Confessions of an Ex-Girlfriend

by Lynda Curnyn

  Whatever strange emotions I was feeling, not even the cool night air that blasted me in the face once we hit the streets could drive it away. In fact, I found myself nodding eagerly in response to his suggestion that we go back to his place. Just for a quick look, he said. Apparently Max had a killer one-bedroom with a wood-burning fireplace, all for $1,500 a month. It simply had to be seen to be believed.

  Yeah, right.

  We walked there arm in arm, my head resting on his shoulder as if we’d been together for two years rather than two nights. I couldn’t help but relax into the warmth of him. He felt so solid. So male. And I suddenly realized how much I missed a good, solid male.

  Then I saw the apartment.

  With one flick of the switch, the room glowed with warmth and color. And I found myself standing in the kind of expansive living space a downtown dweller like myself could only dream of.

  “It’s wonderful,” I breathed, turning to look at Max.

  His smile was smug, as if he himself had laid every brick in the fireplace that sat cozily on the far wall. “Let me give you a tour.”

  He proceeded to lead me through a kitchen. Not a line of appliances against a wall or stuffed into a alcove that had once been a closet. But a full-blown, actual eat-in kitchen, complete with table and chairs and—even rarer—a window. I swallowed hard, speechless as he took my hand and pulled me toward the pièce de résistance.

  The bedroom.

  Vaulted ceilings, a wall of windows and a bed so beautifully made up in blues in grays, I might have suspected he was a bit light in the loafers—except for the purely predatory look I saw in his eyes when I turned to look at him once more, my mouth agape.

  I wanted to sleep with him. With all of it—the wood-burning fireplace, the eat-in kitchen, the twenty-foot ceilings. I was in a state of pure, unadulterated lust.

  “Can I get you something to drink?” he asked, breaking the tension and allowing me to get a grip on my senses. “I think I might even have a bottle of Merlot, since that seems to be your poison of choice this evening.”

  “Great,” I said, meekly following him back through the kitchen in an effort to keep myself from crawling into the cozy little bed and begging Max to make love to me until my name was added to the lease.

  “Have a seat in the living room,” he said. “There are some CDs in the rack by the fireplace. Pick something out.”

  I did as he asked, enjoying the fact that he put me in charge of the music selection. I needed something to grab on to, to help me gain control. But as I began to browse through Max’s CDs, I found myself spiraling further into the unknown. I didn’t recognize anything in his collection. All he seemed to own were obscure British imports of bands I never heard of, and classical recordings, which I knew virtually nothing about.

  Finally I spied a Billie Holiday CD and grabbed it. Why not? It was romantic in some ways. So what if it was the blues? It somehow seemed…appropriate, I realized as the first strains of “Lady Sings the Blues,” wafted silkily from the speakers. Yes, I thought as I seated myself carefully on the sofa, I was ready for whatever Max had on his mind. And I was pretty sure I knew what that was.

  Confession: Reader, I slept with him.

  When Max returned with two glasses in hand, I had managed to transform myself into the kind of cool and courageous chick who felt perfectly at ease in a hot guy’s apartment. I had even kicked off my slides and slid down deep into his sofa, though my insides quivered a bit at the sight of him standing before me, his look speculative once more.

  “Billie Holiday. Nice choice,” he said, handing me a glass and seating himself right beside me.

  I had barely taken a sip before Max took the glass from my hand and pulled me into his arms for a kiss so sexy yet so tender it was oddly…heartbreaking.

  I did the only thing I could. I brought things up a notch. I couldn’t help myself. The tenderness was too much to bear, and the only way I could fight it was by ravishing his mouth, nipping savagely at his lips. His eyes widened in surprise, then he responded in kind, and soon enough, my bra was on the floor next to my T-shirt and Max was easing me into a reclining position.

  “I need to feel you,” I said, yanking his T-shirt up and pressing myself against him. I was blind in that moment, though I noted vaguely once he was bare-chested that he was a little on the skinny side, but toned, athletic. Solid. It was all I needed.

  Apparently Max needed more. “Let’s go into the bedroom,” he breathed in my ear, and I answered by coaxing his tongue into my mouth and sucking hard. He groaned and got up, pulling me with him, past that beautiful brick-covered wall, through the spacious kitchen and into that plush, inviting bed.

  I suddenly couldn’t remember the last time I had smelled a man’s scent against cool, crisp sheets. All I knew was that it felt incredibly good to lie in Max’s bed. With a quick kiss, he left me there temporarily while he shucked his jeans. I felt a momentary panic at the sight of his narrow hips and his—oh God—Fruit Of The Looms. He suddenly looked so foreign to me, unfamiliar. This body, hairless, gaunt and suddenly strange to my eyes, was one I did not know. It was as if my muddled brain were expecting someone else, someone familiar…someone like…Derrick.

  I closed my eyes against the thought, waiting for the weight of Max, the feel of his tongue in my mouth once more, his hands roaming over me. It did feel good, after all. I will not lie. I was attracted to Max Van Gelder in a way that went beyond his surprisingly narrow body and somewhat clumsy hands. Allowing him to slide both my jeans and panties down my legs, I decided to let things run their course.

  And when things had reached some sort of fevered pitch for Max—I was aroused myself, though something had been muted inside me—I watched stoically while he slid off those Fruit Of The Looms and fumbled in the nightstand for a condom. I had all those giggly little thoughts about the ridiculous look of a man’s cock covered in latex—not that it was a bad cock, somewhere above my lifetime average and maybe even slightly larger than Derrick’s—take that, you bastard!—and waited patiently while he poked and prodded at me, attempting to find the place nature had put in the same spot on every woman yet most men couldn’t find on the first try.

  Suddenly he was inside me, staring at someplace on the pillow beneath my head, a look of relief on his features. He began to move, slowly at first, as if the action caused him more pain than pleasure. Initially I felt a little strange myself, staring up at this man I barely knew as he pounded away at me in some heightened state of pleasure I was not yet privy to. And my feelings must have shown on my face, for he suddenly closed his eyes.

  I watched him for a few moments, studying his features and wondering how they had suddenly turned so vulnerable-looking they made me want to cry. But I didn’t cry. Hell, I was having sex. So I did what every single girl must when she found herself pleasantly engaged with a man she found attractive and willing, if not perfectly suited. I shut my eyes. And enjoyed myself.

  For the friction had started to warm me, the feel of him between my thighs began to excite me. I will admit, I did for a moment imagine it was Derrick above me, sweating and grunting and acting like his efforts would somehow save the world. And though the memory thrilled me, it was only a momentary thrill, followed by a seething anger that I could banish only by focusing on the friction once more. C’mon, my brain screamed. “Harder,” I heard myself cry, just like one of those women in the porno flick Derrick brought over once, hoping to spice things up between us.

  And with one ear-shattering groan from Max, it was over. Oh, not for me. No, no, no, don’t go thinking I got so lucky. The only reason I knew it was over was that foreign and now very sweaty body was limp on top of mine, which was still tingling hopefully, unaware that there was nothing to hope for anymore.

  Suddenly he lifted his head, a goofy grin on his face as he looked down at me. “Wow. That was amazing.”

  I smiled back, deciding to swallow my disappointment and face the moment bravely. Besides, when I looke
d up into those satiated features, I saw the old Max again. The one I found so attractive, in that intellectual New York guy kind of way. I even liked him again. More than seemed warranted, judging by the outcome of this particular sexual encounter.

  Then came the fatal question. “Did you, uh…?”

  “Oh, yes,” I said instantly, batting away the voices that immediately began protesting in my head. I don’t know why I lied. Maybe I wanted to believe it was true, that I had found some kind of satisfaction with this man who was so perfectly right for me, yet suddenly so impossible to…to love.

  He smiled, his relief evident. “I was a little worried there. I didn’t, uh, last very long….” Then he chuckled. “Guess it’s been a while.”

  I smiled at that, supremely glad to learn that Max Van Gelder wasn’t some Upper East Side stud.

  He kissed my lips, then touched the back of his hand to my face, his eyes glancing down at our bodies still entwined as he said, “Don’t worry. It will get better. Once I get to know your body, I mean.” That hand moved from my cheek and slid down my breast, coming to rest at my waist. “Every woman is different. And I don’t know where you’re…uh, sensitive.”

  By the time his gaze came back to mine, I realized he had already found my most sensitive spot—my heart. He was making me promises. Promises of next time that I suddenly wanted desperately to believe in. I looked up at his face, the face that had lured me here, and I tried hard to imagine it as part of my life. Images of us flashed through my mind, walking hand in hand through Central Park, sharing coffee and intimate conversation at the Peacock, dancing at my mother’s wedding while Grandma Zizi looked on with pride and joy. Suddenly it all seemed possible. That Max could be The One. That I could fall in love again.

  Still, I decided not to spend the night. It didn’t feel like the right thing to do. Besides, I hoped, by making an early escape and leaving him longing for more, to preserve some of the magic that might have been dispelled by my having given it up on date two.

  When I announced my plans to leave a short while later, Max didn’t make any argument, and something pinged ominously inside me. I tried to disregard the feeling as I crawled out of his bed and began gathering the clothes strewn around his apartment, all the while gazing at his cozy kitchen, the charming fireplace and other accoutrements as I passed them, as if committing it all to memory. Stop that! my mind screamed. You’ll be back. Though I grew more and more uncertain of this as I slid into my clothes and reentered the bedroom, where Max was already engrossed in a book that I had seen lying on his bedstand earlier.

  Because he seemed bent on doing the right thing, he threw on his clothes and walked me downstairs, stood with me in the chill of the early-morning hour and hailed me a cab. We didn’t say much, and I assumed it was because neither of us wanted to spoil the sudden intimacy that had sprung up between us. I tried not to think that it might be because we had already said everything we needed to say to each other for tonight. Or any other night, for that matter.

  “I’ll call you,” he said as a cab pulled up, and the words chilled me for some reason. Maybe because I had thought it was understood and thus unnecessary to say. And maybe because I realized I was wrong.

  After a quick, hard kiss that seemed more like an awkward bumping of noses, I slid into the cab and headed home, feeling more alone. I was feeling more alone than ever.

  Confession: Things could definitely get worse.

  “You slept with him?” Jade said with disbelief as we sat across from one another at breakfast. Since the weather was beautiful, we went to French Roast and took a table outside. I had made my confession mere moments after we had placed our order with the waitress, hoping Jade might find some positive angle to this whole thing. But I realized my mistake once I saw her reaction. And now, with the bright morning sunlight flooding our table, there was nowhere to hide my dismay.

  “What? As if you’ve never slept with a guy on the second date….”

  “Not if I was really interested in the guy,” Jade said, putting down her coffee cup and sliding a cigarette out of the pack on the table.

  “Who says I’m interested in Max?” I replied defensively.

  She paused in the middle of lighting her cigarette, eyebrows raised.

  “All right, so I fucked up. Okay?” Suddenly I felt ill. “He’s not going to call again, is he?”

  “I don’t know, Emma. He might. But it probably won’t be because of your sparkling conversation. It’s really hard to go back and do the whole getting-to-know-you thing once you sleep with a guy.”

  “I don’t think Max is like that. Besides, he did say something about how great the sex would be when he got to know my body better. Which implies at least a few more dates. Or sexual encounters. Whatever you want to call them.”

  Jade puffed on her cigarette. “Did he say this before his orgasm or after?”

  “After,” I said smugly.

  “Well, then, maybe he was being honest. Or feeling like he had to make some sort of promise. Did you come?”

  “Uh…no.”

  “Oh.” Jade glanced away, as if suddenly interested in the people passing by on the sidewalk.

  “What?” I asked, desperate for some sort of reassurance that I was not about to be blown off by Max Van Gelder. But Jade wasn’t about to give me any false hopes.

  “Well, he might have said that as a…consolation.”

  “Oh, please, Jade. He didn’t know I didn’t come. I…I told him I did.”

  Her eyes bulged, then she rolled them. “You’ve got a lot to learn, Emma.”

  Our food arrived then, and while I watched Jade stub out her cigarette and dig into her French toast, I suddenly felt no appetite at all for the pretty little plate of eggs Benedict before me. Max wasn’t going to call. I felt it in my bones. But I had felt that once before and he had called, I reminded myself. Maybe if I believed he wouldn’t, then Murphy’s Law would take effect and he would.

  Then another thought struck me: Did I want him to call?

  I immediately dismissed this one, as well as any other disparaging thought I might have had about Max Van Gelder during the course of our very brief relationship. After all, whether or not he was a great guy was almost beside the point. I needed him to call, even if I decided I never wanted to see him again. My ego demanded it.

  So when I came home from breakfast and discovered a big fat “O” on the message light of my machine, I felt the walls of my apartment closing in on me. Shouldn’t I have at least gotten a courtesy call after the milestone of last night? A “had-a-great-time-can’t-wait-to-see-you-again” acknowledgment? We’d had sex for crissakes. And I didn’t even attain orgasm. Hell, I deserved a dozen roses!

  I thought about calling Alyssa, then realized she was probably still busy falling in love with Richard all over again. Not that I wasn’t thrilled for her—I just couldn’t deal with someone else’s happiness at the moment.

  I decided to call my father instead. After all, I had to face the music some time, and it had been three days since Deirdre’s voice mail informing me that my father had fallen off the wagon once again.

  She picked up on the second ring. “Hello?”

  “Hey, Dee, it’s Emma.”

  “Hello,” she replied. I couldn’t detect any emotion in her voice: no anger, no disappointment. I was on safe ground so far.

  “How’s everything going?”

  “Fine. Your father’s in a rehab.”

  I sighed, then swallowed whatever bubble of feeling threatened. I had learned long ago that it was a waste of emotion to feel anything in the face of my father’s transgressions.

  “Drove him over to Rolling Pines this morning to start the detox program,” she continued, her voice stoical. “Thank God they had a bed for him.”

  My heart sank. This wasn’t the first time my father had willingly entered a rehabilitation center. In fact, his visits there had become yearly events, and I realized with dismay that this was actually his fourth st
ay at the Rolling Pines Recovery Center. I sighed. Since a midweek visit was not an option, I asked, “What time are visiting hours on Saturday?”

  “Ten to four. Though today is out because they don’t allow visitors the first couple of days—”

  “I know, I know,” I replied. I was way too familiar with the detox program at Rolling Pines. Three days of detox before they even allowed friends or family to visit.

  “Should I pick you up at the station next Saturday, then? Around noon?” she asked.

  After we had settled on a time, I listened while she let loose on my father, how she couldn’t keep the alcohol away from him, no matter how she tried. How their lives had fallen into some awful pattern not worth continuing. I couldn’t blame her for being angry. I wouldn’t even have blamed her if she told me she was leaving him. I hadn’t blamed my mother, either. Who could live with a man who cared so little for himself?

  With a promise to check in during the week and confirm train arrival times, I hung up with that same hollow feeling I always felt after one of my father’s episodes. Then I did what I always did in this situation: sealed it up inside until I felt nothing. Absolutely nothing.

  Moments later, the phone rang again. “I heard about your father,” my mother stated sadly on the other end. “Shaun called me.”

  I sighed, not wanting to get into things but knowing it was inevitable.

  “Are you okay, sweetheart?” she said.

  “I’m fine. Why wouldn’t I be? It’s not as if I’m surprised.”