4
In college I was still (for some reason) somewhat broken up over Jay, and, strangely, a bit more broken up over losing Justine, but not so broken up as to ignore all the fresh young boys, and girls, who found me to be the older, more experienced woman, who found this slight five or six year advantage I had over them seductive. I had already lived with a man. I had already had sex with another woman. I had already experimented with BDSM. My history was proudly known. I remembered the feeling of excitement I had when I was with Justine. I wanted more of that feeling. I hoped to find it in some of the new friends I wanted so desperately to make. I identified as a submissive now. My desires for sex and my longing for friendship were intertwined and confused, so that all of my classmates were potential friends, but they were all potential lovers as well. But still, I wanted a fresh start. I didn't want college to be like high school, where I had no social courage to make new friends, where I had poor grades, where I only had one boyfriend. I was determined to live life to its fullest in college. I was all alone. No parents. No Jay. No grocery store. It was just me and my newly discovered body and intellect.
One day I had a heated debate defending my paper on the artist Basquiat. I argued that Basquiat was made a victim of 1980's gallery culture which turned him into a primitivist, savage fashion statement of its very own. At one point I argued that an Esquire journalist's description of Basquiat as 'the first great African American painter' was false and a hippy of Indian descent in my class challenged me, saying, "Oh yeah? Then name another great African American painter."
To which I of course replied, with sass, "Um, I dunno. Jacob Lawrence?" The hippy looked at me and smiled, leaning back in his seat. He said nothing more to challenge me in class. I thought I'd won.
The hippy and I walked out of the room together after class was dismissed. He followed me hastily stuffing his papers into his binder. He was new to the class. A transfer student. I looked him over briefly.
"I didn't expect you to have an answer for me," he said.
"Yeah well, most people don't expect much from me," I said and started walking back to my room. I really didn't want much to do with this boy who didn't expect much from me. I was wearing low rise jeans and a ribbed tank top in electric blue. I remember now, because it was important, but at the time I was aloof: I was wearing a pink bra and the straps were peeking out. I was wearing a belt decorated with a large metal buckle that had a hammered finish to it with matching buttons all the way around the belt. It gave me a tough outer appearance, I thought, and accentuated the way my hips swayed as I walked... or so I liked to think. It seemed as though my hips didn't sway before. But I have to admit I was still most comfortable in my combat boots but I was hardly hiding my body. My breasts may have been of average size but I wore them pressed now, against my chest and pushed upwards, the skin of which was slightly translucent. You could see some of the bigger veins in them when I wore them this way.
"But then you said the exact painter I had in mind," said the hippy.
"Whatever," I said, still deeply offended.
"My name is Leif!" the hippy yelled after me as I walked away. "I was really into his Migration Series." I stopped. I turned around.
"Okay. So what do you want? Coffee? Ice cream? You're paying." I was interested in having a stimulating conversation and Leif was certainly most impressive looking, but something about him wasn't quite right. He displayed himself as a hippy. He wore a tie-died shirt, oversized ragged jeans barely hanging onto his ass by a braided leather belt, sandals that Jesus himself would have worn. But there was something suspicious. The locks in his hair were long, down to his hips, and slender. Very high maintenance, like they were done at a salon. His jeans were worn thin in all the wrong places, at his upper thigh, at his shin. As if they were purchased already worn thin at one of those expensive stores that tailors to rich kids and he just hadn't washed them. His shoes looked like they were the orthopedically correct sandals you pay hundreds of dollars for. This wasn't any old hippy I was going out to ice cream with. This was a trust fund hippy. My orientation leaders had warned me about them. They act poor but they're loaded. So after they dropped off their books and Leif offered me his arm, I took it with disdain. I was going to nail him in conversation. We went to a local ice cream shop. Leif ordered some kind of chocolate overload ice cream. I ordered something heavenly, I ordered something with coconut, cherries, chocolate, and vanilla. It was delicious. We both washed it down with some regular coffee.
"So I really like how he was influenced by the cubists," Leif said, attempting to continue our Jacob Lawrence conversation.
"No. You've got it all wrong. He wasn't influenced by the cubists at all. He said his style was cubist, but he was really influenced by the bold colors of Harlem," I had to explain, practically pointing my finger at Leif.
"I can see that. So where do you get your background in art from?"
"I don't have a background in art. I just research my papers thoroughly," I snapped, trying to be short with Leif and cut the conversation off, but licking my spoon outwardly at the same time. I must admit, I was beginning to notice some of Leif's finer attributes. The luxury of his hair. I could make out the outer lines of abdominal muscles through his worn thin tee-shirt, his broad shoulders. His curled eyelashes framing enormous eyes so dark brown they were nearly black. His skin was very dark and even toned across all the parts I could see. I wondered momentarily about the parts I couldn't see but then I caught myself.
"So what other artists are you interested in?" asked Leif.
"Why art? Why not feminism? Or film? Or politics? Why are we here? Why are you even talking to me?" I asked, defensively, rudely, leaning back in my chair, arms open. I was such a bitch but I was proud of my boldness. This man was no match for me, I thought as my eyes wandered down his tee-shirt. I think my back arched. I'm such a conscious gal, I licked my spoon again. There was a silence. I peered up from my coffee and batted my eyelashes just once. I ran my fingers through my hair. Leif waited to speak.
"Because you're beautiful. Because you're smart. Because you're a bitch, a little fiery. I like that," said Leif. I have to say I was flattered by being called a bitch. Justine liked to call me a bitch. That was the last straw. We couldn't get back to campus fast enough. No sooner had we closed the door to Leif's dorm room had we started groping at each other with our hands and with our mouths. Leif's hands pawed at that spot at which my thighs curved out. He pulled at my pink satin bra straps. He pressed my breasts harder against my chest. I ran my hands along his collarbone and then his chest, down his sides, feeling his ribs and his abdominals. I ran my hands down to the worn thin back pockets of his jeans, he seemed firm all over. My hands wandered underneath his shirt and his skin seemed thick. I bit his neck as if to ingest a morsel of his flesh. He bit me back on my earlobe and pulled off my tank top on the way to his bed.
His room was decorated with various trendy political posters and intricate wall hangings. The wall hangings covered the windows. The whole room felt closed off from the rest of the world, dark, warm, almost womb like with the sunlight shining through a red wall hanging. I pushed Leif onto the bed and he obediently sat down onto it. I pushed him into the lying down position and crawled on top of him. I grabbed his mouth by the jaw, his cheeks in my hand (how Justine used to grab me), and kissed him. He kissed me back hungrily.
"No," I told him.
"What?" Leif said, seriously concerned about the status of his dick, sitting up on his elbows.
"I'm... I have to tell you something." I think I stuttered.
"Do you have herpes?" asked Leif.
