email: toxie@swig.com age: 20 major: Video / Film production passions: Trash and depravity, in most any artistic form -- done with class. also published in: Many men's room stalls

Reflections

...And all I got was this lousy T-shirt 'Sex is Sex, and Movies are Movies' Thirty-second Love Affair

The first girl I ever made out with was named Jess. She was a tiny girl, whom I met my junior year of high school. One day after school, she told me we were going to get something to eat, and see a movie. I obliged. So she drove us to Chicken 'N Chips, on my recommendation, where we ate, and talked.

After the food, we went to see The Exorcist. It was the re-release of the film, which I had never seen before. I was quite torn, remembering the afore mentioned Gilliam quote, as she rubbed my thigh, and tickled me during the film. As much as I wanted to strictly pay attention to the movie, I did the same back. At one point, she took my index finger, and sucked on it. It left me speechless.

She drove me home. This, of course, was before I had a car of my own. My parents were quite upset that I hadn't called to tell them where I was. But they refrained from saying anything to me because Jess came inside with me. It was upstairs, on my bed, where she put her hands on my chest and kissed me. I still had my jacket on.

The first thing that came to mind was something I heard Jim Carey say on a late night talk show, once. He said the only kissing advice he was given in high school was from a girl, who told him to "move his tongue around more." Remembering this, I'm sure I forced myself to thrash my tongue around her mouth, and stuck it further down her throat than anybody would be comfortable with. But she didn't complain.

I didn't want to get too caught up in the moment, for some reason. I told myself to fixate on something in the room, rather than think only of her. So I stared at a collectable Nosferatu figure to the left of my 13-inch television set. This is probably how and when I developed the habit of kissing with my eyes open. A habit I've been yelled at for.
 

Jess and I didn't spend much time together. And she was usually the one to make the first move. I remember watching a lot of bad movies at her house, while dry humping on her couch. Through out the entire film, we would never speak... Only hump.

One Friday night, I insisted that we rent Gross Point Blank and Pecker. She paid. We watched Gross Point Blank first, while dry humping.

We put on Pecker. By the time the movie was about half over, Jess asked me if I had gotten off. I said, "Yes."

"You've still got a hard-on." I remember her saying.

I told her I was ready to go, again, or something to that effect. But the truth was that I could never get off on dry humping.

"Do you masturbate a lot?" She asked.

"Maybe. What do you consider 'a lot'?" I knew something was afoot.

Jess had gone to the bathroom. When she came back, she stood a few feet to my left, and gave me a very seductive stare as she unzipped her pants. She motioned, with her finger, for me to come to her. I did so, and she took my hand and led me upstairs.

She took off her shirt and bra. She never made me do any of the hard work. Then she removed her pants, and lay on the bed with me. I began kissing her all over. I was very slow, thinking I was being seductive.

"You've got a naked girl on a bed, and all you can think to do is kiss her neck?" She snapped, still in a seductive manner, so she didn't sound like a bitch.

When she said that, I got a bit mad. So I stuck my index finger in her cunt. She gasped much louder and quicker than I would've expected. I began to kiss her stomach, beltline, and further down. But she stopped me before I got to her cunt. All she wanted were my fingers. I was quite alright with that.

Jess got off pretty quickly. As soon as she had cum, she pulled me up towards her and kissed me harder and deeper than ever before. I liked it. I immediately thought of the scene in which Sam finally kissed Jill, in Brazil. In my head I could hear the triumphant score it was set to, and for all I know, probably tried humming it at the same time.

I never saw much of Jess after that night, for whatever reason. The last time we were privileged enough to fool around was on the ride home, that night. The last movie I made her watch was Redneck Zombies. Half way through the movie, she simply walked out of the room.

What might be my most serious weakness is the money I spend on girls. That is to say, the money I don't have, and still spend on girls. It's a common ailment, which no doctor, therapist, or wordsmith has had the sight to give name to, thus far. But still, an ailment without cure. Some guys are just suckers, and I'm no exception.

My first girlfriend was Marina. We spent a wonderful summer together, and though she made a point trying to pay her own way often, my pride would seldom let her. I would try to impress her with the occasional gift, surprise visit to her work with a single rose, or by taking her out to dinner. At least she was a vegetarian, so the dinner dates were cheap.

By the end of the summer, things were looking grim, as I was moving away for school. It was about two weeks before I was to leave, when she told me about a "surprise" she had for me. I was intrigued.

Could it be the copy of Cannibal Holocaust I've been trying to hunt down?

Were her parents going away for the weekend, leaving the house, and liquor cabinet, for her?

I coaxed out of her one hint; whatever it was, she made it herself. Though my greedy, materialistic needs weren't quite met, I was happy to hear that she put such thought into a gift, for me.

Wrapped up in newspaper, she presented me with the mysterious gift. I opened it slowly, as she was clearly excited. It was revealed that Marina, ever the craftswoman, made me a shirt. It was a close-to-exact replica of the Social Distortion shirt I ruined weeks earlier, in a car accident, with a personal touch, on the back. While on the front was the band name, the back read, "Ask me about my car crash," and featured a large button in the shape of a car, speeding towards a crudely drawn tree.

I was embarrassed as hell, for a mess of reasons. Mostly, because she demanded that I wear the shirt everywhere we went.

Marina and I went our separate ways about two weeks later.

It was a year later, when I was going out with Amanda. By this time, I was nineteen years old, living on my own, and thought I had to act mature and independently. I tried to do so by spending every last dime I had on Amanda.

The one time this way of thinking really backfired, was at Christmas. Amanda's birthday was on the 20th, and Jesus' on the 25th, so the week called for a lot of gift giving on my part. And even on top of that, I went a little too far.

During the month leading up to Christmas week, I spent all my time and money gathering gifts for Amanda. It started with a sweater, some socks, and a Buddy Christ figurine. Soon added were CD box sets, videos, and whatever odds and ends I came across, thinking she might like. I couldn't have been more anxious to see her open the gifts.

On Christmas Eve, I brought the gifts to her home, where we were going to exchange gifts. She was visibly surprised by the amount, which made me happy, and even more surprised when she opened them. Then she handed me two packages.

Both packages contained a T-shirt. A Betty Page shirt, and an Evil Dead shirt.

Amanda and I broke up, very civilly, about two weeks later, when she told me she "just didn't want a boyfriend."

After Amanda, I was desperate for a serious relationship. And I found just that, tenfold, with Jean. While living in Providence, I made trips to New York regularly, to see Jean, and spent as much time as possible with her. While in the city, I was eager to shower her with attention and gifts, as we didn't get to see each other often.

I would always pay for meals. I made a staggering amount of late night trips to the store, for everything from cheese and juice to tampons and medication refills.

It did occur to me that I was spending an insane amount of effort and money trying to please Jean. But I didn't mind a bit. I couldn't have been happier.

Soon, of course, things went bad. But we kept in touch, and even got to see one another, once in a great while. I went back to NYC one last time, and stayed at Jean's place. This was when I received the one and only gift she ever gave to me, aside from an ashtray she painted for my birthday. After coming home from a later night at a bar she frequented, she presented me with… a T-shirt. It was a black shirt, which read, 'Mars Bar."

I suppose there was some good will in that gift. But the shirt itself was at least three sizes to large for me, still.

I wore the shirt once in a while. Until I learned more about how she ran around behind my back, in the past. Then, the shirt went the way of all the others girls had given me over the years. To date, the Mars Bar shirt tops a small stack in the back of my closet.

For what it is worth, it's not the materialistic side of me that complains; it's not the heartbroken boy that wines; it's not the cheap bastard in me that bitches about failed efforts, and money spent. Rather, I am simply perplexed at how the culmination of all my relationships can be worn on my back. And sure, I've got one hell of a T-shirt collection... But none of them are cool.

She paid with a five-dollar bill, which gave me more than enough time to fantasize. Nothing obscene, mind you. Partially because she was wearing a two-piece athletic suit, as she was in the airport with a college basketball team, headed for Texas; A big game.

She seemed slightly reserved, but not to the extent of being shy. I read it as a polite demeanor, as everything she said and had done seemed sincere. There was no bullshit, here.

Her face turned into a sweet smile as we plowed through customaries.

"Hi, how are you?"

"Good, thanks. How 'bout you?"

"I'm good, thanks. That'll be one-fifty.

And so on…

She seemed not to buy into style much, though she clearly didn't need to. She carried much of her beauty in her face, which was framed by shoulder-length brown hair, and covered sporadically in freckles that were infrequent enough that her small nose still dawned a spotlight as one of her cutest features. She gave me the impression of a person who would be forever attractive; One you could easily grow old with, but never grown tired of. I can say all this honestly, as I never even got a look at her ass, and everything right, true, perfect and pristine chimed true just with a look in her eyes, the way she carried herself, and with the inflection she spoke with.

But even before thoughts of growing old, suburban homes, Sunday afternoons, shared bank accounts, vacations and routines kicked in, I thought, 'This is the girl I can spend my life with NOW; The girl I can be forever content with.'

We could go to movies, enjoy normalcy, eat dinner; fancy or casual. We could watch TV, without minds more on each other than the program in front of our eyes. And while she's at basketball practice, I could sit in her dorm room, watching movies she doesn't share my interest in. Everything would be perfect.

I bet I could even grow to love the sweaty smell of her body, after a game.

And goddamnit, I want to be the guy she hugs, victoriously, after making the winning three-pointer in a playoff game. I want to be the one she calls when her uncle dies. I want to be the one who gives her ideas for term papers. I want to be the one who goes to pick her up after the eye-doctor dilates her pupils.

Maybe it isn't just her that I lust after; But the lifestyle she'd give me, if we shared a bed. I could wake up in her dorm, walk down the hall past other girls' rooms, and into the men's washroom. I'd get to know her roommate, who would hear, if not watch us having sex, sooner or later. I'd be able to get an understanding of the comradery she shares with teammates; something I always missed as a child. I could live my educational pursuits out through her; while working my shitty job, I could meet her after several hours of class, and listen to her complaints, new thoughts and knowledge, and live vicariously through her academic life.

Clearly, we were made for each other. As I want all this from her, she could learn so much from me. What's it like to be a stock-boy? Well, there is so much to it. You're not as scummy as you sell yourself to be. I think you're perfect. Thanks, but you don't know the half of it. You're sweet anyhow. I've never tried that position. Thanks for the whiskey, or else I don't know if I'd been up for it. No problem, babe.

Alas, with a bottle of water, and change from a five-dollar-bill in hand, she left the store, and left my life. I looked up at the television, which was playing the end of an ad which had started when she walked in; A thirty-second spot for auto-insurance. You do the math.