The man lying next to me is named Steve. He is from Connecticut. I don't know if he has a girlfriend. Or if he regularly lunches at Hooters. Or if there is a crusty sore on the end of his penis that keeps disappearing and reappearing. I do know that he is five years older than me (an older man!). He is also staying at the Sea Missile Motel in Cocoa Beach. He is here for a one-year reunion with his fraternity.
Fraternity: chicken wings, beef nachos, pepperoni pizza, alcohol, alcohol poisoning, kegs, khakis, backwards baseball caps, the Sports Illustrated swimsuit issue, date rape, gang rape, the word "dude," and initialed names like T.J. and A.J.
Really, am I retarded?
The manager of the Sea Missile looks like a porn star. He is tall and lean with dark brown hair and a thick mustache. I imagine his room at the motel has plush royal-blue carpeting, a waterbed with a mirrored headboard, and assorted bottles of aftershave. His name is also Steve and on the morning we checked in, I thought about what it would be like to have sex with him. Probably due to my poring over my father's vast pornography collection during puberty, my sexual fantasies involve macho men, strapping men who wear thick gold necklaces and have Playboy air fresheners dangling from the rearview mirrors in their beloved Monte Carlo SSs. Guys whom, in truth, I'd rather shoot myself in the face than part my legs for. I'm smart enough to know that if I were ever to let one of them inside of me, they would look past me, talk to my tits, stomp on my feelings. I keep these men safely in my head.
The Steve lying next to me is not macho. He looks like a boy.
I do not want to be here when my frat lover wakes up.
He has long, dark eyelashes, no facial hair and a soft, round chin. His shoulders are narrow and his chest is somewhat concave, as if he has scoliosis. He is curled up behind me and I can feel his deep restful breath on my neck. His knees are poking into the backs of my legs and his toenail is planted into my right foot. He has let himself go, pressing his weight against my body as if I am a bookend.
I lie still for hours, anxious to see light on the horizon. I am looking forward to the morning, but at the same time I am dreading it. It feels like I have been awake all night. I am very much here in the moment. I can hear and smell and feel everything. I think my foot is bleeding.
When the sky turns from bluish-black to muted yellow, I decide to return to the Sea Missile. I do not want to be here when my frat lover wakes up. I'm too afraid to see how this situation will play out. Will he size me up and decide I'm a fat chick? Or will he thank me and then tell his fraternity brothers about the tight fuck he had?
I figure it is best to get up and leave him before he leaves me.
I walk back to the motel room and knock on the door, and my friend Leah, who still has her hymen intact, laughs when she sees me. Apparently she wasn't worried that I'd been abducted.
"Where were you?" she asks. Her eyes are wide and lively as if she's just snorted crushed SweetTarts.
I tell her I spent the night on the beach. And that I lost my virginity.
"No, sir!" she says, swatting me on the shoulder.
I push her into the bathroom, close the door, and sob into a thin, grayish washcloth.
"My God," says Leah, her eyes suddenly watering. "Did you get raped?"
"No," I say. My face is red and wet. A small snot bubble forms out of my left nostril and pops. Leah laughs and slaps me on the shoulder again.
She wants to know everything. What was it like? How did it feel? Did it hurt? Did I like it? Am I sore? Was there blood? What all did I do? Did I give him a blowjob? Did he finger me? Did he eat me out? Where is he?
When I tell her I left him asleep on the beach, she hits me again and howls.
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