Mamas, Don't Let Your Babies Grow Up to be Douchebags...

When you're new to a town, you don't know the rules. You don't know where to go for food, friends, stuff to do--it's unexpected and an intriguing twist when you've grown up in one place for so many years. You meet a few people here and there, but your social circle just isn't as large as you'd expected it to be, so you run out of ideas and join a dating site. You meet a couple neat people, and one in particular sparks your interest.

After a few weeks of texting (yes, one of the precious few you gave your number to), and a few rescheduled meet-ups, you agree to an impromptu date of sorts. I mean, why not? You were already out and about, had already had a few, and now's as good a time as any. Your aunt drops you off at the local gay bar (his suggestion), and you can't help but smile a bit as you question whether he really did mean this to be a date for the two of you. But, the drinks are good and strong and the environment's fun, so you stay.

You're smart about it, though. You finish your drinks before you go to the bathroom, you order a glass of water in between drinks, and you ask the bartender if you can charge your phone--just in case. He was nice, funny, and more than a little intelligent and charming. He makes a few awkwardly obvious attempts at physical contact: a touch of the knee, comments on how sore his neck is, etc. He invites you to his place to watch Doctor Who, but you politely decline--that's not how you wanted the evening to end. A few drinks later, he asks if you want to hit up another bar, maybe grab some food at a local crappy diner (Waffle House, anyone?). Sure, that sounds fun, safe, and you're more than a little hungry after such...significant servings of booze.

Being more than a shade more sober than you are, he offers to drive. "You know, I'm just at the point where if I have another drink, I won't be able to drive you home," he frowns a bit. "You know what I could really go for? Some Angels in Manhattan. I've got them on my hard drive at my place, and I could pour you a drink there, if you want. Then I could drive you home. Does that sound good?" It's awkward now. You already said no once, but it's a decent offer, and you don't want to come across as rude or stand-offish. You agree. You chat a bit more on the way to his place, and you end up talking about sex. Big surprise, right? "Are you a slut?" he asks, laughing a bit. "No judging at all if you are, I'm all for equal gender empowerment." You laugh uneasily, and say no, that you really don't sleep around with guys until you've known them for a while. He proceeds to spout some thinly-veiled spiel about women being called sluts when they sleep around, and how it's unfair since men aren't held to the same standards of chastity.

You pull up to his place (a large house shared by several students), walk up the stairs and he unlocks the door. Walking down the hallway to his apartment, you can't help but feel a bit intimidated: the ceiling is high, the walls are close, and the lighting is poor. You're sure he mentioned something about roommates before, but it's a one bedroom. He must have just meant he used to have roommates. An easy misunderstanding--the bar was distracting, and all the alcohol is really starting to go to your head. Actually, it's hitting you pretty hard.

You follow him into the kitchen, where he proceeds to make your drink--a coke and something strong with a dash of grenadine. You're still careful, and you watch him make it, just in case.

The damn thing nearly sets your breath on fire, and the glass is full to the brim. It's impossible not to spill a bit on the floor/yourself. He tells you not to worry about it, and starts to rub your neck as you turn to leave the kitchen. It feels so nice to get some of those kinks out, and you spill some more of your drink.

He turns on the tv and launches the first episode. "Why don't you sit down here on the floor?" He suggests, "Then I can rub your shoulders." Again, you feel awkward. A sip of the drink to ease your nerves, and you slide down onto the rug. You lean back between his knees, trying to avoid leaning back too far. You're already worried about the impression you're giving him. The show starts, and you try to focus on the show and not on the fact that his fingers are pressing harder...wandering further, even momentarily pushing themselves up the back of your shirt before respectfully pulling it back down. You tense up, but his fingers press into your shoulders so hard--it kind of hurts. He begins to massage your scalp, but then starts to pull your hair a bit. It's getting harder to watch the show like this. Pushing one sleeve to the side, he rubs under your bra strap--just a bit. Lower, further, his hands always pressing themselves where they shouldn't be--pushing the boundaries and your top a little further away from where they should be.

"You smell nice," he mutters, and you realize his face is right next to yours. "Um, thank you..."

Of course, somehow, he kisses you. It wasn't hard, he's still pulling your hair with barely contained self-control. The fingers, attached to those hands, wend themselves down your shirt. The front this time. Uninvited, unwelcome, unrestrained at first by you. This was not how you wanted the evening to end. The alcohol is really hitting your head by now. You must taste like it. You can't tell if he does. Something sharp in the corner of your mind. Some dying, drowning semblance of sobriety? "I should call a cab." You shrug him away, leaning forward and moving your drink away from you.
"You should..." he smiles, kissing your neck and pulling you back to him.
"No...I....I should call a cab.."
"okay..." he's still moving, he's still not supposed to be here--you're not supposed to be here. This wasn't how you wanted the evening to end. But it's been so long since you've....
"NO." The last drowning bit of your self-restraint wakes up again, and you're glad of it. "I'm going. I'm calling a cab." You break out of his grasp, grabbing your purse and standing--stumbling--up this time.
"Do you want to wait here while you wait for it to arrive?" He walks nearer, placing his hands on my hips--or maybe my arms--I can't really tell right now.
"No. I'll--I'll be okay. I have to go. I have stuff to do tomorrow."
"Okay, thanks for the fun night." He mutters as he smiles, kissing you again. His front door was locked. It shouldn't bother you as much as it does just then. You unlock it and practically slam the door behind you. That narrow hallway now seems like something from a dream: the door to the stairs outside is right there, if you can just reach it without being harassed. It's so far though. But you reach it. Of course you do. There's no reason why you shouldn't have. It's not like he was going to physically keep you from leaving.

You practically run down the stairs, jog past his house, glancing up at his windows. Your lips are still wet. You hastily wipe them off, then do the same with your neck, although that is dry. You half run once you hit the corner. Your phone. It's charged. You pull it out and text your aunt. She agrees to come pick you up.

You're not sure where you are, but you see a tall building with "Hilton" lighting up the side. A brief reprieve from the otherwise mostly flat Lexington skyline, and a near literal Godsend as to helping you get your surroundings. You power-walk the four or five blocks there, repeatedly wiping off your lips, your neck, the back of your neck like you're swarmed with some invisible swarm. People on the street must think you're high. You really shouldn't be so freaked out, but you are. You really shouldn't have felt so violated, but you did, and, for some unexplained reason, you keep glancing behind you, expecting to see his truck pull up and to have him offer you a place to crash for the night--to sleep it off.

There's a cop car in front of the Hilton, and for some reason this is more comforting than it should be. You lean against a concrete pillar until your aunt arrives, letting the cool, roughly-pebbled surface calm you back to reality a bit.

Two quick beeps, and your aunt pulls up. Your dog is in the front seat, all you can see is her head, and she's elated to see you. It's obvious that the adventure of both a car ride and seeing mom was almost too much for her soft little head to handle. You hold her the rest of the way home. You try to rationalize it. Your aunt helps put that to rest. You start thinking about all the men you've been with before, about what you would have done if any one of them had pulled away. About how they've all responded when you've turned them down in the past. Certainly not like this one had. You hug your dog closer as she tries to climb on the window to smell the fall air.

You settle in bed, surrounded by your things, your animals, your mess. Your phone lights up. It's a text message from him.

"Hey, you get home okay? :)"
You roll over and go back to bed.

I hope you know...

I hope you know, you fucked it up.

When you pick up that phone to text me a quip about your day, I hope you hesitate a little with regret before putting it back in your pocket. When you smile at an inside joke that is brought to light by something you see on the street, I hope you cringe a little inside at the thought of what you ruined.

When you hope there's someone there for you, when you ache not to feel alone and unloved--when you want someone to reach out to, but they're already gone, I hope you remember: you caused this pain.

I'm not trying to harp on you (or maybe I am), for I know that words hold no meaning anymore to situations like these. Words are empty, words are hollow, and--for all the power they hold--they can't fix it. And, my dear, they can't fix you.

I'll move on, I suppose. Mourn a little less every day, try to push those thoughts of you from my mind--try not to wonder what you're doing or think about what we had--brief as it was, real or not. Someday, I'll grow old and tired of this mindset, move on to the next good thing in my life, and appreciate what you did do for me--what we did for each other.

Until then, though: I hope you walk around the streets at night on your own, flipping your phone in your hand and debating calling me and apologizing for hours before your bitter pride gets the best of you. I hope there are moments--those terrible, bittersweet, truthful moments--where you're alone in your house, or car, or at work--when you break down inside and pray to God you lose the ability to grasp what you lost. Where you hang your head in your hands, pushing away the migraines and the troubled dreams and the occasional tears that prickle at the corner of your eyes, and you know--know then, more than ever--that you fucked this up.

Hi

I still wait for that text message. The one saying you're sorry..you hit just the right place, cracking open all my emotions and engorging the hemmorage with a crowbar

And then you left.

I still check your facebook, looking for signs that you miss me. I sure miss you.

I didn't think I could grow so attached so quickly,  and yet in did. Only to be let down. Thrown down.

Although I should move on, memories of happiness in others causes me physical pain and disgust.

I still wait for you, although I shouldn't.