Post Love

Post Love Forty Seven

There had been tension between Andrea and I from the get go. We seemed to bring something out in eachother that no one else in the room could. It was clear we both felt it, but at the time, that’s all it was. I didn’t think much of it. She was eighteen and dating Alex, a friend of a friend. I’d see her around every few weeks, always brief, always leaving a sense of something more hiding behind the back and forth of playful insults and sarcastic smirks. We had conjured up a strange routine of mock hatred of eachother that we both enjoyed somehow, but there was never any time or place for more. So these types of interactions went on for over a year, and that was the extent of our relationship. It’s the kind of strange bond you form with girls that are dating someone. Even when Alex broke up with her, it meant little to me. She was young and we had nothing to talk about. When she started messaging me online, I assumed she was just bored and lonely, looking for distraction. But it happened more and more, until one night I must have been high enough, or horny enough to ask her out. She was surprised, but she said yes. So there it was. I was going to the movies with the eighteen year old ex of a friend. Somehow this seemed like good news. I saw it simply as a pursuit of sexual tension between me and an attractive single girl.

We sat across from eachother over food, then next to eachother over a movie, then I went home. I hate first dates. The sole reason I wanted to endure one was Andrea’s ass. She had an incredibly perfect, round, firm ass. The kind you only see on a small chested eighteen year old girl that stays fit. I’d never had one of those before. I wanted to fuck her. So there was a second date. 

We walked around in the late night spring breeze and talked. There was still that odd mockery of eachother that persisted through all of our conversations. It was fun, and it was a nice chance from the usual jibberish that oozes out of the mouths of the lonely, horny, miserable people that go on dates. I had taken her to walk around the touristy parts of the harbor, the same parts I’d taken a girl to before and failed to have the nerve to kiss her. That night had ended with a ticket for drinking in public, a drunk girl crying, and me walking home in the rain. But here I was, back at the scene of the crime with a younger girl, a more confident me, determined to make good of my past failures. After all, the area in question was a good one. Alone on a pier watching the water in the dark, safe and soothing in the night time, I had brought Andrea here to kiss her. We walked, talked, slowed down, I stopped and leaned on the railing with her next to me. Perfect. I stopped talking and looked over at her. She kept talking. And talking. I replied after pauses full of intention, saying more than the words I spoke, but she did not get it. Or maybe she was nervous, too. Girls talk when they’re nervous. This is exactly what had happened last time. I was nervous, waiting for the right time to make the move, for that perfect silence. It never came. I couldn’t tell wether that was denial or nerves. But I could tell what a horrible man I was, what horrible women these were, cowering in anticipation of nothing more than a simple kiss. What was wrong with us? Where was my confidence? Where was theirs? 

Third date. This was it. I had to kiss her. I’d learned that the hard from my fiasco with Carolyn. We went for another walk through the city, hours of talking and me building up the nerve to make my big move. Contemplation building to the pressure point at the end of the night, I knew that this date was what I was making of it, I knew that I was a man talking to a young girl, I knew that I was horrible, I knew that I wanted to fuck her, I knew that I had to kiss her, but I didn’t want to do it. I was terrified. I was a coward.  It was the end of the night again, and I had done nothing but let myself be guided by my spineless head, gentleman that I am, I told her I’d walk her down into the subway. And as we waited for the train together, I thought it would be a good idea to kiss her as the train arrived. That way I could escape the awful gut feeling of what happens next. I could kiss her, say bye, she’d get on the train, and away she would go, taking with her whatever moment was to unfold from the kiss.

I waited. I always wait too long. It’s the story of my life. Then the moment came. The train rolled into the station. I turned to her full of intent, full of anxiety. She moved towards the train. The doors opened, she got on. I stood completely still. She turned and saw me standing there. She looked confused. The doors closed. And away she went, riding off into the tunnels under the city, off to her suburban room in her parents house, leaving me standing there bewildered, old, pathetic, wondering wether I would have kissed her. 

Back out into the street, dazed and wounded, secretly relieved, I started walking home. I got a text. What happened? A few texts later, we had figured it out. She thought I was getting on the subway with her. She thought it was funny. 

A few weeks later, my friend Kirk told me he’d been fucking Andrea. I acted like I didn’t care. I was furious. He said he fucked her in the ass. How did he get her? How did I fuck this up? How did I fumble so helplessly over a stupid teenage kiss while my friend moved in and fucked her? My hatred for myself reached new levels as I wondered wether she started fucking him because she knew I was never going to make a move. I wondered why she was fucking him over me. I wondered why she was fucking him, Kirk, my loser friend who doesn’t ever get laid. How did he do this? Kirk was the same guy who had found out I was fucking Jill. He was a younger guy with more pride left in his system, so he didn’t understand why I was doing it. You keep going back for it, he had said. The comment had pissed me off, and now, it was time to get back at him. I texted Andrea and scolded her for fucking Kirk. Her reply was exactly what I needed from her. She asked me how I knew. He told me. And there it was. She was furious, too young to realize what I was doing, and so my plan worked. Kirk was cut off, and Andrea started dating someone within two weeks. I felt good in the exhilaration of my cunning scheme until it wore off and I remembered that Kirk was fucking Andrea while I was fucking Jill. Remembered that I’d never fuck Andrea. Remembered that in the end, I had failed again. Failed to kiss a girl, failed to fuck her, failed to get over my anxiety in the face of a meaningless kid, failed to get anywhere but back down into my miserable head.

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