2. Ice Cream

“Your love is better than ice cream,

Better than anything else that I’ve tried.

Your love is better than ice cream.

Everyone her knows how to cry.”

Ice Cream

Sarah McLaughlin

Sometimes love is a real pain in the ass, especially when you are young. Everything is so idealized because you have nothing to base your emotions on but movies, books and magazines. God knows your parents were no road map. When you are a teenager everything is such a rush because you are trying hard to cope with the encroachment of adulthood. You want to be like the rest, want to have those experiences whether real or fictionalized accounts whispered in the hallways.

When I think back to the few relationships I have had, the ones that were the most frustrating were the early ones. Many caused pain on both sides due to immaturity and lack of communication. We just grow up so fast these days but out minds are still not ready for it all. Hell some of us are not ready until maybe the second half of our life. After having said that I can think of only two that made me feel small, used, and utterly stupid.

I was sixteen and completely infatuated with a girl I believed hung the moon. She was older, two years so than I. She was tall with long auburn hair and sweet pale blue eyes that she lined in black to make them stand out. She just exuded sex , at least what I knew of it then, in the way she walked. And oh, she was well aware how to turn on and off her alluring charms. When she hugged me, the scent of exotic powder or something clung to my clothes. Lynette was her name and she was completely aware of my feelings. She was not cruel, it was just that her intentions were different from mine, and in the end she helped the puppet turn into a boy by gracefully tugging his heart strings.

Her attraction to me was probably based on the need to feed her ego. For a short while she got too close however and I fancy that she fell in love. I certainly did. It happened at the end of a school year during a long hot summer. I was going to be an upperclassmen the coming year, Lynette would be going on to college. We went out for a few weeks that summer, the usual kid stuff of movies, parties, concerts and the like.

One July evening while driving me home she bluntly told me that she was thinking about doing something with me she had only done with one other person. I knew exactly what she was talking about, every teenaged boy’s dream come true, but in truth I was petrified and pretended to be unaware. This beautiful girl wanted to have sex with me. I had talked too good of a game. I had said too much. I had acted like a fucking big shot and now I was going to have to back it all up, and this time without clothing.

When you are holding the one you love in your arms there is no better feeling in the world. You tangibly feel love, need, and safety. Entwined you have somewhat reached a state of enlightenment. Before you reach this final stage however you must travel the path of eight fold, through much uncertainty, through much terror. Lynette was expecting things, great things, and from me and my average sized run of the mill self. To talk with her and be in love with her was no longer going to be enough. I was going to have to do things to her.

Shortly thereafter one stifling evening I was home alone, the parents away on vacation when she drove into the open garage and closed the door before letting herself right into the kitchen where I sat playing a hand held video game. I was paralyzed by fear and ecstasy. She placed a small green duffel bag at my feet, moved behind me and ran her fingers through my hair.

“I can stay the whole weekend,” she said, then licked the inside of my left ear.

I stood up, completely out of my mind and kissed her hard and clumsily. I had made a romantic gesture but had caught her off guard, myself as well for we were both leaning over a kitchen chair locked in an awkward embrace, kissing passionately, at least what I thought was passion. The truth was I felt out of place, felt like it perhaps should not have been me in my own shoes. It’s not that she did not feel good, quite the contrary but sometimes your mind speaks to you, warns you or tries to. It took some growing up before I would listen. Eventually we made our way back to my bedroom which I had gone to great lengths to clean and make look as sophisticated as possible.

All of the big things, the smooth moves I had planned and rehearsed fell apart as Lynette took control. She undressed me slowly and deliberately, teasing me with small kisses and caresses the entire time. She pushed me gently onto the bed, lifted the covers over me then disappeared out of the room. The only light in the room was the glowing VU meter on the front of my stereo. The red needle twitched back and forth but I could not hear the music, only the rushing of blood in my ears from the heart about to burst out of my chest.

I lay there in the near darkness now more sick with excitement than actually excited. I did not feel worthy nor did I feel competent. My insides were telling me to hold her and love her and hope she would love me while the voices of my best friends were all shouting out vulgar kudos. Before we went any further I wanted to explain to her the depth of my bullshit so she would not be disappointed with me and whatever I was going to clumsily do to her.

I heard the bedroom door open and close again, then the mechanical click of the lock. She turned on the small dim reading lamp next to my bed. The first thing I saw was her pale white legs coming out of a short emerald robe tied loosely at the waist, and then her blue eyes outlined in black. They stood out against her pale skin and brushed red cheeks. I reached up for her but she stood and pushed me back, fixing me with her eyes. Slowly she slid the robe off of her shoulders and let it drop to her feet. Then, without looking at me or even waiting for my mouth to close she lifted the covers and climbed in on top of me.

Her body was almost hot to the touch, not at all what I imagined a girl would feel like. Her neck and shoulder smelled like baby powder and her breathing was already heavy as if it were being forced out in little gasps. We kissed and I felt as if I should not touch her, as if it had all come too easy and by doing so I was committing and abominable sin. Of course I said nothing as she writhed on top of me, and pressed herself even closer. Thoughts of all the great screen lovers; Cary Grant, Richard Gere, Sean Connery, clouded my mind. Their romances were so well acted. Their gestures were so noble and sincere while mine seemed foolish and clumsy.

Lynette sat up, pressing down on my chest and slowly slid her legs up on either side of me. I rubbed her thighs which were clenched tight to my sides. For an eternity it seemed we did not move. She held her arms down and kept them stiffly placed on my chest. She then lifted herself slightly and slid me inside. Thought after thought raced through my mind; children, marriage, having that same feeling every night, dirty movies, my friends dad’s stash of nudie mags he kept hidden in a downstairs closet, and all the stories I had listened to told by boys who were more experienced than I. They always seemed so dashing; triumphant hunters proud of their kill, and I, as I lay underneath Lynette starring alternately at her small round breasts and her auburn hair hanging in ringlets across her pale freckled shoulders, felt like a deer caught in the headlights of an oncoming truck. I was in awe of the whole situation as she rocked rhythmically back and forth grinding herself into me.

The night spilled over into day and we spent nearly every moment together the rest of the weekend. For two months we had what seemed at the time a great relationship. We ate together at the mall where we both worked, called each other early in the mornings, saw movies went to the occasional party, fell asleep on the phone, sneaked out at night, and fucked like animals every chance we had.

When I was throughly convinced I loved her, summer ended and Lynette struck out on her own. After the fact she was still more than willing to come back and “be” with me as she would say, “because it was always so special between us.”

“Being,” used to be making love, making a future, kissing and holding hands, laughing and touching. Later it became simply sex; fucking. And I learned to distinguish between the two as I obliged her and myself as she came around for the next several months until we drifted too far apart for physical encounters to be of any interest.

“Making love,” much like “being” with someone is another phrase that has always puzzled me. I understand what it means, but love is a precursor, hopefully. Things are created from sex, but love seldom seems to be one of them. When a man and woman engage in sex no love is made. If done properly they do make a mess. I guess it is not nearly as romantic to say “let’s make a mess.” Lynette could never even bring herself to say “let’s make love.” She had to ask if we could “be” together.

Anyone can “be” I once said to her. What do you really want?

Red faced she kissed me without answering. I knew what she wanted she just could not say it or perhaps admit it.

Let’s fuck. Let’s make love. Let’s be together. Take your pick. No matter how you put it a mess is what is generally made out of everything when two people further their relationships physically before being ready for any further commitment.