I remember not having too much thought about it, actually. In retrospect, I think I was a little bit crazy. Maybe it was how it was supposed to happen. Maybe it was the intoxication. Maybe it was just the way my life was going then.
In any case, right now, I don’t think maybes really matter.
But let me tell you from the beginning.
I met him…at a party. A party I wasn’t supposed to go to. I’d lied to my parents about going to SD for the weekend with the music label I interned for. In truth, I was gonna stay at my friends' house and party with them.
Yeah, I know.
Anyway, I had no idea about who he was. Haven’t even heard of him prior to that night. But, he was friends with my friends and that’s why he was there.
I remember when he first walked in the house, I kept wanting to get another look at him. I’m the queen of nonchalance but I think I kind of betrayed my reputation in that hour I tried to act uninterested in anyone but my friends.
Then the intoxication kicked in and somehow I ended up next to him on the couch. I don’t know who initiated it, but we started to kiss and then BAM! A night-long makeout session ensued. I bit and nibbled at him and kissed him more than I have ever kissed anyone in my life. Me and him were practically glued together that night—I don’t think we ever broke away from each other except when we had to use the restroom. I couldn’t keep my hands off him and he drove me crazy with his touch.
He asked for my BBM pin and we exchanged contact information—in my head I highly doubted that we’d even talk after that party. Him and I would just be forgotten strangers among the many names in each other’s phones. But, what the heck. Ain’t no harm in it.
Fast-forward three weeks from then and you have us in my roommate’s room, making out on the bed.
She was out of town for the week and I had just moved in the same house he and I had met in. I was out in the living room at the time but she let me stay in her room while she was gone. Fine by me.
I remember feeling his hardness through his jeans on my thigh as we were making out with him on top of me. I don’t know what made me say it, but I whispered, “You can do it, if you want.”
I say I must have been crazy because 1) I’ve never made out with a stranger before I made out with him at that party. That was something I never even dreamed of doing. 2) I’ve never letanyone touch me in the way he did. Ever. Not even my one ex-boyfriend touched me in such a fashion when we were together. I’ve always made it a point to keep my distance from men. And 3) he wasn’t even my boyfriend—we weren’t really even dating and I totally just gave him permission to deflower me. I’ve always set this personal standard where I wouldn’t have sex with whoever I was with until after a year had passed. And in just a moment I totally said the words that contradicted my own logic.
I mean, it’s not that I cared at all for my virginity. I never regarded it so highly, never thought to abstain until vows were exchanged, and I didn’t abhor premarital sex. Virginity wasn’t all that important to me. I just couldn’t stand the thought of wasting my time on someone unworthy of opening up to. Pun intended.
But there I was. Moving a little too fast and a little too sudden with someone I had no real clue about.
I remember he kept asking me if I was sure. He was a bit hesitant and kept…asking.
“I wouldn’t say it if I didn’t mean it.”
There I went again. Did I mean it? I don’t know. I don’t know what I was thinking then.
And then it’s all a blur. Pants came off, along with boxers and panties. An awkward moment of silence. The smell of latex and lube. Then pain.
It wasn’t as horrifying as every girl around me made it seem. Although it hurt, it didn’t hurtthat much; I didn’t feel like my insides were being torn. But then again, I have a high tolerance to pain (which explains my biting fetish). It was bearable.
I remember lying there feeling a little awkward at the lack of pleasure I was feeling (so, were all those pornstars faking it or does pleasure come after the first few times you fuck?). I remember feeling so foreign and detached after he was done. Yes, I bled, but the sheets weren’t drenched in blood like every girl around me made me imagine.
After cleaning up, we sat on the bed and went about as if nothing really happened. As if he didn’t just pump himself inside me and as if I didn’t just hand him my v-card.
I didn’t feel any strong attachment to him. I didn’t feel like he had to hand me a ring and give me his last name. I didn’t feel like I fell in love. I didn’t feel any different, I felt the same. Except a little sore between my legs.
But I laughed a lot easier with him after that.
Jonathan:
Kiss.
Remove clothing.
Insertion.
I’m supposed to write about my first time.
Kiss.
Remove clothing.
Insertion.
The point being is to let you in, reveal how I felt and how I feel about it now. But this is what I remember about it.
Kiss.
Remove clothing.
Insertion.
It wasn’t special. It wasn’t horrible.
Kiss.
Remove clothing.
Insertion.
No fireworks or anything. Just jittery nerves.
Kiss.
Saliva.
Remove clothing.
Confusion.
Insertion.
Disappointment.
Kiss.
Remove clothing.
Insertion.
I’m not bitter about it. I don’t regret anything. All I’m saying is that yeah, it meant a lot to me then. But now, all I want to remember about it is
My mind's a-clutter, & I often forget the things I need to do.
That's a bad habit I've been trying to get rid of for a while now.
I've been inspired to write, besides this exchange I'm engaging in...
& I think I'm going to indulge myself--expect more literature from me.
Anyway, here's round four of Jonathan and my creative writing swap.
The topic of this one is, as said by Jonathan via text:
"You and I go on a date. We go to a strange little place in LA for dinner. It's awkward. Really awkward. You kind of dislike me. Then we go to a party. We warm up a little and flirt while dancing under the little china ball lights.
When we get to your house, we almost kiss but don't. Write about our date."
I have to say, this one's my favorite thus far.
Hannah:
here we are, at mao’s kitchen,
awkwardly sitting across from each other.
our table’s the quietest one,
and the laughter around us
only emphasizes our unfamiliarity,
your nervousness,
my discomfort.
i think i’ve lost my appetite,
and while i push my food around on the plate
i can’t help but to feel grateful for the fact that
i’m not the one paying.
your attempts to start a conversation,
they make me wonder
how you even managed to ask me to dinner at all.
maybe i’m to blame, maybe i’m shooting you down,
maybe my tone of voice or terse replies aren’t helping.
in any case, i can’t wait to go home,
and i wish i didn’t agree to go to a party after dinner.
it would be a shot to your heart
if i asked to be taken home,
wouldn’t it?
the car ride is no different
than the scene at the restaurant.
the music can’t be enjoyed in this tension,
and you resort to small talk
but it’s too late.
the look on your face
just shows how you feel
like you’re in over your head
and you want this unpleasant moment
to hurry up and pass.
it’s loud in here,
i don’t know anyone,
and i think this is my third jack and coke.
i took a few shots here and there,
and i thank god that at least i’m drinking now.
i’m feeling hazy,
this party’s not so bad,
and i see you walking towards me.
you have a smile i haven’t seen before,
and the way you blink tells me
that you’ve had a few, too.
you lean in, real close, and whisper
“dance with me”
in my ear and it sends shivers
all the way
d
o
w
n
m
y
spine.
and we move, a bit awkwardly,
and i say i’ve had too much to drink,
you laugh and you tell me it’s alright,
then, just like that, our bodies are in sync.
just like that, my guards are down
and i start to think
that my night just got better,
that you’re not so bad after all.
now, you’re walking me up a block,
to my house, and our hands keep bumping,
and i feel you reach for mine—i don’t mind.
our fingers intertwine,
the laughter eases out,
and conversation isn’t an obstacle any more.
there’s the door,
we’re at the night’s end,
and you lean in for a kiss,
but i laugh and say
“it’s been fun.”
you give me puppy eyes,
and i give you a smile,
leaning in to whisper
“call me.”
before i wink
and go inside.
Jonathan:
1. The Restaurant
The thing with silence is that you’re not really sure what it means. Is it an uncomfortable one or a comfortable one? Do comfortable silences even exist? How can two interesting and otherwise very vocal people NOT have something to say and it be comfortable?
My name is Jonathan and I’ve never liked silence.
Your eyes do your talking for you.
“What you majoring in?” I ask.
You say, “Art” but your eyes say, “I’d rather be reading.”
“What’d you think of Super 8?” I ask.
You say, “It was cool” but your eyes say, “God take me now.”
This is a very uncomfortable silence.
2. Julian’s Party
The song playing is “Son of a Preacher Man” by Dusty Springfield.
I’m talking to some friends while you’re making friends with Jack and Coke.
“Who’s that you’re with?”
“Her name is Hannah,” I say.
“Dude, she’s cute.”
“She’s horrible,” I say.
Just then you spill your drink all over the floor.
The song playing is “Tighten Up” by The Black Keys when everyone turns to you. You smile at me and shrug. You’re too cool for this hipster crap. But you’re the biggest hipster I know.
When we met I remember not really getting you. You talked a lot but you never really said anything. You talked a lot of art and music, but you couldn’t answer what your favorite book was. You knew names and dates, but not feeling. Or maybe the other way around. I can’t remember. I thought you were a chameleon.
When we met I remember my girlfriend not liking you. Maybe you talked to me a little too closely, or maybe I looked at you a little too long. I remember telling you she didn’t like you, and I remember your smile when you said, “I don’t give a fuck.”
You’re smiling now and it feels like we’re talking with our eyes.
Your eyes do your talking for you.
The song playing is “Blue Moon” by Orange and Lemons when I walk up to you. I pull you in but don’t know what to say.
“Dance with me.”
We go to the center. And when you put your arms on my shoulder and I put my hands on the small of your back, I can’t help but think of locks and keys.
“You in a better mood now kid?”
“I wasn’t in a bad mood.”
“Come now. You were Poland and you made me feel like Germany.”
“Hahaha. Okay, okay. I admit it. Sorry.”
“It’s okay. It’s okay. Just don’t let it happen again.”
Right before you think you’re about to kiss someone, there’s that split second of what if I’m reading this all wrong? What if she hates me kind of a thought but it’s okay. You’re half drunk with euphoria of flirting anyway, so who cares?
Silence as I hold you tighter. You play with the back of my hair.
This is a very comfortable silence.
3. The Door
I lean in for a kiss and you laugh in my face.
“Oh gawd.”
“Hahaha. Stop it’s not like that.”
“Well I dunno. It certainly doesn’t feel like it.”
“Well it’s not.”
You smile and I try not to explode out of embarrassment.
“It’s been fun,” you say.
Not it hasn’t.
“Call me,” you say.
NEVER. I WILL NEVER CALL YOU.
You smile and put your hand on my cheek.
“Seriously, call me.”
Well okay. Maybe.
You wink and leave me alone and on the porch.
This is just silence. When you’re alone with just silence, you start to miss uncomfortable and comfortable silences. It’s weird isn’t it? I guess we’d all much rather feel something, ANYTHING, than nothing.
My name is Jonathan and I've never liked silence
Next topic: Write about the first time you lost your virginity/had sex with someone you love.
How does it feel, being in these arms? What's it really like to be loved? I've been alone now...how long? Have you ever loved the way I have?
And, I have often wondered who, who could love you the way I do? Now, I just want you to know how I'm touched deep in my soul just being with you. And I need you more each day, baby, if you're still awake, call me when you get this.
I've got all this poetry now, I didn't know then, I've kept inside. Guess I had never seen anything beautiful 'til I first saw you asleep at night.
And, I have often wondered who, who could love you the way I do? Now, I just want you to know how I'm touched deep in my soul just being with you. And I need you more each day, baby, if you're still awake, call me when you get this.
I just wanted to know what it was like--what's it really like to be loved? These little volcanoes came as a surprise to me, I never thought it could be this way.
And, I have been cautious and I've tried to keep to myself, but who could love you the way I do? Now, I just want you to know how I'm touched deep in my soul just being with you. And I need you more each day, baby, if you're still awake, call me when you get this.
Two years ago, in April, I started a music blog that revolved around the Los Angeles underground called "The Urban Decadence". A mouthful, I know, and I thought I was so clever... It was to ridicule the whole "underground is dead" mentality since, you know, my blog interviewed, promoted, and reviewed many artists that made up the underground scene.
I came across this video while looking through my YouTube account and couldn't but to notice just how much has changed since then.
I'm skinnier now. I don't live at home. I've lost my passion for shows (since they've kind of became work). I'm a lot poorer. I'm not in school. And I've had three really short haircuts since then.
But, I've managed to stay the same regarding my awkwardness. I'm still not so comfortable with being in front of the camera and would much rather stay behind it.
I watched all the "video updates" I've recorded with my old point-and-shoot--why didn't I even think to edit the footage, despite the fact that I had a basic editing program on my webcam-less Compaq Presario? That evades me.
As I watched all my silly ramblings and talks about who I interviewed and this and that, I can't help but to wonder, where did that girl go? I was so driven, so ambitious, so eager to share things with the world and did everything I could to make my own connections, establish friendships, and help out in whatever way I could.
I miss the motivation I had back then, and I miss the drive.
Somewhere along the way, I lost myself. I forgot the reason why I left home and got caught up in things I never would have imagined. Though I'm not regretful of the choices I've made, I can't help but to look back in amazement. Everything took an unexpected turn.
Then I took up more responsibilities that came with living out on your own with no help. I got caught up in learning lessons, gaining experience, and just fucking around thinking my youth made me invincible, while blaming my newfound adulthood for making me go offtrack on the path to my dreams, my definition of success.
But, watching all this now, I realize I need to get up off my ass. To stop sulking around, to stop complaining about being so uninspired when in fact, there's a lot to find inspiration in.
I've been beside myself with bitterness lately as well, and I've been acting out on it in ways I shouldn't. I've said hurtful things. My words were laced with poison. Sarcasm dripped from my every joke and everything that came out of my lips were full of ill intent.
Bitterness and bitchiness is no way to cope with things. That's another bad habit I have to kick to the curb.
And so, I write this in hopes to shed the heartbreak and unpleasant things I've lingered on for much longer than needed. I write this in hopes to apply all the lessons I've learned in the two years I put myself of hold so I can continue to grow. I write this so that I can embrace what I have now, what I have to look forward to, and dismiss the past as..the past. Spilt milk, and there's no use crying over it.
Exercise Three: Write about a character's unrequited attraction/love.
Jonathan:
i'm getting ready
you're already done
i got you a moon
you wanted a sun
i'm getting dry
you jump into a pool
i'll cook you good food
you say you're already full
i'll get us a car
but you'd prefer to walk
i'll bring you keys
but you won't open your lock
i'm writing our song
but i can't find you or the tune
i can see myself getting tired
i worry i'll feel it soon
POETRY. Damn you Navales, that's kind of my weakness. Maybe I'll give it a shot.
Hannah:
Her heart sank as it paced faster with anxiety and despair and her whole body trembled. Who knew, who would have guessed, that a single picture could lead her to feel so fragile, so forlorn, so close to the brink of tears?
There it was, that stuffed animal she hoped would be hers, but instead it was another’s, held by arms that were not her own, and would fill in the empty space of the bed where he would be. In someone else’s bed. A bed that was not hers to lie in. And that stuffed animal would never be brought close to her. She would never hug it to sleep, never cry to it, never laugh with it, and it would never carry the essence of him. Never comfort her in his absence.
From the start, it was not hers to keep. Yet why did hope resonate so strongly in her heart?
She remembers the day he bought that stuffed animal very well. They were both hanging out, looking for nothing in particular, being silly in the store. It was one of the things they did best, a common trait they shared, one of the reasons why they got along so well as friends.
Friends. Right now, that was such a heartbreaking word.
She had eyed that stuffed animal, that perfect elephant, from a distance. Even then she had the urge to touch it, to hold it, but when she noticed him heading the same way as her she grabbed the tiger next to it out of nervousness and slight panic.
His face had brightened as he held the stuffed elephant and she quietly hoped he remembered that the elephant was her favorite animal. Secretly, she wished he would give it to her when he told her it would be cool to use the stuffed elephant as a part of a new photography series he would start.
But, that was months ago, and now, the very same stuffed elephant was being held by another girl, someone who was not her, and calling it “her baby”.
Maybe, just maybe, things would have been different if she grabbed the stuffed elephant first. Why did she even go to the tiger?
Maybe, just maybe, things would have been different if she had the guts to tell him she loved him. But would he have loved her?
I have a bad habit of mixing real life experiences with fiction.
I publicize private memories and feel safe behind the fact no one can tell.
Besides, I'm a writer. I feed on experiences, mine or another's, and exploit them.
When intact, it's smooth and the reflection is clear; you can be sure of what you're looking at. However, once it's broken, everything's distorted and the cracks fill with doubt. Now, here's the thing. People often overreact after trust has been betrayed, unable to filter out what's real and what's the product of their own mind-fuckery. Others can suppress their over-analytical and hyperactive imagination and base their actions on the wrongdoer's evident efforts in regaining the trust they once took for granted.
I know I've forgiven the past.
But to think that my perception is pristine, like it once was, in such a short amount of time? That's a horrible misconception, no matter how much it seems like I'm over it. Because, no matter how much I laugh about it and poke fun at it and hang it up for amusement, I'm NOT fully healed.
