Things I Never Learned from Boys about Love
And how little I actually know
When I was 10 or 11, I went to a friend’s elaborate birthday party where it was my second experience with the game of spin the bottle. I remember the pounding in my chest as Georgie’s spin pointed towards me. I closed my eyes, in anticipation of his wet mouth touching mine. Instead, a quick peck and it was over. Maybe that was the onset of my crazy crushes on boys that would last for decades to come. I once asked my mother the difference between love and infatuation and she stopped chopping her vegetables for a second to think about it, but I can’t recall her answer. Somehow, it was a stage in my life that would take years to outgrow.
I met a boy. A guy. Well, we were actually in college and he was part of my study group. We would all meet on the ground level of bustling LaGuardia Hall Library, which anchored and housed the pre- and post-grad researchers, crammers, skimmers and nerds that crawled like ants around campus. My study group was a motley conglomeration of all those shining stars in an obsidian sky.
We became a commune of interactive learning. The ultimate in what anyone would want from a study group. The secret sauce to maximize our comprehension, acquisition of knowledge and hopefully…. grades.
On our best days, we excelled in ambidexterity, chess, art and multi-level, talented pursuits. There were a few slouchers and slackers among us. Steve was not a slacker. He was driven. And very sexy.
Majoring in Math.
That part did not compute with me. I had a brain focused on becoming an English major.
Science (or maybe fake, pseudo-science) tells us we use only 10 percent of our brain. That meant I had a whopping 90 percent capacity for other endeavors, say watching tv, sex and falling in love.
Then came the summer of a series of stunning misunderstandings.
Steve’s family was loaded. That summer he stayed at their three bedroom beach house on the south side of the ocean, while they toured Europe, and he invited the solid members of our study group (the equity partners, so to speak) to come beachside with him, for a relatively nominal cost. I felt honored to be included.
The beach house was freshly renovated and cozy. All guests understood the three rules that Steve had firmly stated: the first being to keep the refrigerator stocked and the bathroom clean. Without hesitation, I did my part. Amazed in a good way to see the shelves lined with five different kinds of beer and wine coolers. Andy loved grilling on the hibachi and Deanna was sous chef and chief bottle washer, heir apparent to the throne of their impending wedlock. They were a power couple and that left the rest of us single and available.
It started out an idyllic summer. Bonding with close friends and acoustic guitars serenading each sunrise and sunset. Summer became intoxicating. Before long, Steve and I grew closer. Skin tanned, eyes engaged and lingering. Soon, he was exactly what I craved.
Nights at the beach house were calming for me. Clean, fresh sheets and the sound of waves gently rocking the shore lulled me to sleep. My mind replaying the image of Steve, relaxed in his natural hardwood Adirondack chair, gently fingering the strings of his Taylor guitar and singing some Jackson Browne or Paul Simon. We would all join in for moments of bliss, while indulging in sublime greasy, salty rings of fried calamari and Mike’s hard ice tea or some of Deanna’s homemade sangria.
I tried to fight fantasies of softly knocking on Steve’s bedroom door. My mind unraveled amazing possibilities and different scenarios that might follow, once it opened.
Reality did not disappoint. Steve was not my first, but I was afraid that he would be the one that mattered. The one that would mean more to me than just good, casual, no strings attached sex. I knew that was asking too much. And I also knew I was capable of putting love in a box separate from things like desire, pleasure and infatuation. Even friendship. Maybe it’s something I learned from all the boys I had loved before.
It was the reason I eventually learned to tread lightly when I liked a boy, but had a tendency to go crazy head over heels. Things would always be fine until they saw the change in my composure as their sublimated sexual impulses were awakening, watching me melt into a puddle of liquified mush, right before their eyes. They ran as fast and as quickly as they could from the hopelessly romantic me who would attach doodled hearts in my notebook with their name engraved inside, then obnoxiously dumb-smile incessantly and bat my puppy dog eyes at them, and annoyingly wanting to know what they were up to every minute of the day. Of course, instead, they wanted to hang with my cool school chums who knew how to please and tease with French kisses and tongue, then basically played hard to get.
Clearly, I was confused about that nebulous zone called love, that held so many shadings of the word.
When I met Tommy Cooke, it all turned around for me. He wasn’t romantic, but it didn’t matter. He still wanted to kiss me. And try to run the bases. It was confusing for me, but finally, I thought I understood the mysteries of love. I was sure I had broken the boy code. I was in.
I didn’t realize how little I actually knew. About love. About myself. I was jumping in to swim, without even getting my toes wet. And though the water was shallow, I was in way over my head.
Flash forward, back at the beach house, loneliness abandoned my bedroom door as I spent blissful overnights with Steve in his room. And incredible days… in the sunshine…in the rain.
Though Steve was an early riser, Benjamin was usually the first one outside on the lanai deck, painting or sculping. I was sure that it was just a matter of time before his art would be on display at a trendy gallery in Red Hook or on the lower east side. I imagined having coffee with him, somewhere in Soho or Chelsea. Benjamin was a good friend. Someone I trusted.
We usually watched the sunrise together, while Steve was busy doing his daily maneuvers, sit ups and jogging.
“…mornin’, Sunshine,” is how Ben would greet me, as I handed him a mug of coffee. He told me how he savored the smell, even more than the taste. Sometimes, we shared croissants, mimosas, and other tantalizingly lazy morning elixirs.
“Did you sleep well last night?” he would ask, feigning innocence.
He knew about Steve and me. Benjamin was my personal confessor and confidante. I often wondered if push came to shove, would he be able to administer the kind of absolution that I secretly sought and desperately needed. He was always crisp and cool, unlike me on particularly humid days, when I would resort to wiping tiny beads of perspiration from my brow with some cool water from his plastic bottle.
Steve, on the other hand, jogged twice a day, once in the relative coolness of early morning and then again, after the sun set. He would run religiously, alone and without fail would be gone for what seemed like an inordinately long stretch of time. I often wondered what was on the other side of us and his sandy beach house. I hated myself for obsessing about him and his need for personal space. I hated myself for seeing the line in the sand, the boundaries of our relationship.
Maybe we were too much alike, though.
Sometimes, infatuation is just the other end of the spectrum of love. Or should I say, the illusion of love. Andy and Deanna were starting to rub off on me and maybe I was feeling the need for a real-deal relationship like theirs.
I saw a look in their eyes that I recognized was in my parents’ as well— it was not a look of hunger but more one of contentment. I suppose I learned more about love from my parents, than I ever did from any boy I ever met.
Maybe I was feeling empty until Steve stepped into my life. All these maybe’s lined up in my already cluttered mind. But I swore I wouldn’t let him see me needy or clingy.
I wanted to believe there was something between us beyond the physical attraction. Yet, I was violating every principle of something else, called the law of attraction. You know that age-old, modern day bible that deems you can attract positive energy or negativity into your life through your thoughts and actions. The theory is that the good vibes you put out will come back to you. Only in my case, I was breaking the law with all kinds of insecurities. I suppose I felt it in my bones, and it projected out to the universe. I figured my big ball of anxiety, doubt and negative energy would only come back to haunt me.
Sometimes, I hate being right.
By mid-August, Steve introduced the beach house crew to the girls from the gated north shore of the bay. Soon, they were sharing beers, barbeques and idyllic sunsets with us.
August tasted bittersweet and brought a shift to the wind and the jolting waves. I knew things between me and Steve had changed from that point on. But I stayed at the beach house, anyway, and unexpectedly was still included within his circle of friends. There I was, stranded in the dreaded friend zone.
There I was, back in the dreaded friend zone.
I was beyond confused at this point, but there were stronger, more complicated issues at play and reasons why I really didn’t want to leave. Ben was a major reason to stay.
And there would be a huge, irreparable hole hermetically drilled into me, if I left. Worse than any self-inflicted wound. Deeper than any scar. I had to admit I knew how much I would miss friendships beyond summer and secret handshakes and beautiful, acoustic serenades. Maybe being in the friend zone was not that bad for now.
© Connie Song 2020. All Rights Reserved.
