Lip smackin’, cherry poppin’

Standing in the walk-in fridge with a man named Joey who I would kiss all the time because he was a man with a beard and would drive me home after work, and he asked me, “Well if you don’t want to have sex with me, who do you want to have sex with?”

Wait, I think I need to back up.  When I was 15, a man with a beard who I worked with told me, “Katie, you’re going to break hearts.”  And I heard it as a curse; I used it as an excuse.  I hadn’t exactly grown any breasts or curves to speak of, but that stopped mattering.  I suddenly felt all Woman; overwhelmingly sexual just standing, just breathing.  But I waited with this new sexuality stuffed in my back pocket.

I dated a boy, seriously, for the first time when I was in grade 11.  I cheated on him with a girl.  He broke up with me, not because I cheated on him, because he didn’t know that, but because he said I was too good for him.  Uh huh.  I cried.  I thought for a long time he was the first person I’d ever loved, but of course, I was wrong.  She was the first person I ever loved.  And I suppose when we’re talking about virginity here, which we are, then I lost it to her.  But we have to, for the moment, pretend she doesn’t count, or else this whole story becomes very complicated, just as it should be.

But after the first boyfriend broke up with me, and after I stopped being sad, I remembered all that sexuality I had put away in my back pocket.  So I pulled it out and I put it on and I didn’t have to say anything, or do anything;  I just walked around wearing it and men followed me with their eyes, asked me out at work, wrote me letters, offered to drive me home, asked me stupid questions like, “who are you?”  I picked all the ones I figured were the worst for me, and kissed them in their cars, in the change rooms at work, on slick grassy hills.

And now we’re back to Joey, kissing me in the walk-in fridge.  And who always brought up sex and having it, with me.  But I’d never had sex and I was not having it for the first time with this man with a beard who kissed me in the fridge.  “Well,” he said, “if you don’t want to have sex with me, who do you want to have sex with?”  I didn’t think about it, didn’t hesitate, and picked the most unassuming, harmless person who worked with us, “Matt.”

And so it was somehow, set up.  We hadn’t even spoken, barely, and yet we realized we were both virgins and so decided both not to be.  We sort of dated before hand, sort of.  We made out a lot, in his basement and I’d always have to leave before his mother came home and found me, “some strange girl,” kissing her virginal son.  We went to a movie and I drove him home.

It happened at a co-workers house.  I’m not shitting you.  It was ridiculous.  They left us the keys:  a bunch of dj’s who all lived together before needing to get their lives started, drinking and smoking and listening to drum and bass.  So in a co-workers bed, with a co-worker, I had sex for the first time.

___

“I need to put this on,”  and he walked to the stereo and put a tape in he had mixed earlier that week.  Smooth drum and bass poured out of the speakers, the kind I liked, even though I felt it was too loud.  I stood awkwardly by the door for only half a second and then became that woman I was supposed to be; all experience and control and appeal.  I pressed into him with a passion I dug deep to find (this was before I loved him, you see).  I kissed him and didn’t really enjoy it, as I never really did, as I had kissed enough people to realize he wasn’t any good at it.  And then it sort of gets blurry from here, I figure because it didn’t last very long, because it wasn’t any good, because it didn’t feel good, because I was disappointed, or maybe just, you know, because I hadn’t been expecting too much and I didn’t get too much; it was okay.

“So,” I started as I hooked my bra back together and stared at the condom glistening by my toes, “how was it for you?”  Yeah, I actually said that.  With those low expectations met, creeping into my voice.

I don’t remember how he answered, but I remember that question so clearly.  We dated for another three years on and off.  We didn’t ever have good sex though.  And then later, he said to me, “Yeah, and one day you’ll live in a house full of cats and be like every other person who ruins people.”  And I said, “You think I ruin people?”  And he said, “I do.”  And I remembered my curse but couldn’t stuff anything back into my pockets.  Like a skin graft, this sexuality had become me.  Like an excuse used for so long it became truth, this sexuality had become me.  And later, I realized, like the best thing that ever happened to me, this sexuality was mine.