Screw Everyone: Sleeping My Way to Monogamy (11 page)

He said he was totally in, and we agreed to meet at the Double Deuce bar after class. I planned an outfit around my leather cap, adding bleached jeans, a purple velvet blazer, and chunky high boots. Unfortunately, I’d let myself get caught up in the excitement and overlooked one very important thing about acid: It doesn’t make you touchy-feely or amorous at all. Heady and freaked out, sure, but it is the furthest thing from a sexy drug. We should have met up at the planetarium.

As the drug hit, Ryan went into philosophizing mode, relishing each word as it came out of his mouth like it was a hunk of conversational caramel.

“If Nietzsche was right and there’s no such thing as
truth
, because my truth is different from your truth, then this is one kind of beer to me, but it’s completely something else to you. Think about it.”

I nodded, but I’d started the trip with a specific goal in mind, and the effects of the acid only cemented my purpose and made it more urgent.

“There is no such thing as objectivity,” he continued. “We can never be anything but subjective. Ever.” He looked at me. Even with a strong chemical moving through my bloodstream, I wasn’t that interested in this discussion. Ryan continued on an intellectual rampage about how anthropological writing was about as useful as literary criticism, while I fixated on the task of how I was going to get him to kiss me. At that moment, I didn’t desire for him to kiss me, I just needed it, like it was an item on a scavenger hunt. Locking lips with him would also have the side benefit of shutting him up.

Before our third beer, I lied and said, “All these people are kinda wigging me out. Do you wanna walk back to my place? It’s closer than yours.” His eyes were two huge black pupils that seemed to spiral into outer space.

“Totally,” he replied. Then he said my face had a pretty neon outline around it.
Your face is pretty
would have worked for me, but we were getting closer.

In my sparse white bedroom, decorated only with a couple of postcards and one two-dollar deli plant, we lay propped up on pillows on my futon, listening to Tom Waits. Ryan was . . . still talking. He wanted to review the history of civilization in the confines of my room, starting with Greco-Roman times, and I wanted to reenact a Bacchanalian ritual. I edged over ever so slightly so our thighs were touching, hoping that if our bodies came close enough together, magnetic forces would take over. I felt nothing. I couldn’t sense any flirty vibes coming off him,
and with the acid, you’d think I’d actually be able to
see
them. As he continued with his commentary, now about how eyesight is the most complex example of cellular division, it struck me that he might not be that into
me
because he was too into himself. I was a mere prop in his solo trip.

Eventually the drug started to wear off, and our eyes flickered with fatigue. It was 1:00
AM
, and one thing was clear through my fading LSD-tinted contacts: It wasn’t going to happen with Ryan. He was a stubborn and loquacious research subject. Our parched lips briefly touched before he left, the kind of kiss you get from a confused third cousin. This fieldwork was going to be more challenging than I’d anticipated . . . and soon I’d need to apply for a research grant. Ryan never gave me the five bucks for his portion of the acid. My mother would say, “That’s how the rich stay rich.”

Back in anthropology class, I spent the entire lecture intently studying every other single male specimen in the class, sizing them up, ranking them, and mentally pie-graphing the results like I did back in Cheryl’s basement. In my kinship chart, I narrowed down the criteria to two categories: my general interest and percentage chance of it actually happening. I needed to cut my teeth on some surer bets. My top two prospects: the supernerdy redhead Kieran, because he looked like the male version of the sexy librarian and might be a vivacious animal under that maroon cardigan; and the mildly exotic Ramon, a Middle Eastern–looking boy with a bumpy nose who spoke perfect Quebecois French. I’d pursue them in that order of difficulty. Screw waiting around to get roofied at an Omega-Delta-Who-Cares keg party; I was handpicking my fraternity.

I got Kieran into bed immediately. It was almost too easy, and he was too thrilled and too thankful, like I’d granted his Make-A-Wish. I surely wasn’t his first, but I was one of four. His inexperienced hands almost shook as they touched me, and the sex itself remained in its earliest stage of development: very perfunctory with virtually nothing in it for me. All I got was a mild workout. I waved good-bye while he was still in bed, dazed in his tighty-whities, and bought myself a coffee on my way home so I could get some postcoital studying done. Nothing is a bigger turnoff than someone who is overly grateful.
Blech
.

Next, I asked Ramon out for a drink. He complimented my leather cap, and I invited myself back to his apartment. Things went so much faster and smoother when I took charge of the date. Ramon turned out to be so nice that I wanted to go out with him just to see if I could make him angry. If he were in a tribe, it would be with the levelheaded hunters. He was also some sort of genius who’d already obtained a computer science degree and had returned to school to get an anthropology degree, for fun! If his idea of a good time was getting a second bachelor of arts, I was about to show him another dimension. He also owned a business—some spacey company that made lasers or photons or luncheon meat or something.

Ramon didn’t have any roommates, but he certainly knew how to entertain. Once we were in his place he swiftly moved us from a glass of wine in his kitchen to something a little stronger in his bedroom. What a relief it was to be with someone experienced. There was no discussion and no anxiety emanating from his body. Plus, he was such a good student that I stopped paying attention in class. While we
cuddled after sex, I’d ask him to summarize our shared lectures. It was like sleeping with Cliff of Clifs Notes. I dragged him to bars and parties, and once even persuaded him to do ecstasy with me. Occasionally he’d complain that since he’d met me he wasn’t getting any work done. I took it as a compliment and asked him to massage my feet because my heels were killing me.

Dying to get a taste of the real Montreal, I kept pestering him to introduce me to his family. We could go together to the famous Cheval Blanc bar; they could teach me how to make
poutine
(a true delight of French fries, gravy, and partially melted cheese curds), and how to curse the Anglos. Then Ramon invited his mother and me over for dinner. His mother worked professionally as a fortune-teller and astrologer. (Was everyone in Montreal connected to the dark arts?) I was pretty sure Ramon was supplementing her income and there was pressure on him to become the family’s replacement breadwinner. Returning to college to take an anthropology degree was his subtle way of rebelling.

I sensed by the way she shook my hand that she already didn’t like me. After reviewing how to properly pronounce my name, she asked, “What’s your sign, sweetie?”

“Capricorn!” I said proudly.

She smiled like she had a secret. I wondered if she knew Natasha.

“You’re a Capricorn. That’s nice. Strong-minded, a dry sense of humor, a late bloomer.”

Was she or my Zodiac sign insulting me?

“You know, Ramon is a Libra. Capricorns and Libras . . .” She wagged her index finger back and forth. “It doesn’t work. The man
likes balance. A goat can never give him that.” And then she glanced over at Ramon, who was making her a coffee.

I don’t know if there’s a French term for being told your future against your will, but I bet the Germans have a word for it. According to the stars, I was a clumsy animal that shouldn’t be allowed anywhere near a double-beam scale. I tried not to take what she said too literally, but I was alone in that. Ramon broke up with me a week later. He argued that I was sucking him dry, and that his company and school-work were suffering. I couldn’t deny that I took up a lot of his time, but it wasn’t my fault that he couldn’t keep up. He said that I didn’t need a boyfriend—I needed a tutor and a masseuse. Clearly he needed an Aquarius or a Virgo, or whatever sign doesn’t value fun. We both know what his mother really meant to say: “Get the hell away from my son, slut; you’ll never be one of us,” or as the French say,
“À bientôt!”

Well,
va te faire foutre
to you.

Everything sounds better in French.

MY FINAL FIELDWORK
project came in my senior year. The catalyst was an old friend, Carol, who came to live with me after McGill hired her as its theater director in residence. We knew each other from working at a café back in Calgary and became fast friends once we discovered that beer foam looked like steamed milk if you poured your Molson into a café au lait bowl fast enough. Being around Carol was like being at an ongoing theater festival. She had a joyful laugh that she used liberally (making her the best audience member ever) and was the
only woman I’d ever met who’d decoupage things and they’d actually look better. My roommates were immediately enchanted by her aura, and they agreed to throw a mattress in the middle of our living room for six months in exchange for a little rent money.

On her second night, while I prepared us a dinner of tofu and beans (I was a vegetarian back then because I didn’t know how to safely handle meat) and she constructed a modern art mobile, she asked if she could invite over her friend Sammy who was taking drama at Concordia, “the other university.” I didn’t know anyone studying at the
other
, more artsy university. It was like entertaining a Montague. Of course I said yes, and I was glad I did. Sammy turned out to be so adorable. He was a hipster before we knew what they were, striking the perfect balance between skateboarder and philosophy professor by pairing sneakers and an old concert T-shirt with tortoiseshell glasses and a full beard. His curly mahogany hair framed his face in such a way that he looked like a handsome version of the cowardly lion from
The Wizard of Oz
. He also lived in a headspace similar to Emerald City. It was all theater and puppets, masks and make-believe. His joie de vivre was infectious. I felt lighter around him. We all laughed recalling our favorite Muppet Movie moments, and when it was time for him to leave, I offered to walk him halfway home, pretending I needed to stop by the corner store to get some orange juice for the morning. Carol gave me a wink as I struggled to put on my winter boots.

Sammy and I kicked snow around on Parc Avenue, discussing how beautiful Montreal was in comparison with prefab Calgary, where he, too, had grown up.

“And have you ever seen so many amazing churches?” I said, stopping in front of a beautiful sandstone church with a carved steeple that happened to be right on the street. We stood in silence, staring at the ornate gargoyles and carvings, two Jews fascinated with the exquisiteness of a Christian house of worship.

“Maybe they left one of the doors open by accident,” I said, running up the stone steps.

“No church leaves its doors unlocked at midnight, Ophira,” Sammy said, as I tugged on the handles and one of the heavy wooden doors released and swung open. I looked back at him with a massive grin. I had this one.

The cathedral was pitch black except for dozens of red vigil lights at the front illuminating a statue of Mary. It was part eerie and part unbelievably seductive. Suddenly it became very clear to me what needed to happen next. When two single Jewish college students are alone in a church at night, it is mandatory that they get it on. I believe it’s written in the Torah. In the middle aisle, halfway to the pulpit, we started necking in front of holy Jesus on the cross. I wanted to take things a step further; when would
this
happen again? But Sammy insisted that we had pushed the donations envelope far enough. It was too risky and a little disrespectful. I didn’t want to piss him off, or the Lord, really, since he was so cool about leaving the door unlocked, so I backed down, and we reluctantly parted ways, with flushed cheeks and red noses. I needed to see more of this guy.

We held off from sleeping together for a while. Two days. Hanging out with Sammy was like entering into a children’s book. He asked
me if I wanted to help out on opening night of his school’s production of
A Midsummer Night’s Dream
, which involved getting dressed up as sprites and handing out beverages or hanging coats. Of course! We were both ecstatic about the invitation to get costumed. Sammy and I were a perfect match in the woodland fairy world, and we had the best sex of our six-month relationship while dressed as pixies, our silver and green eye shadow and lipstick mixing together. If we were going to role-play, it would be Elizabethan-themed and involve iambic pentameter.

Unfortunately we were mere mortals, not flying nymphs, and much like the acid and the ecstasy, Puck’s spell soon wore off, too. My pragmatic nature wore on him, and his whimsical demeanor frustrated me. Occasionally I wanted to commiserate about how little money I had, how much my roommates were bothering me, or how I was struggling with whatever the hell I was doing with my life without Sammy breaking into song, cueing the marionettes, or denying it by entering the world of make-believe. Like actors after closing night, we had no way of relating to each other once thrust into the real world. During final exams, which were always a torturously tough time for me, Sammy suddenly flew home to be with his family. I was furious and told him that he was like everyone else (meaning Michael), abandoning me when times got tough. He replied that the only common denominator in that equation was me.

I liked him better with the puppets.

Fieldwork was unpredictably hard, and informants were demanding and high maintenance. It was also impossible for me not to get a little emotionally attached. Sammy and I broke up over the phone
during finals, a long-distance call that I paid for. With a month left in college, I got drunk at a party and made out with my best friend, Rebecca, to make sure I’d checked off that box and fulfilled my college duties. Her mouth was too small and too soft. It was like kissing a Precious Moments doll.