five
five
Zack
Karen
Lily
Jed
Experimentation
Last Thursday, I got carded at a sex shop.
The guy behind the counter explained to me
that I didn't have to be 18 to buy flavored condoms,
but I did need to be 18 to be in the store.
Luckily, I had my fake ID.
I'd never been inside that particular shop before.
It was called Lovely Pleasures, which sounded to me
like something you'd find on a Chinese menu.
At least it was better than the places called
ADULT VIDEO, which shows no imagination
whatsoever and makes you feel like you're
a dirty old man just for looking at the sign.
I like sex. I really do. And my girlfriend
likes sex. Which is convenient, I have to say.
We're always careful, we're always protected,
and basically we can't keep our bodies
off each other. We thrive on that intensity.
I was at the sex shop with Megan,
who is not my girlfriend but is
Diana's girlfriend now, I guess.
We didn't think Diana would ever
get over Elizabeth enough to be with Megan.
And maybe she hasn't. But they're giving
it a try anyway. Giving sex a try, that is.
I have known Meg since we were on tricycles,
and the most flavored things we knew were
Popsicles. I think it's safe to say that when
our mothers sat by the side of the pool and pictured our
futures, an aisle of prophylactics wasn't on their mind.
But we've grown up with each other, and we're
growing up with each other, too. So when she said
she needed help, I took out my keys and drove us to
Lovely Pleasures. It was either that or the drugstore,
and we know half the people who work at the drugstore.
Anne and I are always looking for new ways to go.
It's amazing the things that bodies can do.
The complicated ways that we fit.
I have seen her body naked dozens of times
and each time it is still an exploration.
Even when the bodies know, there is more to know.
The first time we had sex was in her bedroom
and she seemed more worried about me
messing up her great-grandmother's quilt
than anything else. All through the foreplay
she kept looking at it, shifting it so it wouldn't
feel our sweat. Until finally I pulled away
and folded it nicely, put it on a chair away from us.
It was not the first time for either of us,
but it was our first time with each other,
and that made it beautiful. Bright afternoon,
light of day through the shades,
basking in the sun-shadow of our affections.
That day, that moment, opened a curiosity of bodies,
shaped us as irrevocably as our first kiss, our first
realizations. You go into that moment never really knowing
if the closeness will wear well, if it is something that should
happen. I know she wasn't sure of me, and I wasn't sure
of me, either. But we discovered something in the unspoken,
found care in our caring whispers, instinctive.
I have not told Meg any of this, but she knew
right away when things had changed.
And it made her even sadder to know
I had found it while she was still waiting
for Diana to figure things out.
I don't know how the tide of Elizabeth
ebbed enough to show Meg standing on the shore.
But one day when Meg couldn't take it anymore,
she just put down Diana's guitar and walked away.
Diana asked me what was going on, and I didn't
have to say a word. She already knew, had maybe
known all along. Now it showed.
There was an e-mail that led to a phone call,
then a phone call that led to an encounter,
I thought Meg would be happy, but instead
she was happy and very, very scared.
If you're not able to laugh inside a sex shop,
then you probably shouldn't be there.
I mean, they don't call it fooling around for nothing.
I was a little nervous that Meg would go skittish on me,
but instead we found ourselves laughing at the first
appliance we saw. Meg gravitated towards the costumes,
openly wondering about the nursewear.
Anne and I don't play roles when we're having sex.
She's the one I want to be with, not some fantasy.
When I close my eyes, I see her, and when I open them,
she is there. Nothing about us is anonymous.
This is the giving, the taking, the giving.
The first time I had sex was an opportunity I took.
And afterwards it didn't feel entirely right, like a trophy
I'd won because nobody else showed up. Some guys
can get off on this, and there were a lot of times before Anne
that I really wished I could. But for me, there has to be love.
Or at least the possibility of love. I wouldn't say Anne and I
love each other yet. But there are moments when we really do.
Meg has no doubts about her love. Only Diana's.
When love comes before sex, there's always the fear
that the sex will somehow undo the love.
With Anne and me, there could be the fear that the sex
is creating the love. I don't think that's the case.
Meg and I talked a little about this as we came to
a huge display of edible underwear.
Edible underwear is not something I can imagine
as tasting very good. Meg suggested we save
some money and make our skivvies out of
fruit leather instead. Gumdrop buttons, chocolate trim,
like a Hansel & Gretel house, only sexier.
As Meg checked out the body oils and incense,
I headed over to the condom area. The first time
I bought condoms was about a year before I used one.
Like thinking that shopping for summer clothes
will suddenly make the weather go warm.
I was so confused by all the sizes and styles—
I'd figured that a condom was a condom, and that was that.
(This wasn't exactly a father-son chat I'd had with my dad.)
How was I supposed to know my size?—it wasn't like getting
a new shoe, being measured by a salesman for the right fit.
I ended up getting the Greatest Hits Condom, extra-everything, and kept it hidden inside an old Cracker Jack box.
In the sex shop, the sizes and styles were berserk-o,
but I was here for some experimentation, so that was okay.
Anne and I have reached the point in our relationship
where we're fueling it with little surprises—quick kisses,
notes hidden in pockets, glow-in-the-dark rubbers.
Meg and Diana haven't gotten to the little surprises yet.
I think they're still recovering from the big one.
We met up by the register, and she was holding candles
in different nail-polish colors, each promising its own
transcendent emotion—luminescence and bliss and
(my favorite) astonishment. I asked her if she was sure
she didn't want one of the “sculpted” candles and she laughed.
Then it was my turn and I got carded.
No big deal. Then we got back to the car
and everything that had been holding Meg up
fell right down. I'm not ready for this, she said.
And when I said that was okay, she added, Any of it.
Getting what you want is just as difficult
as not getting what you want. Because then
you have to figure out what to do with it
instead of figuring out what to do without it.
I did not feel the full depth of my wanting for Anne
until we were physically together, until it
was something so immediate it was beyond question.
There is wanting it so much, and there is wanting
her so much. Neither Meg or I want it as much
as we want her. In the car, bag of candles still on her lap,
Meg told me how afraid she was of things going wrong,
because this time it would be her fault, because of her wanting.
She said that maybe they should've stayed friends,
stayed safe behind the border of acting on desire.
So I asked, Does kissing her make you want more?
And she said, Yes. I asked When you're sleeping
alone, do you wish she was there to touch?
those feelings were already taking her to the destination.
She didn't nod, didn't shake her head. Just looked out
the windshield. And I realized she hadn't needed me
to take her to a sex shop. This wasn't about sex,
but its complications. Our lives were taking
our friendship into a new territory.
So I told her that even though Anne and I really liked sex,
that even though we were learning each other's bodies
like they were our own, there was always a moment—
sometimes many—when I was scared that the desire
would reach its limit, that I would do or say the wrong thing,
that I was making myself vulnerably naked,
that my thoughts and hers would end up being opposites.
Then the fear would step back and I would feel
the hundreds of places where our skin was touching
and I would know that this was the sensation,
the metaphor for all the thoughts underneath.
I told Meg to remember this.
And I found myself telling her that the amazing thing
about seeing a woman naked is how open her body is,
how you can see right inside her. And it's astonishing
and complicated and intimidating and incredible.
All those layers to feel, to read. You look there
and you feel like you're knowing something,
even if you're not really sure what it is.
I don't know if this made her feel better
or just made her feel weird. We sat for a second
in silence, feeling Anne and Diana in the backseat
of our minds. Then she said Jesus! and started to
hug me. And I hugged her back.
What must we have looked like to someone
driving into the Lovely Pleasures parking lot?
Some guy and girl making out. When really we
were just a guy and a girl trying to make it through
our experimentations, trying to find the right balance
between love, sex, and the rest of it. Preparing for
our naked lives.
Unlonely
How to Be Alone
Remember that at any given moment
There are a thousand things
You can love
Plural
I had boyfriends non-stop
Since Greg Foster in fourth grade
I could only see myself through their eyes
The Last Breakup
Erased by the sex
Playing the role, badly
I was tired
What I Love (Three Examples)
Being myself
Being by myself
Flirting without consequences
What I Learned
The well-documented difference
Between alone and lonely
The comfort of knowing
R-E-S-P-E-C-T
What I need, baby, I got it
I used to define myself by the enthusiasm of kisses
Their enthusiasm, not mine
Singular
I only had one priority, then
Now I don't count them
I call my friends instead, talk about stupid fun things
A Cue from Nature
Run outside during a thunderstorm
That downpour, that conquered hesitation, that exhilaration
That's what unlonely is like
The Discovery
This is what my voice sounds like
I don't need to be talking to someone else
To hear it
escapade
At ten in the morning on a Saturday
Jed shows up at my bedroom door and says
Let's go on an escapade.
My parents have let him in
so he can take me
wherever we want to go.
I get dressed and put on my shoes.
I'm no dummy.
Where shall we gallivant? he asks.
These words are our thing.
Enrapture me with some possibilities, I reply.
He smiles.
We can promenade, dither, roustabout, effervesce, or spiral.
I tell him I'll do anything but spiral.
spiraling is what I do without Jed.
although the spiraling I do isn't really a spiral.
it only goes in
one
d
ir
ec
tio
n
Jed says we'll promenade, and I make sure I have the right shoes for it.
pink sneakers, yellow laces.
He whistles his appreciation.
I have no idea how he knows when I need him. We can go weeks without speaking, and then, when my blue moods threaten to turn black, he will show up and tell me my moods are
azure
indigo
cerulean
cobalt
periwinkle
and suddenly the blue will not seem so dark, more like the color of a noon-bright sky.
He brings the sun.
We drive past the mall, past the video store, past the TGI Friday's
past the movie theater, past the park, past the diner.
(We do not hang out in those places.
They are for other people.)
All of Jed's mixes have themes
and the one that's playing begins
red hot chili peppers—under the bridge
simon & garfunkel—bridge over troubled water
everything but the girl—another bridge
ani difranco—buildings and bridges
so I have a good idea where we're going. Jed will easily drive
an extra fifty miles to fit a theme.
I could not think of a more rhapsodic way to span a day with you, I say.
He smiles and tells me, You're such a good egg.
Jed will show up at my house with a thousand toothpicks,
and together we'll make a house for a salt-shaker family.
I will call him up and tell him I'm about to dye my hair purple
and he'll drive over with a box of purple crayons.
Our friendship is made of bendy straws, long midnight letters, my so-called life marathons, sleepless sleepovers, diner milk shakes, apron strings, a belief in beauty, sucking helium, and the most trust I've ever felt for anyone, including myself.
We roll down the windows and sing at the top of our lungs. Neither of us can carry a tune, so we let the tune carry us instead.
Has your life been swell of late? he yells over th
e song, over me singing.
Copacetic, with some rays of gloomy, I reply.
Bugger the gloom! he declares. What this-'n'-that is under disputation?
Just the usual bouts, I tell him.
What about the bouts? he asks. Are they caused by louts?
Just my own devout shouts.
Well, we must shout them out!
and with that we yell at the top of
our lungs. It is unacceptable
to sit in your room alone and
scream at your life, but it is
perfectly acceptable (albeit not
exactly normal) to do it with
a good friend on the highway,
hearing your voice rise to the
rush of the window wind and
then hearing it be taken away,
left behind in your
wake.
It feels good.
I love Jed, but I am not in love with him.
It took us a little while to figure this out.
Putting aside the fact that he's as gay as the day is long,
it would be too easy to mistake what we have for desire.
It is not desire.
Instead it is something deeper. I don't want to be with him
constantly and forever. I want to be with him for the moment,