My best college liaison (and yes, I'm using a pretentious word for it, because it makes the whole thing seem less slutty) was with Yoga Boy.
I think his name was Trey, but it was actually something much more complicated and exotic like Treyonasani, or something.
It was something that sounded dinosaur-ish, but hot at the same time.
We met, and there was an instant attraction.
He had an apartment on the East Side near Thayer Street with a living room that had a giant television screen hooked up to his computer, and another computer that was always playing an episode of Desperate Housewives.
He'd look at it and say--"I find it fascinating."
I think he was studying physics and contemplating Teri Hatcher just blew his mind.
The television screen always featured that laser show that your computer has as a screen saver, but I believe he designed the whole thing. Moby-esque music was always playing whenever I'd go there.
There was no couch or chair or anything that resembled furniture, and yet the apartment seemed incredibly cool--like the lair of a super villain who has no time to sit or eat or make something in a microwave.
His bedroom had a mattress in it and nothing else. It was lying on the floor, and as soon as I saw it, I thought--Okay, I totally can't sleep with this guy. I can't have sex on a mattress on a floor. I can't be that cliche.
Oh, but I was. I was that cliche.
And it was amazing.
We started a--Well, I guess it would be considered friends with benefits, but in no way was he my friend.
I would never call him to ask for a ride when my car broke down, or talk about awards shows, or discuss my cheese addiction (which was, at that point, still in its infancy).
It's not that we didn't want to get to know each other, or develop a deeper connection. It's just that every time we were within two feet of each other, we somehow found ourselves sprawled out on his yoga mat debating whether or not it was a big deal to close the curtains or if his Bohemian neighbors would actually find what we were doing "organic" and "pure."
About that yoga mat and his nickname--he would always call me after yoga, and I would always go right over.
I know very little about yoga, but the idea of him going from bending and stretching straight to bending and stretching with me was enough for me to cancel whatever plans I had and race to be with him.
At one point, I had myself convinced that I was in love with him. That our relationship was just like Julianne Moore's and Ralph Fienne's in "The End of the Affair" except it wasn't wartime, and neither of us was married or British.
I didn't talk about him with any of my friends--partly because I felt guilty about having a purely physical relationship with someone and partly because it didn't fit the perception I believed other people had of me: The Dorky Academic Non-Sexy Guy.
Oh, and it made the whole thing feel dirtier, and at that point, I figured--Why not?
The thing is, however, whenever you have a relationship like that with someone that attractive, and nobody knows about it, you start to wonder if it's really happening.
You go over their house, you engage in passionate, intense whatever-you-want-to-call-it for hours, and then you go home, and pass out.
The next morning you wake up and think--Did that really happen?
It's like being a really slutty superhero.
When spring rolled around, Yoga Boy graduated from Brown, and moved to the Midwest.
We still texted for awhile, but then those trickled down to a "Happy Holidays" once a year around Christmas.
I still think about him from time to time, but I can't say I really miss him. I'ts hard to miss someone that you didn't really know at all. I guess I would miss him in the same way that I miss roller-blading.
It was good exercise, but there was always the risk of getting hurt.
As metaphors go, that might seem like a stretch, but what you don't realize is--
One time we wore roller-blades, and it was pretty awesome.
That's all.
I think his name was Trey, but it was actually something much more complicated and exotic like Treyonasani, or something.
It was something that sounded dinosaur-ish, but hot at the same time.
We met, and there was an instant attraction.
He had an apartment on the East Side near Thayer Street with a living room that had a giant television screen hooked up to his computer, and another computer that was always playing an episode of Desperate Housewives.
He'd look at it and say--"I find it fascinating."
I think he was studying physics and contemplating Teri Hatcher just blew his mind.
The television screen always featured that laser show that your computer has as a screen saver, but I believe he designed the whole thing. Moby-esque music was always playing whenever I'd go there.
There was no couch or chair or anything that resembled furniture, and yet the apartment seemed incredibly cool--like the lair of a super villain who has no time to sit or eat or make something in a microwave.
His bedroom had a mattress in it and nothing else. It was lying on the floor, and as soon as I saw it, I thought--Okay, I totally can't sleep with this guy. I can't have sex on a mattress on a floor. I can't be that cliche.
Oh, but I was. I was that cliche.
And it was amazing.
We started a--Well, I guess it would be considered friends with benefits, but in no way was he my friend.
I would never call him to ask for a ride when my car broke down, or talk about awards shows, or discuss my cheese addiction (which was, at that point, still in its infancy).
It's not that we didn't want to get to know each other, or develop a deeper connection. It's just that every time we were within two feet of each other, we somehow found ourselves sprawled out on his yoga mat debating whether or not it was a big deal to close the curtains or if his Bohemian neighbors would actually find what we were doing "organic" and "pure."
About that yoga mat and his nickname--he would always call me after yoga, and I would always go right over.
I know very little about yoga, but the idea of him going from bending and stretching straight to bending and stretching with me was enough for me to cancel whatever plans I had and race to be with him.
At one point, I had myself convinced that I was in love with him. That our relationship was just like Julianne Moore's and Ralph Fienne's in "The End of the Affair" except it wasn't wartime, and neither of us was married or British.
I didn't talk about him with any of my friends--partly because I felt guilty about having a purely physical relationship with someone and partly because it didn't fit the perception I believed other people had of me: The Dorky Academic Non-Sexy Guy.
Oh, and it made the whole thing feel dirtier, and at that point, I figured--Why not?
The thing is, however, whenever you have a relationship like that with someone that attractive, and nobody knows about it, you start to wonder if it's really happening.
You go over their house, you engage in passionate, intense whatever-you-want-to-call-it for hours, and then you go home, and pass out.
The next morning you wake up and think--Did that really happen?
It's like being a really slutty superhero.
When spring rolled around, Yoga Boy graduated from Brown, and moved to the Midwest.
We still texted for awhile, but then those trickled down to a "Happy Holidays" once a year around Christmas.
I still think about him from time to time, but I can't say I really miss him. I'ts hard to miss someone that you didn't really know at all. I guess I would miss him in the same way that I miss roller-blading.
It was good exercise, but there was always the risk of getting hurt.
As metaphors go, that might seem like a stretch, but what you don't realize is--
One time we wore roller-blades, and it was pretty awesome.
That's all.
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