Friday, February 1, 2013

Sex, Love and Brooklyn: Fucking a Boy, To Become a Woman

Posted By on Fri, Feb 1, 2013 at 6:16 AM

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He's 25 and I'm 28. We're generations apart. Let's face it, a 25 year old boy is really 15 in girl years. Which makes me, 38. "Are you trying to seduce me, Mrs. Robinson?"

Yes I am.

He begged me to come over and listen to him play guitar. I was embarrassed for him: I couldn't believe anybody still used that line. But, he was cute and sincere—a novelty, considering my usual dates. Before he started strumming I told him straight up I would mercilessly make fun of him with my friends. In the words of the great Julie Klausner, “I don't care about your band." Please don't try to impress me with stories about your awesome tour through Pittsburgh.

He played me a Loudon Wainwright song about being lonely and clinging to the nearest, most inappropriate person for comfort. We started kissing. Is this why people dig musicians? Before I knew what I was doing, I said, “In spite of myself, I think like you.” Even though he didn't know who Kim Deal is and owned a 200-strong DVD collection, something clicked. I went with it.

The chemistry between us was off the charts. The sex was like the anti-drug PS where Rachel Leigh Cook scrambles eggs in a frying pan and says “This is your brain on drugs.” That was my brain on sex with this guy, except my eggs were more than scrambled—they were fried.

I had one week left before I was heading off to travel. I wanted to get in as much fun as possible. I found myself looking forward to his daily texts, and thinking about sending him care packages from the road. We made plans to meet at my best friend's opening. I wanted to introduce him to my gang. He also invited me to stay over so I could sublet my place a few days early.

You know what's coming next. He disappeared. He stopped texting and cancelled our plans with the vague excuse he was sick.

The time and energy I spent thinking about what went wrong could power a small village in Kenya. I talked to everyone I knew, including my 65-year-old male boss. He told me 25-year-old men were pathological and I shouldn't take it personally. But I did take it personally. If it was something I did, I could fix it, right?

Finally contact. Just a “how are you?” text. He didn't even try to ask me out. Tired of keeping my distance, I told him I was going to a party and he should come. He showed up. I was overjoyed. He acted grumpy, claiming he was tired. I heard a voice in my head say, “After this week? This guy, really Lacy?”

Thirty minutes of terrible mingling went by and I had to leave. I suggested we go back to his place and fall asleep. I was trying to make everything go back to the way it had been—fun, exciting and easy. Stupidly, I thought physical intimacy was the best way to do this. Thankfully, we didn't have sex that night. He passed out and I stared at the ceiling.

I woke up early and listened to him snore next to me on the bed, on the floor. The same voice said, “Get it together, Warner. You've spent your twenties pussy-footing around dudes, making it as easy as possible for them to like you. Now you're in bed with a guy who is rude and been avoiding you all week.”

We started making out. It took all my will power to stop and say, “Things got really messy between us.” He pulled the sheet around his boner and apologized. He said he knew what I was talking about and it was his fault. He told me he had a terrible week. He practically lost his job and couldn't face anyone. I said, “Well, we weren't only sleeping together, we were friends. I don't want to be left hanging.”

I looked at him and saw him for who he was. He was exactly like me when I was 25: lost, lonely and unavailable. I decided to end it. No matter how much I liked him he wasn't ready to be somebody's partner. I had to admit that's what I was looking for.

“We always knew this was more of a fling than a conceivable relationship. I don't think we're on the same page.”

He said, “I don't know what page I'm on.”

We lay naked in his bed knowing the moment I got up to leave it was over. He seemed relieved, and rejected. At least, that's how it felt.

He put his hand in my hair, “I think you're the first woman I've slept with. The rest have been girls.” It was the greatest compliment I'd ever received. It was true for me, too. I was acting like a woman for the first time.

I worried if I told him to shape up or ship out, he'd label me another crazy chick he'd slept with. But I mustered up all my courage and said something. I know now it's possible to lay down the law without getting agro about it.

Of course, all I wanna do is call him and fuck up our nice ending. There's a part of me that misses the old, reckless Lacy. I catch myself thinking about running into him and ending up in bed together. I've got a pang for the girl who would have made the wrong decision for the wrong guy.

Is this how grownups treat each other—with honesty, respect and knowing when something's over?

Where's the fun in that? I guess it isn't so bad... And to all his future partners, you're welcome.

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