Boink, page 12
“This!” he said, and pointed at his placemat. I looked down at mine and read the words “AWESOME THREESOME.” We both moved our plates to reveal the breakfast special: the threesome was pancakes, eggs, and bacon for $5.99. By the time the waitress came over to clear them we were both nearly rolling on the floor laughing.
“What’s so funny?” she asked.
“Sorry, it’s just an inside joke,” Jordan said.
“Yeah, you had to be there,” was all I could manage before cracking up again.
Being Queer
(But Not Being Gay About It)
by Jordan Private College
WHEN I WAS SIXTEEN, I HAD this really pretty girlfriend. I liked her and so did everyone else. She liked me; it seemed perfect. And even though I often thought about having sex with her, I kept refusing. My excuse was that the physical pleasure would be outweighed by the eventual pain on account of the raging mental disorders which she kept trying to smother to death underneath a big happy pillow of perfection. But I was sixteen and still really horny, of course, so I ended up having sex with my best friend and breaking up with her. I justified my actions concluding that it would have never worked out, we were too different. She liked that really crappy Christian-leaning band Switchfoot and Thomas Kincade paintings. I liked the Sex Pistols, Kurosawa films, and boys. My best friend was a dude.
As it turned out, my three-year-long habit of downloading those thirty second preview clips from male-on-male sodomy websites actually meant more than I thought it had. That’s not to say I was never interested in girls or the prospect of fucking them, I had always liked straight porn too. But as the relationship with my closeted-psycho girlfriend progressed, I found myself becoming less and less interested in the prospect of the sex we were never going to have.
* * *
As it turned out, my three-year-long habit of downloading those thirty second preview clips from male-on-male sodomy websites actually meant more than I thought it had.
* * *
Admittedly, I was always a pretty “gay” little kid. I indulged in many of the gateway habits of a future-gay child: I was artistic and sensitive, good at conversation and dancing. I even liked shoe shopping and drama class. But I guess I was able to offset suspicions in high school by adopting interests that lend themselves to being a bit aesthetically queer: punk music, French literature, and self-taught Japanese and guerilla filmmaking. I masked any stereotypical developments of effeminacy with varied, cultured interests that branded me merely as “strange” rather than “homosexual.”
I never fully realized my innocent little attraction to my best friend was overtly gay, until the night we kissed and fondled and fucked on the floor. We never did it again, never even so much as brushed hands or talked about what happened. But after it happened the realization hit me that maybe I could completely categorize my sexuality with those tragic three letters I had long ignored. I started going around town looking for people with similar interests, the primary one being the enjoyment of fucking other men. But I quickly discovered that the local gay scene was full of effeminazis whose only concept of culture was the interracial orgy portrayed on last week’s episode of Queer as Folk. I was quickly alienated from the “community” for my failure to care about who swears they blew a Backstreet Boy or what dosage of creatine is best for optimum gym results. I didn’t know the words to “Seasons of Love,” never wishfully sang “Girls Just Wanna Have Fun,” and never tried to emulate a sassy black woman’s vocal patterns to make my lame comebacks sound wittier to my straight girlfriends at the club on Friday night. As it turned out, the only gay friends I did make were all lesbians who seemed to have active, admirable interests in art and life, and who introduced me to Michelle Tea and told me not to trust Kathleen Hannah.
My life as a gay male ended almost as soon as it began. I certainly wasn’t interested in dating or having sex with the fellows I could meet at the weekly Sex and the City viewing parties downtown. And my best friend, the only boy I had ever felt really attracted to, had found a girlfriend and was happy with her. I was all but resigned to a celibate life of isolation and self-loathing when one of my lesbian friends showed me an old copy of this radical ’zine called J.D.s. The Xeroxed pages—now faded, staples weakly holding on—contained this totally thrilling, unapologetic mess of Sharpie-scrawled homo manifestos and queer punk cut-and-paste icons (think: scummy shirtless boys with chest tattoos) just begging to be worshiped. Splayed across the cover was the formative philosophy of J.D.s—“Don’t Be Gay.” With that, I understood the central psyche of the so-called “Queercore” movement that J.D.s and its creators were promoting, a mentality that I too would embrace as my own sexuality developed.
Queercore, as I learned, started in the mid-80s as a counterattack to mainstream gay and lesbian orthodoxy on behalf of radical, typically punk-affiliated queers. The movement criticizes the self-segregation of gender and sex supported by the larger gay community, instead aiming to promote sexual diversity and non-normative behaviour. Queercore is characterized by its punk attitude and inherent DIY culture as a means of conveying its beliefs in radical self-creation as a necessary tenet of identity—blending the subcultural style of punk with the necessary logistics of homosexuality, something not normally supported by such rough and tumble crowds. Yet, Queercore is above all dedicated to rejecting the conventions of homosexuality. Moreover, the movement rejects the idea that sexuality must be ultimately definitive of one’s own personality, affiliations, actions or attitudes. J.D.s, published by G.B. Jones and Bruce LaBruce, was principally responsible for introducing the movement itself. Indeed, it reinforced something I could not ignore, instructing me to not be “gay”—but to be something better, smarter, tougher.
This publication helped me realize that you don’t have to be gay to be queer. I finally understood that I could be the cool kid I always wanted to be without having to wear any sort of orientation on my sleeve. Fucking guys is something I do sometimes; loving dudes is an occasional by-product of my sexual needs just as sex is sometimes born from love. But whether you are queer or not doesn’t mean you have to let this one aspect of your persona totally define who you are. If people ask, I state it simply: I love, and sleep with whomever I want.
* * *
But I quickly discovered that the local gay scene was full of effeminazis whose only concept of culture was the interracial orgy portrayed on last week’s episode of Queer as Folk.
* * *
Discovering the true nature and psyche of my sexuality has also meant discovering other people just like me, appreciating that not every man who sleeps with other men is a total stereotype. Sure, it took me a while to figure it out, to understand who I am by virtue of who I am not. But I get it now; I really get it. And, well, I think that’s pretty cool.
Madness
by Samantha
State University
IT’S A FAMOUS STORY among our friends, now: “how two of our roommates fell in love.” But talked about incessantly, it, of course, either gets simplified or over-dramatized in the retelling. Though it’s hard for me to imagine a version more dramatic than the real events.
It started with a kiss that would make any guy drool. Halloween weekend of freshman year, drinking in the back room of our dorm, we were drowning in sexuality and Natty Lights. Just a few months out of high school and here I stood, surrounded by horny guys and equally horny girls. By now, only a few weeks into our friendship, the sexual energy between Jen and me must have already been tangible. Somehow we ended up making out in the middle of the room surrounded by rowdy guys. We woke up the next morning hungover with alcohol oozing out of our pores.
Jen and I slept in the same bed every night, but it didn’t seem strange since she was good friends with all my roommates and the five of us always stayed up till early morning talking. I remember cuddling with her like I cuddled with all my best girl friends, except I didn’t want to move when she had her arm around me, fearing she might think I was uncomfortable and switch positions. I didn’t mind that my arm fell asleep every night; Jen was comfort for me and I looked forward to her warmth.
* * *
By now, only a few weeks into our friendship, the sexual energy between Jen and me must have already been tangible. Somehow we ended up making out in the middle of the room surrounded by rowdy guys.
* * *
Jen, Melissa, me lying on our futon. The room is dark. Melissa, one of my roommates, is asleep after watching the movie. She’s snoring and the DVD menu screen keeps replaying its circus music. The air is hot and Jen’s breath is in my ear. We move closer to each other. I don’t think. I can’t think. I turn my face slightly. Her breath is on my cheek now. More. Her breath is on my mouth. I taste her without touching her. Our lips touch. Tongue to tongue. Melissa stops snoring, we turn our heads and giggle quietly to ease the pressure between our legs.
Every night after the first “real,” sober kiss we would cuddle a little closer and steal more in the dark. We perfected the silent kiss, trying to hide our desire from our roommates. On drunken nights we would dare to go a little further, especially on those when we left the party early to sneak back to the empty dorm. I marveled at her perfect little nipples and she touched me in a way I had never known throughout my high school years of dry humping and neck sucking. Always willing to try anything once, I went down on her first and had to assure her that licking pussy wasn’t as bad as we all had imagined, before she would reciprocate. In the morning, we’d try to wake up before anyone else so we could put on the panties that were hidden in the sheets or change positions so it wasn’t so obvious that I had my hand down her shorts.
This became our routine: hang out before, between, and after class, cuddle at night, sneak kisses whenever we could. After a while, it didn’t seem scandalous at all. The whole relationship—despite the secretiveness and the seemingly taboo aspect of the girl-girl situation—felt simply natural. We loved each other. Remarkably, it seemed, gender wasn’t an issue.
But we never did allow ourselves to be open about our relationship. We never announced exclusivity. Instead, we allowed our friends to find out in their own good time (when they happened to walk in on us or when they realized that that sound at night wasn’t rain pattering the window but tongues exploring). We still brought home guys on an almost weekly basis, presumably to keep up “straight” appearances. This was mutual torture. Having heard me moaning in the next room, Jen would cry into my shoulder when I finally kicked the guy out and came to bed. I would burn with jealousy after watching some guy fondle her in the corner of a frat house but then quell my anger with her pussy when we got home. But we both became less and less forgiving with every heterosexual drunken hook-up and gradually the anger and painful jealousy transformed into rage.
It was around this time that my group of friends thought it would be fun to form a “fight club,” to deal with the frustrations of being around each other all the time, every day. There were unspoken rules—no biting, scratching, pulling hair, etc. and no hits to the face—but it never really got violent until Jen and I decided to go at it. We’d take turns punching each other repeatedly in the arms and legs or we’d wrestle with so much pent-up frustration (I always felt like shouting, Why can’t we be open about this? Why do you still kiss other people? Why are you so devastatingly needy? Why don’t I stand up for myself?) that bruises would build up on our bodies. I remember a guy pointing to my bruises and asking me during an English class, “Jane, are you in an abusive relationship?” I answered with a smile, “Yes, with my best friend,” and we both laughed. Why did we laugh?
Freshman year came and went. Most of the time, it now seems, Jen and I spent in bed talking and crying and opening up to each other in a way that neither of us had ever done before. When asked if we ever got sick of each other, I’d respond “When I’m with her, I feel like I’m with myself.” We were the proverbial peas in a pod.
When we moved into our own room in a neighboring dorm for sophomore year, we decorated it with a pug calendar and pictures of us. The first day officially living together we argued about who used the wrong screws for the futon. And the tension never lessened. There were the mornings that she woke me up and motivated me to study and there were the nights that I gently pulled her shirt over her head, being careful not to disturb her soccer-induced dislocated shoulder. But the screaming fights continued and she would grip me so tightly afterward, not wanting to let me go for fear I would leave forever. And we played this game with ourselves, trying to “break up” this relationship that was never really whole: “We shouldn’t kiss anymore. We’re not good together. Tomorrow will be our last kiss.” Our friends advised going cold turkey. But frequent nights after smoking pot in the neighbor’s room, we couldn’t stay away from each other. Our love was the elephant in the room that we kept trying to hide behind the 70s-style curtains.
* * *
Occasionally the fights would turn very dark. Bottles of pills would appear in Jen’s hands with the threats. Always the threats.
* * *
Occasionally the fights would turn very dark. Bottles of pills would appear in Jen’s hands with the threats. Always the threats. But the next morning: “Where’s my allergy medication?” “I threw it out with all the rest of the bottles.” Jen is unstable, I would think. We must take care of her. I must be there always to protect her. So I’d have sex with her to calm her, to keep her mind off the pills, to fill the void. But sex began to be accompanied by nausea, and I knew that I was starting to isolate my heart from my body when we were together. I was building a wall between us.
* * *
I don’t know why I keep living with Jen, when the relationship was so mutually destructive.
* * *
I detached myself more and more, trying to avoid the severe claustrophobia I felt whenever she nuzzled me and told me to never let her go. I slept over a guy’s house once, twice, and didn’t come home until morning. She’d cry, scream, pout. The second time I woke up with eighteen voicemails from her, including one saying goodbye. I took the elevator up to our room on the seventh floor, getting more nervous with each floor. Would I see her dead in the shower? I could imagine checking for her pulse. What would I do then?
She was alive, but had taken twenty Sudafed, the only pills we had in the room. She had written a suicide note. “And I peed before I took them so I wouldn’t piss myself,” she confessed. Her heart was racing and she obviously needed medical attention. But she refused: “I have work!” Six hours later, we finally got her to the hospital and sat in the waiting room watching the Super Bowl.
Jen had made a lot of enemies that night before taking the pills. She kissed our friends’ boyfriends, picked fights, demanded attention. But we put aside the anger to focus on getting her help. Things started looking up. We breathed a sigh of relief. But, of course, something like that doesn’t just blow over.
Things continued to change. I pulled away more than ever, pushing her to depend more on her other friends, and even started to date a friend of a friend, long distance. I kept it as secret as I could, only talking to him on the phone when Jen wasn’t in the room and never talking to her about my early-relationship excitement. Of course, she knew what was going on and could feel that the sex was becoming one-sided. I couldn’t just lie in bed all day with her anymore.
I sneak into the other room, after our night of frat house parties, to say goodnight to Jeff. I’m smiling, listening to his voice, feeling the butterflies of growing attachment. Jen busts into the room, yelling something I don’t remember, and hits the phone out of my hand. The battery breaks and slides across the floor. She pushes me. I fall backward into a closet, gripping the clothes around me to keep from falling over. She comes at me and I’m legitimately afraid. I dodge her and run out of the room and upstairs to our friends’ room. I sense her following me.
Crying in my friend’s arms, the main thing on my mind was not the fact that I had just seriously felt afraid for my safety, but rather concern for Jen. Only when I knew that she was with a mutual friend was I able to get control of myself.
We spent the next day on suicide watch. Jen lay on her bed nearly comatose, while we called Jen’s therapist, and finally went to our Resident Assistant for help. A young South American man, a resident therapist, came to our room and offered support. It was fruitless; Jen wouldn’t talk to anyone. Two of our friends and I watched Finding Nemo while Jen lay on her back, tears in her eyes, staring at the ceiling. I was next to her, holding her hand. Eventually, the others left and I told Jen stories until she fell asleep. The next day, she decided that she needed to transfer schools after the quarter ended.
I don’t know why I keep living with Jen, when the relationship was so mutually destructive. I think I saw our relationship as split into two very different, contradicting halves: the connection between best friends, and the bond that defined her as my ex-lover. While she attacked me as an ex-girlfriend, with all the jealousy and fury of a person whose love was no longer returned, I comforted—I wanted to comfort—her as a best friend. I was able to be strong for a friend, but inside my rage and frustration were building exponentially.
* * *
Blood runs down my arm, cools and congeals onto my skin, pillow, and sheets. My mouth screams, my body screams.
* * *
Drunk Saturday night. I hook up with some guy, come home, something snaps. I‘m not thinking; I can’t think. I grab scissors and slide them against my forearm. Blood oozes. Jen comes home, sees me, calls our friend Brittney. Meredith, our suitemate, comes home, takes Jen into the next room while Brittney sits with me.
“What’s so funny?” she asked.
“Sorry, it’s just an inside joke,” Jordan said.
“Yeah, you had to be there,” was all I could manage before cracking up again.
Being Queer
(But Not Being Gay About It)
by Jordan Private College
WHEN I WAS SIXTEEN, I HAD this really pretty girlfriend. I liked her and so did everyone else. She liked me; it seemed perfect. And even though I often thought about having sex with her, I kept refusing. My excuse was that the physical pleasure would be outweighed by the eventual pain on account of the raging mental disorders which she kept trying to smother to death underneath a big happy pillow of perfection. But I was sixteen and still really horny, of course, so I ended up having sex with my best friend and breaking up with her. I justified my actions concluding that it would have never worked out, we were too different. She liked that really crappy Christian-leaning band Switchfoot and Thomas Kincade paintings. I liked the Sex Pistols, Kurosawa films, and boys. My best friend was a dude.
As it turned out, my three-year-long habit of downloading those thirty second preview clips from male-on-male sodomy websites actually meant more than I thought it had. That’s not to say I was never interested in girls or the prospect of fucking them, I had always liked straight porn too. But as the relationship with my closeted-psycho girlfriend progressed, I found myself becoming less and less interested in the prospect of the sex we were never going to have.
* * *
As it turned out, my three-year-long habit of downloading those thirty second preview clips from male-on-male sodomy websites actually meant more than I thought it had.
* * *
Admittedly, I was always a pretty “gay” little kid. I indulged in many of the gateway habits of a future-gay child: I was artistic and sensitive, good at conversation and dancing. I even liked shoe shopping and drama class. But I guess I was able to offset suspicions in high school by adopting interests that lend themselves to being a bit aesthetically queer: punk music, French literature, and self-taught Japanese and guerilla filmmaking. I masked any stereotypical developments of effeminacy with varied, cultured interests that branded me merely as “strange” rather than “homosexual.”
I never fully realized my innocent little attraction to my best friend was overtly gay, until the night we kissed and fondled and fucked on the floor. We never did it again, never even so much as brushed hands or talked about what happened. But after it happened the realization hit me that maybe I could completely categorize my sexuality with those tragic three letters I had long ignored. I started going around town looking for people with similar interests, the primary one being the enjoyment of fucking other men. But I quickly discovered that the local gay scene was full of effeminazis whose only concept of culture was the interracial orgy portrayed on last week’s episode of Queer as Folk. I was quickly alienated from the “community” for my failure to care about who swears they blew a Backstreet Boy or what dosage of creatine is best for optimum gym results. I didn’t know the words to “Seasons of Love,” never wishfully sang “Girls Just Wanna Have Fun,” and never tried to emulate a sassy black woman’s vocal patterns to make my lame comebacks sound wittier to my straight girlfriends at the club on Friday night. As it turned out, the only gay friends I did make were all lesbians who seemed to have active, admirable interests in art and life, and who introduced me to Michelle Tea and told me not to trust Kathleen Hannah.
My life as a gay male ended almost as soon as it began. I certainly wasn’t interested in dating or having sex with the fellows I could meet at the weekly Sex and the City viewing parties downtown. And my best friend, the only boy I had ever felt really attracted to, had found a girlfriend and was happy with her. I was all but resigned to a celibate life of isolation and self-loathing when one of my lesbian friends showed me an old copy of this radical ’zine called J.D.s. The Xeroxed pages—now faded, staples weakly holding on—contained this totally thrilling, unapologetic mess of Sharpie-scrawled homo manifestos and queer punk cut-and-paste icons (think: scummy shirtless boys with chest tattoos) just begging to be worshiped. Splayed across the cover was the formative philosophy of J.D.s—“Don’t Be Gay.” With that, I understood the central psyche of the so-called “Queercore” movement that J.D.s and its creators were promoting, a mentality that I too would embrace as my own sexuality developed.
Queercore, as I learned, started in the mid-80s as a counterattack to mainstream gay and lesbian orthodoxy on behalf of radical, typically punk-affiliated queers. The movement criticizes the self-segregation of gender and sex supported by the larger gay community, instead aiming to promote sexual diversity and non-normative behaviour. Queercore is characterized by its punk attitude and inherent DIY culture as a means of conveying its beliefs in radical self-creation as a necessary tenet of identity—blending the subcultural style of punk with the necessary logistics of homosexuality, something not normally supported by such rough and tumble crowds. Yet, Queercore is above all dedicated to rejecting the conventions of homosexuality. Moreover, the movement rejects the idea that sexuality must be ultimately definitive of one’s own personality, affiliations, actions or attitudes. J.D.s, published by G.B. Jones and Bruce LaBruce, was principally responsible for introducing the movement itself. Indeed, it reinforced something I could not ignore, instructing me to not be “gay”—but to be something better, smarter, tougher.
This publication helped me realize that you don’t have to be gay to be queer. I finally understood that I could be the cool kid I always wanted to be without having to wear any sort of orientation on my sleeve. Fucking guys is something I do sometimes; loving dudes is an occasional by-product of my sexual needs just as sex is sometimes born from love. But whether you are queer or not doesn’t mean you have to let this one aspect of your persona totally define who you are. If people ask, I state it simply: I love, and sleep with whomever I want.
* * *
But I quickly discovered that the local gay scene was full of effeminazis whose only concept of culture was the interracial orgy portrayed on last week’s episode of Queer as Folk.
* * *
Discovering the true nature and psyche of my sexuality has also meant discovering other people just like me, appreciating that not every man who sleeps with other men is a total stereotype. Sure, it took me a while to figure it out, to understand who I am by virtue of who I am not. But I get it now; I really get it. And, well, I think that’s pretty cool.
Madness
by Samantha
State University
IT’S A FAMOUS STORY among our friends, now: “how two of our roommates fell in love.” But talked about incessantly, it, of course, either gets simplified or over-dramatized in the retelling. Though it’s hard for me to imagine a version more dramatic than the real events.
It started with a kiss that would make any guy drool. Halloween weekend of freshman year, drinking in the back room of our dorm, we were drowning in sexuality and Natty Lights. Just a few months out of high school and here I stood, surrounded by horny guys and equally horny girls. By now, only a few weeks into our friendship, the sexual energy between Jen and me must have already been tangible. Somehow we ended up making out in the middle of the room surrounded by rowdy guys. We woke up the next morning hungover with alcohol oozing out of our pores.
Jen and I slept in the same bed every night, but it didn’t seem strange since she was good friends with all my roommates and the five of us always stayed up till early morning talking. I remember cuddling with her like I cuddled with all my best girl friends, except I didn’t want to move when she had her arm around me, fearing she might think I was uncomfortable and switch positions. I didn’t mind that my arm fell asleep every night; Jen was comfort for me and I looked forward to her warmth.
* * *
By now, only a few weeks into our friendship, the sexual energy between Jen and me must have already been tangible. Somehow we ended up making out in the middle of the room surrounded by rowdy guys.
* * *
Jen, Melissa, me lying on our futon. The room is dark. Melissa, one of my roommates, is asleep after watching the movie. She’s snoring and the DVD menu screen keeps replaying its circus music. The air is hot and Jen’s breath is in my ear. We move closer to each other. I don’t think. I can’t think. I turn my face slightly. Her breath is on my cheek now. More. Her breath is on my mouth. I taste her without touching her. Our lips touch. Tongue to tongue. Melissa stops snoring, we turn our heads and giggle quietly to ease the pressure between our legs.
Every night after the first “real,” sober kiss we would cuddle a little closer and steal more in the dark. We perfected the silent kiss, trying to hide our desire from our roommates. On drunken nights we would dare to go a little further, especially on those when we left the party early to sneak back to the empty dorm. I marveled at her perfect little nipples and she touched me in a way I had never known throughout my high school years of dry humping and neck sucking. Always willing to try anything once, I went down on her first and had to assure her that licking pussy wasn’t as bad as we all had imagined, before she would reciprocate. In the morning, we’d try to wake up before anyone else so we could put on the panties that were hidden in the sheets or change positions so it wasn’t so obvious that I had my hand down her shorts.
This became our routine: hang out before, between, and after class, cuddle at night, sneak kisses whenever we could. After a while, it didn’t seem scandalous at all. The whole relationship—despite the secretiveness and the seemingly taboo aspect of the girl-girl situation—felt simply natural. We loved each other. Remarkably, it seemed, gender wasn’t an issue.
But we never did allow ourselves to be open about our relationship. We never announced exclusivity. Instead, we allowed our friends to find out in their own good time (when they happened to walk in on us or when they realized that that sound at night wasn’t rain pattering the window but tongues exploring). We still brought home guys on an almost weekly basis, presumably to keep up “straight” appearances. This was mutual torture. Having heard me moaning in the next room, Jen would cry into my shoulder when I finally kicked the guy out and came to bed. I would burn with jealousy after watching some guy fondle her in the corner of a frat house but then quell my anger with her pussy when we got home. But we both became less and less forgiving with every heterosexual drunken hook-up and gradually the anger and painful jealousy transformed into rage.
It was around this time that my group of friends thought it would be fun to form a “fight club,” to deal with the frustrations of being around each other all the time, every day. There were unspoken rules—no biting, scratching, pulling hair, etc. and no hits to the face—but it never really got violent until Jen and I decided to go at it. We’d take turns punching each other repeatedly in the arms and legs or we’d wrestle with so much pent-up frustration (I always felt like shouting, Why can’t we be open about this? Why do you still kiss other people? Why are you so devastatingly needy? Why don’t I stand up for myself?) that bruises would build up on our bodies. I remember a guy pointing to my bruises and asking me during an English class, “Jane, are you in an abusive relationship?” I answered with a smile, “Yes, with my best friend,” and we both laughed. Why did we laugh?
Freshman year came and went. Most of the time, it now seems, Jen and I spent in bed talking and crying and opening up to each other in a way that neither of us had ever done before. When asked if we ever got sick of each other, I’d respond “When I’m with her, I feel like I’m with myself.” We were the proverbial peas in a pod.
When we moved into our own room in a neighboring dorm for sophomore year, we decorated it with a pug calendar and pictures of us. The first day officially living together we argued about who used the wrong screws for the futon. And the tension never lessened. There were the mornings that she woke me up and motivated me to study and there were the nights that I gently pulled her shirt over her head, being careful not to disturb her soccer-induced dislocated shoulder. But the screaming fights continued and she would grip me so tightly afterward, not wanting to let me go for fear I would leave forever. And we played this game with ourselves, trying to “break up” this relationship that was never really whole: “We shouldn’t kiss anymore. We’re not good together. Tomorrow will be our last kiss.” Our friends advised going cold turkey. But frequent nights after smoking pot in the neighbor’s room, we couldn’t stay away from each other. Our love was the elephant in the room that we kept trying to hide behind the 70s-style curtains.
* * *
Occasionally the fights would turn very dark. Bottles of pills would appear in Jen’s hands with the threats. Always the threats.
* * *
Occasionally the fights would turn very dark. Bottles of pills would appear in Jen’s hands with the threats. Always the threats. But the next morning: “Where’s my allergy medication?” “I threw it out with all the rest of the bottles.” Jen is unstable, I would think. We must take care of her. I must be there always to protect her. So I’d have sex with her to calm her, to keep her mind off the pills, to fill the void. But sex began to be accompanied by nausea, and I knew that I was starting to isolate my heart from my body when we were together. I was building a wall between us.
* * *
I don’t know why I keep living with Jen, when the relationship was so mutually destructive.
* * *
I detached myself more and more, trying to avoid the severe claustrophobia I felt whenever she nuzzled me and told me to never let her go. I slept over a guy’s house once, twice, and didn’t come home until morning. She’d cry, scream, pout. The second time I woke up with eighteen voicemails from her, including one saying goodbye. I took the elevator up to our room on the seventh floor, getting more nervous with each floor. Would I see her dead in the shower? I could imagine checking for her pulse. What would I do then?
She was alive, but had taken twenty Sudafed, the only pills we had in the room. She had written a suicide note. “And I peed before I took them so I wouldn’t piss myself,” she confessed. Her heart was racing and she obviously needed medical attention. But she refused: “I have work!” Six hours later, we finally got her to the hospital and sat in the waiting room watching the Super Bowl.
Jen had made a lot of enemies that night before taking the pills. She kissed our friends’ boyfriends, picked fights, demanded attention. But we put aside the anger to focus on getting her help. Things started looking up. We breathed a sigh of relief. But, of course, something like that doesn’t just blow over.
Things continued to change. I pulled away more than ever, pushing her to depend more on her other friends, and even started to date a friend of a friend, long distance. I kept it as secret as I could, only talking to him on the phone when Jen wasn’t in the room and never talking to her about my early-relationship excitement. Of course, she knew what was going on and could feel that the sex was becoming one-sided. I couldn’t just lie in bed all day with her anymore.
I sneak into the other room, after our night of frat house parties, to say goodnight to Jeff. I’m smiling, listening to his voice, feeling the butterflies of growing attachment. Jen busts into the room, yelling something I don’t remember, and hits the phone out of my hand. The battery breaks and slides across the floor. She pushes me. I fall backward into a closet, gripping the clothes around me to keep from falling over. She comes at me and I’m legitimately afraid. I dodge her and run out of the room and upstairs to our friends’ room. I sense her following me.
Crying in my friend’s arms, the main thing on my mind was not the fact that I had just seriously felt afraid for my safety, but rather concern for Jen. Only when I knew that she was with a mutual friend was I able to get control of myself.
We spent the next day on suicide watch. Jen lay on her bed nearly comatose, while we called Jen’s therapist, and finally went to our Resident Assistant for help. A young South American man, a resident therapist, came to our room and offered support. It was fruitless; Jen wouldn’t talk to anyone. Two of our friends and I watched Finding Nemo while Jen lay on her back, tears in her eyes, staring at the ceiling. I was next to her, holding her hand. Eventually, the others left and I told Jen stories until she fell asleep. The next day, she decided that she needed to transfer schools after the quarter ended.
I don’t know why I keep living with Jen, when the relationship was so mutually destructive. I think I saw our relationship as split into two very different, contradicting halves: the connection between best friends, and the bond that defined her as my ex-lover. While she attacked me as an ex-girlfriend, with all the jealousy and fury of a person whose love was no longer returned, I comforted—I wanted to comfort—her as a best friend. I was able to be strong for a friend, but inside my rage and frustration were building exponentially.
* * *
Blood runs down my arm, cools and congeals onto my skin, pillow, and sheets. My mouth screams, my body screams.
* * *
Drunk Saturday night. I hook up with some guy, come home, something snaps. I‘m not thinking; I can’t think. I grab scissors and slide them against my forearm. Blood oozes. Jen comes home, sees me, calls our friend Brittney. Meredith, our suitemate, comes home, takes Jen into the next room while Brittney sits with me.
