Angst

by Victoria Sawyer

  “There you are,” he says with a tiny smile and I smile back, stiffly.

  “Hi,” I say, feeling totally awkward, totally at a loss. Things were easier last night. It’s much easier to say what I want when I’m drunk.

  “Do you want to go home?” he asks.

  “Yes,” I reply, avoiding his eyes, looking at my phone. “I’m hoping Hannah or Amanda will answer my text and come back to get me.”

  “I’ll drive you back,” he says and I nod. I cannot believe this. I am totally trapped, losing it, hung over, feeling atrocious and now I’m stuck dealing with him, the guy I’m crushing on, the guy I slept with last night when I was out of my mind drunk. I can’t do it. Heat flushes over me and I push past him toward the room down the hall to gather my clothes. If we’re leaving, the sooner the better because I can escape him and this situation.

  I gather my clothes off the floor, socks, my bra, stuffing it into the pocket of my jacket, along with my phone. Jared is right behind me now, gathering his clothes and we’re silent. What can be said? Finally I plop down on the bed, facing away from him, waiting for him to finish getting dressed. He’s taking his sweet time with his belt and shoes, pulling his shirt over his head and finally he comes to stand beside me.

  “Listen, I have to say this. I can’t avoid it,” he says, looking at me and I keep my eyes averted. I cannot look him in the face right now. “There was some blood on my leg, did I hurt you?” he asks and I actually do look up, surprised by this turn of events. “Please tell me I didn’t hurt you? I think I remember you saying yes, that you wanted it and we were both really drunk,” he’s pleading with me now, brown eyes clear and sincere.

  “No, you didn’t hurt me. I was a virgin,” I say, facts spilling out of me against my will, deadpan. He starts at these words and grips my shoulder, turning me to face him.

  “I’m sorry, Victoria, I’m really sorry,” he says earnestly.

  “Don’t be sorry,” I reply. “It’s nothing, not a big deal.”

  “Not a big deal, Victoria, that is not how I would have treated you if I had known,” he replies, forcing me to look at him again.

  “I’m sorry for the things I said last night. I had no idea. I’m still not sure I can believe it. You were a virgin?,” he says, shaking his head.

  “Believe it,” I reply, leaning back onto the bed. “Now take me home.”

  I’m lost in thought in his car, not talking to him, staring out the window. The silence is thick with unspoken words. Questions I want to ask, things he wants to say, but neither of us says anything. I’m detached, as if this is not really happening. Finally I force myself to break the silence.

  “Did we use protection? I need to know,” I ask, arms crossed, still facing out the window. I can feel him flinch in the seat next to me. A hot flash blazes over me like a forest fire. He hadn’t thought of it, he hadn’t noticed a condom. Oh God no...

  “I hadn’t thought about that,” he says in reply. “I don’t know. I didn’t see any condom or remember using one. I usually have one in my wallet, so I can check. Let’s go back to my place for a few minutes?” he asks, looking over at me. I nod, looking straight ahead. Whatever he wants. I’m tired, useless right now, too useless even to panic. It’s a low lying feeling in me, a quivery anxiety at the baseline of my existence, like I’m waiting for some kind of major catastrophe to hit. I guess I’m waiting for the bomb to detonate and I have a feeling I don’t have long to wait.

  We pull up to his apartment and he opens the door and we’re inside now. I sit on his couch, awkwardly staring straight ahead again. Everything is like slow-motion now, the opposite of last night. He sits down next to me and opens his wallet. He reaches into the tiny bottom pocket underneath his debit and credit cards and pulls out…a condom. It’s in the wrapper, not used.

  “Jesus,” he says, flinging his wallet and the condom onto the floor. “Fuck.”

  We sit there for a moment. Silence. I’m sick, really sick with worry, heavy, like a boulder in my belly. A physical manifestation of how seriously I’ve fucked up. Pregnancy. STD. FUCK. FUCK!

  “Are you on birth control?” he asks, looking over at me, eyes anguished.

  “No,” I reply and lean back against his couch. Tears start at the corner of my eyes and I cannot believe this. I am a fucking idiot. We sit there for a while, when finally he turns toward me.

  “Uhh…I could take you down to Health Services and you could get the morning after pill?”

  “Fine,” I reply and we get up off the couch, tears streaming down my face. He stops for a moment, fully seeing my face now and pulls me toward him.

  “It’s okay. I’m sorry,” he says and pulls me into his arms, hugging me. I lay my head against his shoulder. This is awkward, this is fucked up. I cannot believe this is my life. This is not how I imagined my first time having sex.

  #######################

  Was it all a fantasy, a dream, a hallucination? I can hardly believe I had lived. Did I die? Did you show me the world? Did I look in your eyes? I had you at my hot burning fingertips. Can’t you speak to me now? Say a word? Say my name? Would you do it again? Would you scream my name, show me the world? Could I die and yet live? Could I over-exaggerate? Could you be under the influence? Can I scream your name and show you my world? Can I know you? Am I allowed to breathe, to live? Show you myself half naked? Did I create you? Let you breathe? Make you mine? Was I trashed, totally drunk? For one second you became mine, in my hands. For a second in time and when that second was gone, so were you. Leaving my world. Saying goodbye, like it was weird already. Was I insane? Under the influence of you? What did I think? Was I alive at that point? Were you?

  I didn’t think at all. I felt.

  I know you want me physically, especially when you’re drunk. I’ve seen it in your eyes and in your touch. I turn you on. This much I know. But I can’t take up your time, your space, your energy. I’m no one to you.

  ***

  A chemical exchange, fluid in motion

  like waves to sand

  A perfect liquid line

  Not straight, but curving in and out to your touch

  Interlocking pieces molded into space

  My fingertips trace your contour

  One stroke, long and unbroken

  A strong impression of heat

  Two solid objects, melting

  Into one another and out of one another

  Forming shapes enflamed in red

  March 13, 2005

  We have Chlamydia

  When he opens the door, 17 days after he last really saw me, I imagine how I appear. A girl, dark hair, tangled and wind-blown, skin very pale in the morning light, shoulders slumped, black rimmed eyes that are puffy, bloodshot and glittering with unshed tears.

  “Oh, hi,” he says, startled and then questioning. “What’s wrong?” eyes sweeping over my face, studying my expression. He frowns, pulling me through the open doorway, up the stairs and into his small apartment living room. He looks devastatingly good in jeans and a dark blue zip up NHU sweatshirt, smelling clean and fresh like he’s just had a shower, which makes me feel even worse. He finally turns to face me, questioningly, and my eyes tear up again.

  I look away, crossing my arms over my chest. I don’t want to be here. I can’t believe I have to tell him my news, my disgusting, cringe worthy, sickening news. It was all I could do to even get myself here and now I’m a mess, quivering, trying to hold back tears. I almost didn’t come at all. Plus it’s not as if we left things friendly last time. We had been civil at Health Services and then he dropped me at my car. That was it and even though I’ve seen him from a distance since then, he hasn’t seen me or really looked at me.

  “We need to talk,” I say, not wanting to tell him the truth, yet wanting to scream at him at the same time. How could he have done this to me? I sort of blame him, but more than that I blame myself. Stupid, idiot Victoria, I’m such a dumb betch. I plop down on his couch, elbows on knees, chin in hand.
He stands in front of me, arms crossed, waiting. I look up at him for a moment and wince. This can’t be my life.

  “We have Chlamydia and here’s your fuckin prescription,” I say, throwing the piece of paper at him, not looking up, sulking teenager personified. I don’t want to see his expression, so I stare at his shoes. Grey and black Sauconys. They look new, shiny, surreally normal in my new topsy turvy world. Out of the corner of my eye I can see that he doesn’t even try to catch the 4x4 square of paper as it drifts to the floor. He’s just staring at me, apparently nothing to say.

  “What?” he finally asks, and I look up at him and see confusion first and then suddenly dawning realization as he gets what I’m saying. His face falls, brow clouding, hand moving to cover his jaw, rubbing his stubble. He starts to pace and I just sit there, rocking back and forth on the couch, fingers interlaced around my knees, wishing myself dead, wishing that this was not happening. He’s turned away when finally he speaks again.

  “You’re telling me that we have an STD? That you needed to come here and tell me because of what happened between us that night?”

  “Yes.”

  “Can it be cured? I don’t remember about these things,” he says, turning to look at me from the corner of his eye.

  “Yes, we take a pill, it goes away,” I say. I am without emotion right now, too beat down to argue or cry or even care what happens to me. All except for my eyes, which keep trying to betray me. Suddenly his body posture changes, shoulders tensing, muscles moving beneath his clothes, his neck somehow straighter now. Shit. Slouching dejection to tense pissed off fireball? He faces me, arms crossed tightly, sneering expression resurrected. It seems familiar now from the night we were together.

  “Am I the only one you’re visiting today with your little prescription, or is there a whole list of guys you have to see?” he accuses.

  “Oh fuck you, Jared. I did not come here to fight with you.” I reply, trying to be cool. Trying to accept that he hates my guts right now and thinks I’m a total skank-whore. I won’t cry in front of him. I can’t show him how much this hurts me.

  “Wow, you fucking did this to me and to think I used to believe…” he says, his harsh bite of laugher breaking the momentary silence and then under his breath, “You fucked with Goddamn Brad Winter, didn’t you?” His eyes are blazing, fists clenching. Is this de ja vu?

  “Exactly how did I do this to you, when I was a VIRGIN, asshole,” I grate back.

  “You’re full of fucking shit, Victoria. Keep telling yourself that if it makes you feel better, but clearly you’re the one who was fucking around with dirty, disgusting people like Brad,” he bites back, teeth bared.

  “Yeah…I conjured that blood out of thin air, that’s how much of a skilled liar I am,” I growl in a low voice. I’m not sure I have the energy to fight, but I am sure he has the desire to push me far enough that I might.

  “Maybe you were on your period. Shit...there are other reasons why that might have happened. Tell me right now…were you really a virgin or did you do this to me? Did you sleep with Brad Winter?” he demands.

  “We’ve already been through this, asshole, fuck off,” I reply tightly.

  “Fuckintellme again,” he snarls and it almost sounds like one word. He’s facing me now, hands in pockets, shoulders tense, straight on, wanting answers, demanding them. God he’s good looking when he’s angry, his brown eyes glinting, muscles tense, somehow powerful, physically so. And why do I have to notice? He’s being a Goddamned bastard!

  “I already told you the truth. I’ve never been with anyone. Out of the two of us, who has fucked more people ‘Mr. I dunno between 5 and 10’?” Clearly you had this and gave it to me, so, fuck you, Jared,” I seethe. I’m still not quite rising to the challenge of this brewing screaming match.

  “You’re such a fuckin liar! I’ve never noticed anything wrong and I’ve always used protection, plus with the way I’ve seen you act, God knows where you’ve been.”

  “Sure, yeah, you use protection every time, like when we did, right?” I snarl, leaning back on the couch now, boneless. I can’t believe he is pulling this shit with me. I’m silent for a minute just looking up at him, my mouth hanging open for a moment before I close it with a snap. I hadn’t been sure what to expect, but I hadn’t really counted on this. He’s turned away now and his back is very tense and he seems super pissed and larger than life. I feel a sick dread, heavy and real, like watching a car get totaled in slow motion…this…is… emotional wreckage. I wonder what he’ll say next. He turns again and leans over me on the couch, fists resting on top, staring down at me, his eyes hard in the bright lamp, like pure violence. I know he won’t hurt me, physically, but my emotions…are another matter altogether.

  “Tell me again how you’ve never been with anyone? How all the guys I’ve seen you with never fucked you. Tell me again Victoria how you were never with Brad,” he says with a tiny sarcastic grin.

  “Fuck OFF!!” I say, pushing my palms against his hard chest so he will let me get up. He doesn’t move at first, glaring at me and finally he does and I struggle to stand, facing him, tense now myself and starting to get really pissed. “I can’t believe you, you fuckin asshole. You’ve ruined my life, cocksucker. I hate you,” I yell.

  “Seriously? Seriously? That’s what you have to say? You’ve ruined several months of my life, playing fucking mind games. I hate you too,” he bites out, eyes blazing. “God, this was just what I needed after that fucking bitch, two in one year,” he says groaning.

  “What the hell does that mean?! Just tell me the truth, Jared… right now! Why does Brad piss you off? What is your fucking deal with me, calling me a slut? And who is this other fucking bitch?…God, fuck you, you make me...crazy!” I yell. I’m staring at him and he’s avoiding my eyes, standing there, arms crossed. Finally he looks up, sneering.

  “What is there to know about you, Victoria? You strip dance for guys, snort coke, drink like a fish, make out with different guys, fuck dance them on the dance floor, sleep with Brad Winter among other sketchy assholes. I mean seriously, you are a slut.” Point made. Shit. I’m stunned by this assessment. It really does make me sound like a slut. But I’m NOT a slut. I control my anger and laugh, low, sarcastic.

  “You’re such an asshole it fuckin amazes me. I’m amazed that you can stand there and tell me that whatever I’ve done in the past isn’t cool, but what you’ve done is fine. You’re just as bad as me. What kind of guy tries to sleep with a girl he just met an hour before in a one night stand? Apparently the kind of guy you are. So that’s okay, but what I’ve done isn’t? Basically you’re a man-whore,” I bite. He grins tightly at this, eyes snapping.

  “You didn’t seem to mind a few weekends ago. What kind of girl does that make you?”

  “I was a virgin and smashed out of my mind! Goddammit!!! You are fucking frustrating!…You know what…it’s not even worth the argument. You’re a bastard and you assume I’m a slut. That’s it. Why do I even bother talking to you? I have nothing to say to you.”

  “You know why you talk to me? Because that’s what sluts do, they try to get dick. But I’m a lost cause honey, maybe you’d better go talk to Brad.”

  “FUCK OFF JARED!” I rage, arms uncrossing, hands flung out. He’s pissing me the fuck off, I’m snapping with anger. My face feels hot and red and my fingernails are digging into my palms almost drawing blood. I could rip his head off right now! I’m fucking sick of his judging, his sly sarcasm, his damn “Mr. Superiority” expression, like he’s so much better than me. I could claw his damn eyes out!

  “What is your damage!? What the fuck did I ever do to you!? And what is your fucking problem with Brad? I mean, he’s a prick, like you, I know that, but I can’t figure out why you have such a problem with him specifically? Make some fucking sense, Jared!” I want to cry now, I can feel my eyes tearing up. How can he be this mean to me? How can we argue like this when all I want is to be with him. He laughs, sarcasm on overload.
>
  “My problem with Brad… you really want to know? It’s similar to the problem I have with you. It’s called being a fucking WHORE.”

  “Just fuckingtellme what he did to you!” I scream, arms crossed tightly again, legs quivering.

  “You want to know? I hate that fucking piece of shit with a passion! I fucking despise him with everything I am! But I have to pretend I don’t whenever I see him.”

  “Why, what the fuck, Jared. Why???”

  “No, you know what, I’m not gonna tell you. You just fucked up my life with your slutting STDs, I’m not gonna get all warm and fuzzy and gossip with you.”

  Now I do start to cry, a single hot teardrop that escapes my eye and travels down my face. I can’t yell anymore. I can’t fight. I’m done. I liked him, I wanted him, and this is it. It’s over. Forever. There is no point. I finally choke out, the words flowing away and I can’t grasp them back,

  “I’ve never been with anyone. Why do you keep making me repeat myself! Why do you think I ran away when you tried to have sex with me the first time at the frat? Do you think I wanted to do that? Do you think normal girls do that? I liked you, I really liked you and this is how it ends up? I waited for you to call me and you never did.

  “Jesus, my life sucks! First my ex-asshole Nick cheats on me because I won’t put out, then fucking jackass Brad ditches me because I won’t sleep with him, then finally I have sex for the first time with a guy I’ve been crushing on for months and I get an STD, seriously? WHAT THE FUCK!” I mock, exploding. I am a thousand tiny shards of embarrassed angry disbelieving me. And now the tears start to pour over my cheeks, breathless sobs breaking through. I turn my back to him because I can’t look at his surprised face anymore. I can’t stand how he is seeing me come undone. And then I feel a flash of sick hot panic blast over me like an icy wind that sends you shaking and shivering for cover. I need to leave.