Fluke

My relationship with Dizzy, even my attraction to him, was, I think, a kind of fluke.

He really wasn’t much of anything special, he never struck anything deep inside me. Perhaps when I met him I was caring more about what he wasn’t which was my first boyfriend who’s memory I was still trying to escape. Dizzy was as different from him as peas are different from a pick-up truck but that didn’t make him much better of a lover than the first had been though it took me a long while to realize that.

It started on the Internet. I had joined this silly dating website, partially as some kind of social experiment born of extreme boredom and partially out of an irrational fear that I wouldn’t meet anyone worth dating in the real world for a long, long time.

It was late summer before my second year of college. I had just returned from a several week long adventure in Costa Rica with my mother, several weeks of heat, warm surf and fecund rain forest. Several weeks of feeling myself undressed in the smoldering gazes of the local men and being unable to do anything about it, two months of no Internet and no privacy in which to rub out a quick orgasm. I returned home with all the pent up desire of a pubescent boy in a chastity belt and when I finally got back to my own room, my pussy and the Internet received a lot of my attention. It was in this frenzy that Dizzy first found me in.

No sooner had I set up my profile when the messages started pouring in, they were mostly from ridiculously flirtatious old men. I giggled at most of the messages but didn’t respond. And then I found Dizzy’s, Dizzy who was only a few years older than I. “Smile” he wrote in closing and his name. And it touched my heart.

We wrote each other long emails nearly every day. It was summer and he was working in our college town while I was stuck at home, miles away. It might have been wise to talk on the phone, but I was phone shy so writing was all we had.

Dizzy sounded far more thoughtful and sophisticated in writing than he actually turned out to be, though perhaps that was just what I wanted to see, my imagination, if I haven’t said already, can be far too vivid and inventive for my own good. That went for how he looked as well. It didn’t help that his profile picture was four years old, and a good hunk of pounds lighter.

And I can’t say there weren’t hints of who he actually was, hints of things that didn’t quite sit right with me. I squashed those things to the back of my mind, already I felt like I had too much invested in him.

By the time I met him, I’d already grown attached to my idea of who he was, “I’m developing quite a crush on you,” I remember writing in one of my last emails.

He was wearing pajamas when we finally met and an awful pair of slippers much in need of a wash. These were things I noticed arbitrarily. I didn’t care so much about nice clothes and dressing well then, it didn’t seem like something I could expect from a guy. I did notice that he was significantly heavier than I’d expected and significantly plainer. And I noticed as we began talking that his personality was significantly less charming.

He was kind of a bro, really. He dressed simply, thought simply, enjoyed the keg style parties his friends threw, friends who I mostly never cared for which was probably a bad sign from the start. He was, I started to feel as I got to know him better, rather dumb and yet he almost always seemed to talk to me like I was dumber which I certainly wasn’t.

I left him that night rather disappointed, finally forced to confront the very obvious evidence that my Dizzy was not all that. And then several days later I ran into him at a bus stop and he touched my arm and just that one little touch set my heart racing and my skin tingling and all of a sudden, brought that summer’s lust simmering back through me and I wanted those hands all over me.

I soon learned that when Dizzy said “Let’s watch a movie” he really meant let’s fool around with the movie playing in the background. Even the first night, when he had me sit on his queen sized bed while he adjusted his twin monitors to play a purple and green toned bootleg copy of some movie or another that I can no longer remember, I had an idea of where things might be headed, a girl, a boy and a bed in the night.

I perched strait backed and far away from him, my lust shy and unsure in the proximity of realization. He came up behind me, softly, not too close yet and began to caress my back, as if soothing a poppet of a girl, a finicky colt who might lurch from his touch if frightened.

My skin was cold and lonely when he took his hand away. “Come over here” he said, Humbert Humbert the bloated spider luring in his little Lolita. “Come over here and snuggle with me.” And I did. At first stiff in his embrace I slowly relaxed under his petting fingers. We were turned towards each other, two spoons turned the wrong way. It was easy for him to kiss me, bringing his face to mine in the flickering light of the movie. His lips were thin on mine startling me with their strange presence. It was a similar sensation to that which I felt the first time my first boyfriend, Rickman, had kissed me. Strange and not entirely pleasant, foreign.

The first kiss I took passively. He drew back to look at me, to gage my reaction and when I didn’t pull away brought his lips to mine again and I closed my eyes and kissed him back, slowly easing the shock and the strangeness.

The rest of the night is blurry with forgotten moments. I think we rolled around greedily kissing one another. I think he must have kissed and licked and teased the skin of my neck until I shivered with pleasure, hardly able to bear the onslaught of sensation. I have dark memories of his hands sliding under my shirt to cover my tummy, to explore and squeeze my breasts like ripe grapefruit first on the outside of my bra and then inside it. I think I remember him taking off my shirt to kiss my stomach, and nuzzle into the crevices of my belly button, the cleft of my breasts, the curve of my waist, and sending me into a euphoria that he would be unable to replicate by any other means.

I think I remember him taking my hand and putting it on the cock straining against his pants. And I remember feeling like it was far too early for me to want to touch his cock.

In some ways, perhaps, I was very, very young.