Anatomy of a Boyfriend

by Daria Snadowsky

  “Well, Mom, I was intending to spend my highly anticipated and well-earned vacation with my boyfriend. But since my winter break has turned into a winter breakup, I guess I’m going to have to come up with a Plan B. Thanks for reminding me that I’ve just been dumped, Mom. How sensitive of you.”

  I run back to my room, lock the door, and flop down on the bed. I can’t hold it in anymore, and I start sobbing again.

  “Dom, it’s Dad. Please let me in.”

  “No,” I cry. “Leave me alone.”

  “Let me in, Dom. I’m not leaving.”

  “Jesus. Fine!” I scream as I open the door.

  He’s standing there with a small wooden lockbox. He says softly, “Dom, sit with me a minute. I want to show you something.”

  “Please, I want to be alone.”

  “Just look.” He closes the door behind him. “This won’t take long.”

  I grab a tissue and reluctantly plop down on the bed next to Dad. He lifts open the top of the lockbox and takes out a photograph.

  “Is that you?” I sniffle, pointing to a thin man with brown hair and a wide smile.

  “Yeah. I was twenty.”

  “Who’s that?” I point to a blonde who has her arms around Dad’s waist.

  “Sandra, the girl I was engaged to before your mom. We went to Florida State together.”

  I immediately stop crying. “You were engaged before Mom?” I study the image more closely. “Yech.”

  “C’mon, Sandy was attractive.”

  “Mom is so much prettier.” I study the woman, the woman Dad wanted before Mom. “So, why didn’t you marry her?”

  “I wanted to. We were together for five years, but she broke it off.”

  “Five years?”

  Dad nods. “At the beginning, we were crazy for each other. I never stopped being crazy for her, but she

  just grew apart from me, I guess.”

  After a silence I ask, “How long did it take for you to get over her?”

  “A while, and—I won’t lie, Dom—it felt like taking a bullet.”

  “Great,” I say dejectedly as I start picking at the new scabs on my legs. “Why did I have to love him so much if we’re not going to end up together?”

  Dad sighs as he shuts the box. “It’s one of life’s mysteries. What baffled me about Sandy was I wanted to be with her even though I could’ve made a list of a hundred good reasons why we were wrong together. Anyway, after she left, I realized that even though I couldn’t control my feelings, I had complete control over my actions. It hurt, but I chose to get out there again and see other women, and then I met the right woman. Whatever I felt for Sandy eventually went away.”

  “I just feel so stupid I’m in this situation at all. All the thoughts I’m having—it’s like I’m insane.”

  “You’re not, take my word for it. I know from my Sandy days what a roller coaster this is for you.”

  “Mom doesn’t get it, though. She’s never been through this.”

  “That’s true, and I feel kind of sorry for her.”

  I look at him incredulously. “You feel sorry for Mom that she’s never been heartbroken?”

  “In a way. She’s never experienced the big lows that make the big highs so much better.” Dad’s looking off into space now and pats the lockbox with his hand. Finally he punches my shoulder gently and says,

  “C’mon. Let’s go back to the table, and you should apologize to Mom for yelling. Remember, she just lost her mommy. She’s putting on a brave face, but you gotta be extra good to her.”

  “Yeah, okay.”

  “And don’t tell her about Sandra.” He pats the box again. “She doesn’t need to know.”

  “I won’t. And Dad?”

  “Yes, Dom?”

  I hug him. “Thanks.”

  Our fishing trip lasts only twenty minutes because I can’t stop regurgitating breakfast over the side of the boat. Then the next two days continue my vicious cycle of sporadic crying, puking, checking e-mail, writing e-mails I don’t send, hoping, wallowing, and bitching to Amy about Wes. I guess I’m testing her patience because she’s being unusually quiet on the phone, and I have to keep reminding her to give me

  her opinion.

  I muster the self-restraint not to call Amy on Christmas Eve, to give her a break. But she calls me a little after ten while I’m trying to go to sleep. I’ve already been in bed most of the day except a half hour for breakfast and a half hour for dinner, which my parents wouldn’t let me skip.

  “Hey, Ames,” I choke. “Merry almost-Christmas.”

  “Dom, I know you’re dealing with a lot and I’m so sorry, but I actually really need you right now. Can you come over?”

  “Well, what’s wrong?” I ask, looking at my alarm clock. “It’s late.”

  “ I’m late.”

  After a beat: “How late?”

  “Ten days.”

  “Holy shit, Ames.” In a flash I’m sitting up and my heart starts racing.

  “I’ve been late before, but never more than four or five days, so I’m officially freaking out, Dom.”

  “I thought you were using condoms.”

  “We do, but those things can break.”

  “Did you tell Joel?”

  “No. I don’t want to unless I’m sure.” Her voice cracks. “Even then I’m not sure if I’d tell him.”

  Within minutes I’m on my bike. It feels good to be outside moving again, though I’m amazed my muscles are still operating normally after forty-eight hours on my back. On the way to Amy’s I stop at the twenty-four-hour CVS, the same one where I bought condoms, lubricant, and dental dams in the past eight months. Today, I buy a pregnancy test.

  I wait on Amy’s Papasan chair while she uses the bathroom. Fifteen minutes pass before Amy admits she’s too scared to pee. I advise her to run the faucet and visualize a peaceful scene of gushing streams and waterfalls. After another ten minutes she manages to squeeze enough drops into a Dixie cup, into which she dips the test strip. I hold her hand for the next three minutes as we watch for the results to take shape. It’s bizarre to see Amy freaked out about something sex related.

  “Dom, what if I’m pregnant?” She undoes the clasp on her heart locket necklace and flings it against the shower curtain. “Fucking sperm!”

  “Let’s not worry unless there’s something to worry about.”

  Soon Amy’s holding the negative test strip to her heart and crying, “Oh, thank God! Thank God! Thank God! It’s a fucking Christmas miracle!” She grabs my hands and jumps up and down on her bath mat whooping for joy. “I have never wanted to be a nun as much as I do now,” she says finally.

  “I’ll believe that when I see it.” I laugh. “Anyway, it’s probably training for track that did it. Changes in exercise habits often throw menstrual cycles out of whack. You should see a doctor if you don’t get it soon, though.”

  “Oh, Dom,” she pants, fanning herself with her hands. “There’s no one at Amherst I could have gone through this with. You’re the best!”

  We hug, and I get her a cup of cold water from the sink. She downs the whole thing.

  “Thanks,” she says while refilling the cup. “I feel so much better.”

  “It’s okay. Honestly, as much as this sucked, it was actually kind of nice to have something on my mind other than you-know-who.”

  “Speaking of which,” Amy says as she wipes her eyes and sits on the toilet seat. “Now that I can stop being completely self-absorbed, how did today go? How’s your back?”

  I sit down too, on the edge of the bathtub. “It’s totally sore from all the barfing. Ever since it happened I can’t keep anything down.”

  Amy nods before taking another sip of water. “Remember how Mom said lovesickness is like a crash diet?”

  “Yeah, well, I’d rather chip away at my freshman fifteen in a healthy way. Biking here was the first exercise I’ve gotten since I hurt my knee.”

  “You should go biking again tomorrow. B
eing cooped up in your room all day’s not going to help you.”

  “I know, but at least it’s a foolproof way not to run into him.”

  Just then the Braffs’ living room clock strikes midnight. I motion for Amy to follow me back into her room, where I open my knapsack and hand her the art book I bought.

  “I was going to wrap it and give it to you tomorrow, but after you called I thought I’d bring it over now as a ‘congrats on not being p.g.’ gift, hoping it was a false alarm. And now that it’s officially Christmas—”

  “Oh, Dom! Thank you so much! Matisse is Joel’s favorite too.” As she flips through the pages her expression turns from ecstatic back to somber. “I, um—” She holds the book to her chest and looks at me guiltily. “I made your Christmas gift.”

  “You painted me something?”

  “It was an acrylic portrait…of you and, well…I assume you’d rather not have it now?”

  “Oh, Ames. I—” I cover my face in my hands as the tears come. “I feel so bad. I really don’t think I can look at it right now. I’m so sorry. I’m really touched you did that. He probably would have been too.

  Shit.”

  “It’s fine, Dom, I’m not offended. It wasn’t one of my best.” She laughs. “Anyway, after everything happened, I bought you something instead.” Amy opens her closet and hands me a wrapped box. “I

  thought it might help.”

  I start pulling at the bow, but Amy grabs my arm. “Actually, don’t open it until you’re home. And make sure you’re alone.”

  “Why?”

  “Trust me on this one.”

  At half past midnight I’m on my bed opening Amy’s present. The photograph on the packaging shows a man holding some kind of bulbous wand to his neck. I flip the box over—the label reads “personal massager.” I guess she really was concerned about my sore back.

  I plug the power cord into the outlet behind my nightstand and lie down on my stomach. I take the massager and run it over my shoulders and spine. It doesn’t feel that great and the buzzing noise is beyond annoying. I also can’t maneuver it without twisting my arms behind my back, which only makes the original pain worse. What a piece of junk.

  I switch it off and flip over, wondering how I can tell Amy I’m going to return it. But why was it important to her that I open this when I’m alone?

  Then it dawns on me. Like Amy really gives a damn about my sore muscles. God, I’m slow.

  But how can she actually expect me to use this now, after everything that’s happened? Because of Wes, I feel more miserable, hopeless, and perpetually nauseated than I knew was humanly possible.

  Grandma’s death is looming over my family. My heart rate still hasn’t returned to normal since Amy’s pregnancy scare. Not to mention the fact that my parents are in the very next room. I’ve never been less in the mood to attempt to have my first orgasm, with a vibrating piece of plastic, no less.

  On the other hand…maybe that’s the whole point. To do something separate from all of that, for myself and by myself. To take back control of my body in some small way.

  But what if I use this and it just doesn’t work? If man and machine both fail, maybe there really is something wrong with me. That will only make me feel worse.

  I’ll never know unless I try.

  I leap up and lock my door. Then I throw the empty box into the back of my closet where no one will see it. Next I go to my computer to load a playlist of MPs to drown out the buzzing sound. Finally I draw the shades over my window so no one in the neighboring apartment building can see in.

  I kick off my jeans and toss them on my desk chair. After a quick mental debate, I take off my undies too. I pull up my covers and tuck my gift in underneath. I decide to go for the gold, so I set the massager on high and rest it between my legs.

  Holy!

  My body scoots away so fast I bang up against the headboard. That was way too intense.

  I think I need a little buffer, so I decide to place the massager on the other side of the blanket. I also turn the setting down to the lowest level and take things more gradually this time. I set the massager on my calves first. Then my thighs. Then up over my pubic hair. Meanwhile, I slowly tickle my belly and breasts with my left hand. I can’t believe I am doing this! It’s like I’m seducing myself, and the thought makes me laugh out loud.

  I close my eyes and try to relax. After a few minutes I spread my legs and rest the head of the massager over my genitals. It feels promisingly good. There’s certainly something new and different here that I’d felt only hints of before with Wes—heavier tingles, and a deep pulsing. Soon a pleasant weakness spreads down my arms and legs. I definitely don’t want to stop.

  Almost instinctively, with my right hand I start to move the machine up and down, from the top of my pubic hair line to the sheets. It feels good everywhere, but I start narrowing in on one particular spot, right above my vagina. More tingles and pulses. My heartbeat quickens, and I hold my breath. Suddenly it’s as if a huge passageway opens up down there and all my body’s energy is racing toward it. Then, an eruption. My hips thrash up and down like crazy, and I grunt as if I have just been kneed in the stomach.

  I toss the massager aside as the heavenly pleasure continues to wash over my body. I moan again as I feel my lips and cheeks contort. After four or five seconds, the undulating spasms stop, and it’s like I’m…floating.

  After a moment of sheer shock, I begin to cry. Crying for everything—relief that I’m capable of coming; regret that I hadn’t done this to myself sooner; sadness I couldn’t share it with Wes; and more than anything, gratefulness that, for a few seconds at least, I forgot all about him. Then, out of all my feelings, one rises to the top. Curiosity. Could I do this again? And could it be even better?

  My tears subside as I reach for the massager. I conjure up my fantasy of being chased on the beach, except this time Amy’s stepbrother subs in for Wes. I sweep the machine up and down again and again, and just when it starts feeling amazing, I take it away, stop for a moment, and start again. I do this for what seems like forever until I finally let myself come.

  “Dom, you okay in there?” I hear Dad ask from the other side of my door.

  “Yeah,” I struggle to say. “I bumped my shin against the stupid desk. Sorry I woke you.”

  “Well, be careful. And Dom, can you turn down your music? Mom and I are trying to sleep.”

  “Sure, Dad.” I stifle a giggle as I stagger to the speakers.

  I unplug Amy’s present and hide it in the bottom drawer of my nightstand beneath a couple of bathing suits. Soon the clock strikes one, and I smile, realizing this has been an okay Christmas no matter what happens or how I feel in the morning. It’s like I have just discovered a new color, or have finally grown into my skin. I can’t blame Amy for being unable to describe an orgasm, because it’s so…all over the place, like a combination of receiving a foot massage, jumping on a trampoline, getting tickled, rolling downhill, and peeing after holding it in for three hours. Imagine all that concentrated into a few divine seconds. The human body really is incredible.

  Despite my newfound power, not one second of winter break passes without my wanting him back.

  Although I manage to ride my bike every day, my heart stops whenever I see a blue Explorer turn the corner. I’m constantly checking my cell phone to see if he called. And I write him dozens more e-mails—some angry, some apologetic, some just pure begging—which I have the sense never to send.

  When Mom comes into my room the night before I go back to Tulane and sees my eyes are red from crying again, she loses it.

  “That’s it, I just can’t take it anymore! It’s been three weeks and you’re still miserable! You’re so much better than this, Dommie. If he can’t see how wonderful you are, then he’s the one with the problem, not you!” She looks at me with doting but frustrated desperation. “I don’t want to sound harsh, honey, but cancel and move on, damn it !”

  I’m not mad at her. S
he just has no idea. It’s actually kind of cool that there’s an area of life where I’m actually more experienced than my own mother.

  “Mom. Everything you’re saying makes sense. Perfect sense. But what happened to me in the last year is something not based on sense.”

  “What’s it based on, then? What’s the solution?” Her voice is cracking.

  “I’m not sure, but I can’t automatically stop loving him.”

  “I just hate seeing my baby this way.” Tears start rolling down her cheeks, and she covers her face with her hands as she sits down on the bed. “And there’s nothing I can do to help you.”

  I sit down next to her and put my arms around her. I know what she’s really crying about.

  After a minute Mom blurts out, “I just miss her so much, Dommie.”

  “I know, Mom. I miss Grandma too.”

  “And I miss knowing you. I used to know everything you were going through back in high school. Or I thought I did. And now—”

  I hug her tighter. “Mom, you still know me. You didn’t lose both of us.” I hand her a tissue. “You know what Grandma would say to us if she were here, right?”

  She blows her nose and shakes her head. “What?”

  “Sit up straight.”

  We both laugh, and we do.

  New Orleans is its prettiest in April. It’s sunny but not too hot, breezy but not windy, and everywhere you go on Tulane’s campus, century-old oak trees shade the lush lawns. At any one time, dozens of students are amassed on the quads to socialize, study, or sunbathe. I’m walking across a quad myself when I hear a familiar voice behind me.

  “Hey, Cruella. I’m baa-ack.”

  “Calvin?” I swing around. He looks the same, though a new short haircut plays up his dimpled cheeks, which I never noticed before today. “Hey! Your semester’s over already?” I gesture to my armload of books. “We still have finals.”

  “Yep. Just flew in a couple days ago. I’m working for Res-Life this summer, so they’re already putting us up to get things ready.” He smiles. “I see you managed to survive without me.”