An AIM conversation from early 2002:
I met the Camden girls through a mutual friend. They were both cute – curly hair with the same high pitch voice that was impossible to differentiate. Laci was a year older than me and thus more experienced. We’d hooked up before, but Melanie, who was a year younger and just out of high school was more my speed.
Their parents greeted me at the door when I came to pick Melanie up. As we chatted in the entryway, I worried Laci would walk by and say hi. Mr. and Mrs. Camden would look at each other, then us, then ask, “How do you two know each other?” We’d both spit out a lie at the same time, then correct our first lie with the other’s lie, then I’d say something like “Well Melanie, we probably should get going! Don’t wanna miss the previews!” Fortunately, she stayed hidden.
Melanie told me after the movie that she didn’t understand it. I was unable to help her with this because the whole time my thoughts were – Hand on the leg? Or around the shoulder? Should I put this center divider thing up? If she got candy does that mean we won’t be making out? When she puts her head on my shoulder, do I put my head on top of hers? Has anyone ever seriously done the popcorn trick?
Because I had no movie-theatre game, there was no room left in my brain for dramatic plot lines and fast paced dialogue. I remember absolutely nothing about The Bourne Identity. I’ve heard it’s good.
I pulled into her driveway letting my noisy custom muffler wake everyone in the house. The lights were on in her sister’s room but the curtains were drawn.
“I had fun tonight,” she said. “Sorry if I ruined the movie with all my questions.”
The way she said it seemed, unusual. She was nervous. I’d always been that guy. The guy assuring the girl “He’s an idiot for dumping you, you could do much better,” hoping she’d consider me. The guy sitting though the romantic comedy, wishing the girl would switch couches. The guy who took a girl to the winter formal, thinking it’d be the night she finally saw him as more than a friend. I never made girls nervous.
It felt good.
I leaned in for a kiss and we made out with the engine still running. – A victory for all those other chumps stuck in the friend zone. Melanie once told me about some guy named Chris who was in love with her – “He’s really nice, I just don’t see him like that.” she explained. I thought about him while her tongue was in my mouth.
After a few more dates, we became an official couple. This was before the days of Myspace and Facebook status updates, so I carried around a picture of her in my wallet like Napolean Dynamite.
I should explain my romantic life leading up to this:
GIRLFRIENDS – The last one was a gothic girl I dated for two months in Junior High. I broke up with her because someone told me she had herpes.
SEX – I’d had it three times with two girls. The first time was on a blanket laid over asphalt near a basketball court. I told her I was scared of being a virgin forever. “I’ll have sex with you,” she bluntly stated. We drove around looking for a discrete location and finally settled on a local elementary school. We did it once more in my truck before she moved to Florida. The third time was with a Mexican girl who said my bleached hair reminded her of Eminem.
BLOWJOBS – I’d gotten a total of four. Two from this girl I worked with who went down on me at a friend’s house after I asked her to “slob my knob”. One from this girl Christina in her kitchen – we finished about five minutes before her older brother came home. And one from Melanie’s sister, Laci, about three months ago.
I didn’t know much about Melanie’s past, other than she dated the same guy for two years in high school. They never had sex, but one time she gave him a blowjob when they were camping. In the middle of it he got sick, puked behind a nearby tree, then came back to the tent where Melanie resumed. I always liked that story.
We hadn’t really done anything yet, but I knew it was only a matter of time. Just a week into our relationship, Melanie turned 18.
“Awww!” her mom said, eyeing the dozen roses I brought for her birthday.
“Isn’t that sweet?” she asked Laci, who’d just walked into the kitchen in sweatpants and reading glasses.
“Very cute,” she politely answered, keeping her eyes only on the flowers.
“Where are you taking her tonight?” her mom pried. “C’mon, you can tell me, I won’t say anything.”
I laughed. “Sorry . . . it’s a secret.”
I took her to a secluded restaurant in Malibu on a friend’s recommendation. “Dude, it’s fail proof. She’ll love it. Guaranteed blow job,”
On the drive home along the PCH, I suggested we stop and…park. After making out for a while, our shirts came off. Then my pants started chafin me. As I started to undo hers, an intense white light blinded me. Then came a knock on the window.
The officer asked our ages. When she said 18, he looked incredulous and instructed her to step out of the vehicle. I was 19. After bombarding her with questions, some of which I later learned included “Are you sure you want to be here with him?” and “Is he making you do anything you don’t want to do?” I was asked to step out – in my underwear. After a lot of “Yes, Sir. No, Sir. I was unaware this was private property, Sir,” he let us go. Driving through the dark canyon home, she let out a sigh of relief, complaining about how that whole experience “totally killed the mood.” I was about to suggest finding a better spot but bit my tongue.
The next weekend we met at a house party for our first public appearance as a couple. I tailgated out front with my friends and pounded half a flask of Southern Comfort before she arrived. She didn’t seem to mind my drunkenness. Inside, we held hands, kissed in front of people, and made our big debut. After a few more swigs from my flask chased with warm Dr. Pepper, I suggested we go out to my car and…park.
We made out for a while until the Southern Comfort started creeping up my throat. I kissed her neck so she wouldn’t be able to detect the vomit trying to escape. She moaned, reached for my zipper, undid my pants, and began blowing my whiskey dick.
After five minutes, the white street light, the orange speedometer, and the neon green glow of my CD player started swirling around and around. I leaned back and closed my eyes, trying to muster what little pleasure I could from the blowjob, all while concentrating on not blowing chunks all over Melanie. Darkness only intensified my drunkenness. I opened my eyes. I dizzily ran my hand through her hair, trying to focus on a task in a vain effort to curb the spins. After ten minutes, my head sunk into the seat. My truck turned into the carnival ride from The Sandlot. I remembered the camping story with her ex and wondered if I could take a quick puke break.
“Are you gonna finish soon?” she finally asked after the CD started over. I was glued down, only capable of communicating through laborious head nods. Then everything went black. I pushed her off, stepped out the car, pulled up my pants, and placed my forehead on the cool metal exterior. I dry heaved untill my eyes watered and a puddle of drool formed at my feet. Then meandered off to a nearby lawn and fell asleep.
I showed up to her house the following afternoon.
“I had to go back inside and get Dustin. Him and Steve threw you in the bed of your truck and dropped you off down the street from your house.” she said, blocking my apology kiss.
“Ohh shit! I was wondering how I got home.” I tugged on her belt loops, smiling.
“It was soooooo embarrassing. Please don’t ever do that again.”
I nodded my head and leaned in. She reluctantly kissed me back.
During our conversations on AIM long before we were together, Melanie had mentioned a beach house her grandparents owned, but never used. Around our one-month anniversary she sent a text suggesting we go out there and spend the night. I collected what faint memory I had of her blowing me in my truck, then imagined that scenario in a secret cove underneath a blanket of stars. I wrote her back immediately before jerking off.
We turned the excursion into a double date. I invited my friend Ryan who insisted we go to the Chumash Casino before, since it was close by. She invited her friend Jen, who thought Ryan was hot. We all met at the beach house, unloaded the two bottles of Jager Ryan bought with his fake I.D., and carpooled the rest of the way.
The Casino was a bust. Ryan and I each had a tight budget of 40 dollars to gamble with. At 10 dollars a hand, neither of us were at the table long enough to get the free cocktail – not that we were old enough anyways. We left empty-handed, ready to drink away our misery.
Because I suck at learning from my mistakes, I pounded Jager from the bottle as soon as we got back.
Wispy streaks and bright dots.
Soft thunder, rhythmic and soothing.
Ping . . .Ping . . Ping.
Tiny dull needles massaging my feet.
Step . . . Step . . .Step.
I’m holding something.
Shoes?
This is the beach. I’m at the beach. Why am I at the beach? . . .
Wind chills my face.
Why am I alone? Who did I come here with?
Your girlfriend. And Ryan. And some other chick.
My girlfriend? I have a girlfriend? Holy shit that’s right. . . I have a girlfriend. Where’d she go?
I did a quick 360 to make sure I was by myself. Then I did another 360 because I forgot. Then I called Ryan.
“Pick me up! . . .” I slurred into the phone.
I somehow gave an intelligible enough description for him to find me. My wits started coming back as I waited.
Seriously, why are you by yourself? Did you fuck this up? You promised yourself you wouldn’t have another night like the truck blowjob fiasco.
Ryan and Jen pulled up in my dads car and I hopped in the back. When we got to the house it was later than I expected. Last time I saw the digital clock on the microwave it read 11:03, just before I chugged. Now it said 1:15. I’d blacked out for the past two hours. An awkward tension filled the room as Melanie entered. She had a disappointed look on her face that was becoming all too familiar. What did I do? Did I try and fight Ryan? Did I hit on Jen? Did I sleazily pull her into the bathroom and show her my dick? That’s not me. I’d never do that. Right?
I spent the next ten minutes trying to act as normal as possible, concentrating on every word, being sure to form complete and full sentences. As Melanie lectured me, I contorted my face into what seemed like the appropriate response.
Ryan and Jen quietly escaped to their bedroom while we continued to talk things out. After another round of “mmhmm”, “I understand”, “I’m sorry”, Melanie glanced at her cell phone and suggested we go to bed. We?
The lights turned off and I kissed her neck. She reached for my belt buckle. I was back in.
I like to be an active participant when a girl is going down on me. Once or twice I’ve leaned back and put my arms behind my head, but only as a novelty. Usually I’ll play with their hair, feel their ass, communicate my satisfaction. There’s something hot about hearing a girl moan my name in bed, so I try to encourage this by saying theirs as often as possible. I ran my fingers through her thick curly hair, thrust my head back, and exhaled “Oooohh Melanie!”
Only, I didn’t say Melanie.
I said another name.
In my head I said “Oooohh Melanie!” but what came out was “Ooooh Laci!”
She stopped.
We sat quietly in the dark.
I zipped up my pants.
You mother fucker. Yooooouuuu mother fucker! You should’ve just gone with Camden!
When she didn’t yell at me, I knew it was over.
She broke up with me the next day. I watched High Fidelity and listened to a lot of Glassjaw.
Six months later I ran into Laci at a New Years Eve Party. She was crying hysterically over some guy who just dumped her. “He must be an idiot. You could do much better.” I said, hoping she’d consider me. We started talking every night on AIM after that. Then we started having sex. Then we dated for four years.
Epilogue:
Laci and I broke up because I still couldn’t handle my liquor. She now has a boyfriend. Melanie is currently single. . .sometimes we chat on facebook.
