night alone. The ghost of your ex wanders the halls. Don't give it any credence because ghosts aren't real. Not like vampires, which are box set and an Irish knit sweater you both wore. As it turns out, the Irish can't stop knitting. Spend that first night alone. The ghost of your ex wanders the halls. Don't give it any credence because ghosts aren't real. Not like vampires, which are very very real, but not relevant to this particular discussion. I've said too much. real, but not relevant to this particular discussion. I've said too much.

[Long pause, more coughing from the back, the sound of a few people getting up and filing out]

Great. You see that plan? You see how complete it is? How it covers every base? Here's the great thing about the plan: It leaves you squarely sure that you will never enact this plan again. You will have a level of certainty in your life few people ever achieve. You will also have a high horse to ride as you comment on other people's short-lived traumas. Oh how many times you will win the argument when you say, "Hey! Try hangin' in there for nine years!" Nice. You can rest a.s.sured you tried everything, including depression and deep boredom, two flavors which must be sampled if you want to feel you truly lived. Why the h.e.l.l do you think people climb Everest? Because it sucks BIG TIME! They did it anyway, and now they can rub that in other people's faces for the rest of their lives. You wimps.

[Light applause]

Lesson#16

A Dog Is No Reason to Stay Together by Damian Kulash, Jr.

Amanda was my best friend's girl. Or at least he he thought so. They'd had a brief fling eight months prior, and Adam's M.O thought so. They'd had a brief fling eight months prior, and Adam's M.O. at the time was to convince himself he was deeply romantically linked-like right on the brink of marriage-with whomever he'd last got it on with, regardless of how much alcohol had been involved in getting to the get-on, or how much time had pa.s.sed since it'd been got. Every so often he'd run into his soul mate at a party and she'd have to ask for his name again, which made for awkward moments. Adam was my roommate, and I hated seeing him brokenhearted all the time, but Amanda was foxy, and since a guy is only obligated to respect another guy's boundaries when they aren't imaginary, I figured I was on stable ethical ground when Amanda and I made out after that fateful night at the monster truck rally. at the time was to convince himself he was deeply romantically linked-like right on the brink of marriage-with whomever he'd last got it on with, regardless of how much alcohol had been involved in getting to the get-on, or how much time had pa.s.sed since it'd been got. Every so often he'd run into his soul mate at a party and she'd have to ask for his name again, which made for awkward moments. Adam was my roommate, and I hated seeing him brokenhearted all the time, but Amanda was foxy, and since a guy is only obligated to respect another guy's boundaries when they aren't imaginary, I figured I was on stable ethical ground when Amanda and I made out after that fateful night at the monster truck rally.

We were a great couple. We dressed funny and made art and took road trips and got drunk a lot. We moved to Chicago together and filled a loft with armloads of amus.e.m.e.nts from the science surplus store, and we invited our friends over to drink wine with us and laugh at religious people on TV. It was love-love like you see in movies. Except in movies, relationships don't change, or grow, or slowly fall apart. They either last forever or end mercifully fast with a thrown plate and a jump cut. At least in the movies I watch. I suppose Hugh Grant fans could argue there's a whole genre of film built on themes like "Now I Can Truly Love You Because This Maladjusted Boy Has Cured Me of My Selfishness," or "All I Wanted Was for You to Say You Were Proud of Me and My Equestrian Accomplishments." But the movies I watch and the books I read and the music videos I'm not in are all soft lenses and hot sweet love until something suddenly brings it to an end, like, say, the Terminator strolls in and impales the male lead.

In reality, relationships only end this cleanly when one of the partic.i.p.ants is a prost.i.tute. The rest linger and fade and slowly deteriorate, regardless of how simple and exciting they seemed at the start. For Amanda and me, this deterioration came labeled "growth." We ignored our misgivings about the cooling fires, convinced that this was what it meant to mature; our needy childish desires were mellowing into something deeper and more sustainable, the kind of love they had in the Middle Ages when everyone wrote poetry, not just East Coast nerdlingers. We were becoming adults, we told ourselves. So what if s.e.x was less frequent than trips to the Home Depot? Adults have significant hardware needs, and if the intrigue of our early days was fading, we consoled ourselves that we were discovering the real real virtue under there: teamwork. As if companionship, when you boil it down, is essentially a sport, and not one of those coed naked ones from the T-shirts of our youth. virtue under there: teamwork. As if companionship, when you boil it down, is essentially a sport, and not one of those coed naked ones from the T-shirts of our youth.

To be fair, it's a pretty pleasant phase of a relationship. Teamwork is satisfying. Sure, on the pa.s.sion/adrenaline scale, you just can't top frantic s.e.x on the hood of your beat-up Camry, but there is a distinct satisfaction in dropping off her movies at Blockbuster or remembering to use only the approved utensils on the nonstick cookware; these are things that scream WE'RE IN THIS TOGETHER! WE'RE IN THIS TOGETHER! It's a nice feeling, togetherness, and looking back, those couple years were like the warm fuzzy version of a climactic It's a nice feeling, togetherness, and looking back, those couple years were like the warm fuzzy version of a climactic A-Team A-Team montage; we cobbled together a life the way Murdock and Face made fully armed tanks from kindling, telephone wire, and two or three riding lawnmowers. We talked our way into private parties and produce-market discounts, we convinced our landlord to spring for a dishwasher, we encouraged our single friends to date each other, we shared winter hats and sungla.s.ses. And, crucially, we got a dog. montage; we cobbled together a life the way Murdock and Face made fully armed tanks from kindling, telephone wire, and two or three riding lawnmowers. We talked our way into private parties and produce-market discounts, we convinced our landlord to spring for a dishwasher, we encouraged our single friends to date each other, we shared winter hats and sungla.s.ses. And, crucially, we got a dog.

Let me just get this out of the way right now: we're not like those sick f.u.c.ks who have babies just to save their relationship. Under the surface, the excitement of the early days might have been waning, but we were doing our best to ignore the ebb, and in any case, Ella The Dog was not some Band-Aid or stopgap to keep the home fires burning. She was a helpless, six-week-old, burrito-sized, tailless puppy who'd been rescued from a cruel dog-fighting ring, and she needed a home. But all the same, I can't say she didn't help out on the relationship front. She brought us together and turned us into a little family. I loved the dog, Amanda loved the dog, we all loved each other, and for a while there, that's all anybody needed.

We potty-trained her and took her to obedience cla.s.ses. She fell over when she tried to wag the tail that didn't exist. We taught her to swim and catch Frisbees and jump through hula hoops held head-high. She learned to recognize the word "squirrel," and just by saying it we could incite Bjork-like howling and vicious attacks on innocent trees. We bought her a toy piano, which she'd bang on like a palsied Elton John when we told her to "rock out." When I went into the studio to make my band's first alb.u.m, Ella The Dog played on the recording, and she'd lie for hours on the base of my mic stand while I sang.

You'll notice this is the first time I mention being in a band. Up to this point my band had mostly been irrelevant to my relationship; everyone has a day job and a pipe dream, and if I was dumb enough to nurse a rock and roll fantasy, I was also smart enough not to expect it to come true. But about a year after we got Ella The Dog, the band reached a turning point and the pipe dream became real. When I quit my job to start touring, Amanda couldn't have been more supportive; all we wanted for each other was happiness, and happiness, I was pretty sure, meant living on truck stop food and spending twelve hours a day in an un-air-conditioned 1986 Dodge conversion van, elbow-to-elbow with three other sweaty fools who share the delusion.

The constant touring caused another shift in my relationship. Amanda and I went from real teammates to imaginary ones. She was sleeping in our bed and going to her job and feeding our dog, and I was sleeping on strangers' floors and getting paid in beer tickets. While the folks around me, unburdened by monogamy, were engaging in what is generally expected of rock musicians-stumbling from city to city blotting out the previous night's memory with a new girl and a dozen more Pabsts-I prided myself on pining. I had emotional ballast in the maelstrom, a home team to believe in, a woman and a dog to miss. For months on end, our lives only intersected for the few exhausted minutes of our nightly phone call-it was about as exciting, and only slightly less s.e.xual, than a romance between hospice patients-but still we soldiered on, loyal and determined and dedicated. We lasted this way for nearly two years.

But one day I came home to Chicago after an especially long string of shows, and it all came crashing down. Ella The Dog and I were throwing tennis b.a.l.l.s and terrorizing ducks in Humboldt Park-which has surely become a thousand-acre lot for some palatial Starbucks by now, but was still knee-deep in immigrants and corpses at the time-when I realized that Ella was more important to me than Amanda. They had both come to stand for the same things: duty and loyalty and warmth and support, but to experience them with the dog was tangible; it required contact. It meant being there with her, and I loved it. I loved the sticks and Frisbees and contempt for animals smaller than herself. I loved the howling and hula hoop jumping and the careful inspection of particularly impressive stacks of feces. By contrast, Amanda and I had ripened our relationship past recognition, from practice to theory, until it had morphed into a purely symbolic belief in each other, something we didn't even need real contact to sustain. We had lost whatever it is that differentiates romantic love from friendship and now we were just best friends doing our daily telephone checkup. The life we'd built was still there in our apartment two blocks away, but I was no longer a part of it, and all that really made Chicago home now was Ella The Dog. She had become my best friend's girl, and I loved her, but this time I couldn't steal her away.

In the end it was Amanda who dumped me, both of us lying faceup in the bed in the middle of the night, talking the way we did on the phone, not looking at each other. It was pretty low-drama; by then there wasn't much to give up except the idea that there was something to give up. That, and of course, the dog. With a hint of determination that suggested she thought I might argue, Amanda a.s.serted that she was keeping Ella, but it was a custody battle I'd already lost, and I knew it. It stung-badly-but there's just no way around it: you can't stay with someone just because of a dog, and you can't try to take the dog when she's been the one caring for it. (Unless you're a total d.i.c.k. Then you can do pretty much anything.) So I just lay there and let it all go; the last traces of teamwork finally fizzled out. The saddest thing, that night, wasn't the loss, it was the thought that there would someday be others: other dogs, other boyfriends, other girlfriends; that all of our diligent future-building would inevitably be undone by real people in the real future. We all want to believe that the people who dump us will regret it someday, but I knew it wasn't true; it was over, and I would be replaced.

And I was right. Now, five years later, Amanda and Ella The Dog live on a tropical island with a gentle Viking who's apparently both champion skydiver and master carpenter. I haven't met him, but by all accounts he's talented at pretty much everything and a wellspring of kindness-one of those people put on earth to teach the rest of us humility. Amanda sends photos of them repairing the moat around their house and rowing at sunset in a canoe he built by hand, and I am-I'm not lying-genuinely happy for them. It's a little weird to see your ex in love with someone else (and maybe weirder to think she could have a kid with the letter in its name), but I take comfort that it took a veritable Norse G.o.d to fill my shoes. And of course time heals an awful lot, so after half a decade, I really have moved on. At least when it comes to Amanda. in its name), but I take comfort that it took a veritable Norse G.o.d to fill my shoes. And of course time heals an awful lot, so after half a decade, I really have moved on. At least when it comes to Amanda.

Lesson#18

You Too Will Get Crushed by Ben Karlin

We didn't meet cute. She was taking baths on the downlow with a friend of mine while her boyfriend pined away in Ignoramusland, aka Houston. It's not polite to name names. Hers was Jill.

We took up, falling fast and hard in the waning light of life in a college town after you're done with college. You know, the time when you're supposed to have left already but just can't surrender two-hundred-dollar-a-month rent and the idea that these were, are, will be the best days of your life. They weren't, aren't, and won't be. But it's awesome to think so.

Let me tell you a little about her-for me though, not for you-in order to reclaim that which has been smothered beneath a calloused heart. She had flaxen hair, wispy and cut short around her opal face. She was fair and thin-not scrawny, taut. She had cheeks that shot into perfect circles every time she smiled slyly, which was quite a lot. She was a troublemaker. She made me feel like I was a troublemaker, too. I was not a troublemaker. I am a wimp who still doesn't know exactly what spark plugs do.

We moved through the early stages of our relationship in paces that seem stunningly familiar now-but at the time felt like a fever dream. We lingered outside each other's front doors not wanting nights to end. Walked hand in hand through the farmers' market, envious of no one, living in the G.o.dd.a.m.n now. We held out, carnally speaking, partially out of the now comically puritanical notion that it would be better if we waited. (The other part part had to do with the fact that she had technically not broken it off with Clueless T. McCuckhold down in Texas.) The whole time, one question slowly built in my mind: What if this is the person I never run out of falling in love with? had to do with the fact that she had technically not broken it off with Clueless T. McCuckhold down in Texas.) The whole time, one question slowly built in my mind: What if this is the person I never run out of falling in love with?

Alas, like poorly fenced-in pit bulls raised by angry Mexican youths, the complications of life can only be kept at bay for so long. Eventually, they will attack and tear you apart, and unless there is some pa.s.serby to pull you out of their vicelike jaws, you will be grievously injured, if not killed. Come to think of it, most of that last sentence is just about pit bulls.

The point, however, is that upon leaving our college town-I'll call it Eden to protect its ident.i.ty from future pilgrims who may flock there to trace the origin of this very story-mistakes were made. Some were mistakes of vanity. Others of youth. Still others of the vanity of youth. Eventually, these mistakes would pile up and their weight would become too much for any one man, or relationship, to bear. Here are those mistakes.