Trains to Tunnels

It was a planned thing. Like Plan B, but Plan A. 

            “A” being sex, of course. 

            Plan A: Demolish the bed.

            Plan B: Don’t get pregnant.

            Plan C: Forget it ever happened.

            We had planned it since the beginning. “In six months, we’ll lose our virginities. Together.” Except it wasn’t your virginity. You lost it to her, in her closet, with a high heel stuck up your a*s. How romantic.

            I remember sitting in Wendy’s with you (I’m a Romantic, too) and I was accusing you of losing it to someone else and you looked at me and you said, “I may have had sex with someone else but I’ve never made love to someone.”

            So we agreed, written contract and everything. Sign here, initial here. We shook hands, exchanged business cards, and promised we’d call with future propositions. It was a great board meeting (emphasis on the bored). Of course, you broke the contract and didn’t comply with the rules we set out. I mean, if I’m going to let you stick it in me, at least stick to the contract first.

            Anyway, there we were. It was the night of the first game against Milton (our rivals) on November 10, 2012. I didn’t memorize that date. I don’t worship it every time the year comes around, because all I did was look at my diary and found the entry where I just wrote, “It happened.” I was 17 and three quarters and you were 17 and 1 month. We were finally the same age. For one month and 2 days, we were the same age, so it made everything much more romantic, as if we were running out of time or you were from the future or I from the past and to be together we would have to link our bodies through time or something mystical and magical like that.

            It wasn’t magical. It wasn’t.

            Also, I lied. I had been 18 for 9 days. You had been 17 for a month and 12 days. It was your idea or maybe it was mine, but it doesn’t really matter when the thing actually happens. The point is, it didn’t happen like in the movies or in the books. I grew up believing in sex after marriage and when I fell in love with you, I knew I couldn’t believe in that anymore. Now I believe in true love. Now I believe it’s not when it happens or when or with whom did you do it with for the first time; it’s about how you feel for that person.

            I could have sex with every person on this planet (dear god I hope I never have to make that kind of decision) and I could still never make love. I could have lost my virginity to myself and it wouldn’t have mattered. With whom: your true love. That is all that matters.

            We argued that night, too. A lot. You were kind of a condescending a*****e, but you were my a*****e. We argued and left the game early. You were supposed to stay over at my house that night because my parents were out of town. I mean, my sister was home but we were close and she provided condoms (practice sisters before misters and then you get condoms later on). I, being an obsessive freak, set up music, candles, pillows, and my self-esteem was on point.

            You were supposed to stay over that night but your mom wouldn’t let you (like any responsible parent). I was pissed at you, because you were ruining my night. That was my night, not yours. I was going to have sex that night no matter what.

            Well, we argued and I stormed to my car and you came after me and we talked, talked, talked, and I cried. It was probably the worst night with you. We went back to my house and we kept talking as I sobbed on your shoulder for no reason at all (I’m cute that way).

            After that, we didn’t have sex. We didn’t bang. We didn’t even really make love. We made up, just with you inside me instead of me hiding inside myself. I guess it was beautiful. I guess it was everything I have ever wanted. I guess it was a night I’ll always remember.

            I remember what happened, but I don’t really remember at all. It’s not emotionally scarring and it’s not really anything interesting either. It was a dull, breaking night (as in broken virginities).

           You were so aggressive and controlling. You were obsessed with playing the air guitar and making grilled cheese. You had long hair and I never liked it. It always tickled my legs when you went exploring and it always got in my mouth when we made out. Now I understand how guys feel when they make out with girls with long hair. I should really apologize to my present boyfriend (Sorry Matthew).

            I always imagined love as this garden that you have to continuously tend to or it will overgrow with weeds and slowly fall apart. You were in my garden. You were the first flower to be planted there, but I ripped you out.            

            I planted a new bulb that I knew would take some time to grow, because my soil was hurt and needed time to become healthy again. I planted a small bulb and patiently watered my garden and waited for something to grow (and by patiently, I mean impatiently, because gardens take figuratively forever to do anything).

            I planted jade vine flowers, forget-me-nots (they did forget), orange blossoms, azaleas, magnolias, nemisias, sage blossoms, and chrysanthemums.

            One time, in fourth grade, there was this third grade girl in our class because she was really smart. She was there because she could spell “chrysanthemum” (because that apparently bumped you up a grade). Now I make sure that I can spell that and I’ll make sure my children can too, because the only way to show intelligence is to remember how to spell a flower. After that basic knowledge, I’ll teach them how to keep their garden clean and how to keep a flower alive.

            Then I waited for that bulb to bloom. All the others died, one by one. I tried to save them, but decided at the end that it was no longer worth it (I mean unless there’s some kind of food involved, gardens are kind of disappointing). I would water them for a few days, but it was like they weren’t even trying. If they weren’t going to try, why would I? So I let them die. I ignored my garden. I stayed inside. I got a cat. I drank soup and watched the rain bleed down my windows.

            One day, I looked out at my garden and I reminisced on when I lost it and I lost you. I smiled, though, because in my garden was a single chrysanthemum. He had finally bloomed and I laughed, whispering, “c-h-r-y-s-a-n-t-h-e-m-u-m.”           

            Somehow he had found his way through all of the baggage I had left in the dirt. When I lost it to someone else, I knew it didn’t matter. With him, it’s like falling in love all over again. With him, coming of age has never been better (literally).