The Realm of Possibility (11 page)

I have not told Meg any of this, but she knew
right away when things had changed.
And it made her even sadder to know
I had found it while she was still waiting
for Diana to figure things out.

I don't know how the tide of Elizabeth
ebbed enough to show Meg standing on the shore.
But one day when Meg couldn't take it anymore,
she just put down Diana's guitar and walked away.
Diana asked me what was going on, and I didn't
have to say a word. She already knew, had maybe
known all along. Now it showed.

There was an e-mail that led to a phone call,
then a phone call that led to an encounter,
and an encounter that led to a tentative kiss.
I thought Meg would be happy, but instead
she was happy and very, very scared.

If you're not able to laugh inside a sex shop,
then you probably shouldn't be there.
I mean, they don't call it
fooling around
for nothing.
I was a little nervous that Meg would go skittish on me,
but instead we found ourselves laughing at the first
appliance we saw. Meg gravitated towards the costumes,
openly wondering about the nursewear.

Anne and I don't play roles when we're having sex.
She's the one I want to be with, not some fantasy.
When I close my eyes, I see her, and when I open them,
she is there. Nothing about us is anonymous.
This is the giving, the taking, the giving.

The first time I had sex was an opportunity I took.
And afterwards it didn't feel entirely right, like a trophy
I'd won because nobody else showed up. Some guys
can get off on this, and there were a lot of times before Anne
that I really wished I could. But for me, there has to be love.
Or at least the possibility of love. I wouldn't say Anne and I
love each other yet. But there are moments when we really do.

Meg has no doubts about her love. Only Diana's.
When love comes before sex, there's always the fear
that the sex will somehow undo the love.
With Anne and me, there could be the fear that the sex
is creating the love. I don't think that's the case.

Meg and I talked a little about this as we came to
a huge display of edible underwear.
Edible underwear is not something I can imagine
as tasting very good. Meg suggested we save
some money and make our skivvies out of
fruit leather instead. Gumdrop buttons, chocolate trim,
like a Hansel & Gretel house, only sexier.

As Meg checked out the body oils and incense,
I headed over to the condom area. The first time
I bought condoms was about a year before I used one.
Like thinking that shopping for summer clothes
will suddenly make the weather go warm.

I was so confused by all the sizes and styles—
I'd figured that a condom was a condom, and that was that.
(This wasn't exactly a father-son chat I'd had with my dad.)
How was I supposed to know my size?—it wasn't like getting
a new shoe, being measured by a salesman for the right fit.
I ended up getting the Greatest Hits Condom, extra-everything,
and kept it hidden inside an old Cracker Jack box.

In the sex shop, the sizes and styles were berserk-o,
but I was here for some experimentation, so that was okay.
Anne and I have reached the point in our relationship
where we're fueling it with little surprises—quick kisses,
notes hidden in pockets, glow-in-the-dark rubbers.

Meg and Diana haven't gotten to the little surprises yet.
I think they're still recovering from the big one.
We met up by the register, and she was holding candles
in different nail-polish colors, each promising its own
transcendent emotion—
luminescence
and
bliss
and
(my favorite)
astonishment.
I asked her if she was sure
she didn't want one of the “sculpted” candles and she laughed.

Then it was my turn and I got carded.
No big deal. Then we got back to the car
and everything that had been holding Meg up
fell right down.
I'm not ready for this,
she said.
And when I said that was okay, she added,
Any of it.

Getting what you want is just as difficult
as not getting what you want. Because then
you have to figure out what to do with it
instead of figuring out what to do without it.
I did not feel the full depth of my wanting for Anne
until we were physically together, until it
was something so immediate it was beyond question.

There is wanting
it
so much, and there is wanting
her
so much. Neither Meg or I want
it
as much
as we want
her.
In the car, bag of candles still on her lap,
Meg told me how afraid she was of things going wrong,
because this time it would be her fault, because of her wanting.

She said that maybe they should've stayed friends,
stayed safe behind the border of acting on desire.
So I asked,
Does kissing her make you want more?
And she said,
Yes.
I asked
When you're sleeping
alone, do you wish she was there to touch?
And she said,
Yes.
And I said,
There you go,
as if
those feelings were already taking her to the destination.

She didn't nod, didn't shake her head. Just looked out
the windshield. And I realized she hadn't needed me
to take her to a sex shop. This wasn't about sex,
but its complications. Our lives were taking
our friendship into a new territory.

So I told her that even though Anne and I really liked sex,
that even though we were learning each other's bodies
like they were our own, there was always a moment—
sometimes many—when I was scared that the desire
would reach its limit, that I would do or say the wrong thing,
that I was making myself vulnerably naked,
that my thoughts and hers would end up being opposites.

Then the fear would step back and I would feel
the hundreds of places where our skin was touching
and I would know that this was the sensation,
the metaphor for all the thoughts underneath.
I told Meg to remember this.
And I found myself telling her that the amazing thing
about seeing a woman naked is how open her body is,
how you can see right inside her. And it's astonishing
and complicated and intimidating and incredible.
All those layers to feel, to read. You look there
and you feel like you're knowing something,
even if you're not really sure what it is.

I don't know if this made her feel better
or just made her feel weird. We sat for a second
in silence, feeling Anne and Diana in the backseat
of our minds. Then she said
Jesus!
and started to
hug me. And I hugged her back.

What must we have looked like to someone
driving into the Lovely Pleasures parking lot?
Some guy and girl making out. When really we
were just a guy and a girl trying to make it through
our experimentations, trying to find the right balance
between love, sex, and the rest of it. Preparing for
our naked lives.

How to Be Alone

Remember that at any given moment
There are a thousand things
You can love

Plural

I had boyfriends non-stop
Since Greg Foster in fourth grade
I could only see myself through their eyes

The Last Breakup

Erased by the sex
Playing the role, badly
I was tired

What I Love (Three Examples)
Being myself
Being by myself
Flirting without consequences

What I Learned

The well-documented difference
Between alone and lonely
The comfort of knowing

R-E-S-P-E-C-T

What I need, baby, I got it
I used to define myself by the enthusiasm of kisses
Their enthusiasm, not mine

Singular

I only had one priority, then
Now I don't count them
I call my friends instead, talk about stupid fun things

A Cue from Nature

Run outside during a thunderstorm
That downpour, that conquered hesitation, that exhilaration
That's what unlonely is like

The Discovery

This is what my voice sounds like
I don't need to be talking to someone else
To hear it

At ten in the morning on a Saturday
Jed shows up at my bedroom door and says

Let's go on an escapade.

My parents have let him in
so he can take me
wherever we want to go.

I get dressed and put on my shoes.

I'm no dummy.

Where shall we gallivant?
he asks.

These words are our thing.

Enrapture me with some possibilities
, I reply.

He smiles.

We can promenade, dither, roustabout, effervesce, or spiral.

I tell him I'll do anything but spiral.
spiraling is what I do without Jed.
although the spiraling I do isn't really a spiral.
it only goes in
one
d
ir
ec
tio
n

Jed says we'll promenade, and I make sure I have the right shoes for it.
pink sneakers, yellow laces.

He whistles his appreciation.

I have no idea how he knows when I need him. We can go weeks without speaking, and then, when my blue moods threaten to turn black, he will show up and tell me my moods are

azure
indigo
cerulean
cobalt
periwinkle

and suddenly the blue will not seem so dark, more like the color of a noon-bright sky.

He brings the sun.

We drive past the mall, past the video store, past the TGI Friday's
past the movie theater, past the park, past the diner.

(We do not hang out in those places.
They are for other people.)

All of Jed's mixes have themes
and the one that's playing begins

red hot chili peppers—under the bridge
simon & garfunkel—bridge over troubled water
everything but the girl—another bridge
ani difranco—buildings and bridges

so I have a good idea where we're going. Jed will easily drive
an extra fifty miles to fit a theme.

I could not think of a more rhapsodic way to span a day with you
, I say.

He smiles and tells me,
You're such a good egg
.

Jed will show up at my house with a thousand toothpicks,
and together we'll make a house for a salt-shaker family.

I will call him up and tell him I'm about to dye my hair purple
and he'll drive over with a box of purple crayons.

Our friendship is made of bendy straws, long midnight letters,
my so-called life
marathons, sleepless sleepovers, diner milk shakes, apron strings, a belief in beauty, sucking helium, and the most trust I've ever felt for anyone, including myself.

We roll down the windows and sing at the top of our lungs. Neither of us can carry a tune, so we let the tune carry us instead.

Has your life been swell of late?
he yells over the song, over me singing.

Copacetic, with some rays of gloomy
, I reply.

Bugger the gloom!
he declares.
What this-'n'-that is under disputation?

Just the usual bouts
, I tell him.

What about the bouts
? he asks.
Are they caused by louts
?

Just my own devout shouts.

Well, we must shout them out!

and with that we yell at the top of
our lungs. It is unacceptable
to sit in your room alone and
scream at your life, but it is
perfectly acceptable (albeit not
exactly normal) to do it with
a good friend on the highway,
hearing your voice rise to the
rush of the window wind and
then hearing it be taken away,
left behind in your
wake.

It feels good.

I love Jed, but I am not in love with him.
It took us a little while to figure this out.
Putting aside the fact that he's as gay as the day is long,
it would be too easy to mistake what we have for desire.

It is not desire.

Instead it is something deeper. I don't want to be with him
constantly and forever. I want to be with him for the moment,
and I want the moments to go on forever.

There is a Polaroid of him and Daniel taped to the dashboard, right next to the clock. They are on a ferry, the sea behind them. Jed leaning his shoulder over so Daniel can lean down into him. That wistful lucky happiness on their faces.

I was worried at first.
Worried for Jed, yes.
But also worried for me.
He'd dated other boys,
but Daniel was something else.
He realized that from the beginning.
I didn't I didn't
want him to be hurt. want him to leave me.

You will always be my always
, he
assured me.

And I believed him, because he'd
never given me reason not to.

(If I'd wanted to sleep with him,
I think it would've been different.)

The three of us do not go out very often
as the three of us. I think Daniel is perfect
for Jed, which is the highest compliment
I can give. But my friendship isn't with him,
and Jed understands that. When we hit the road,
we hit it together alone.

We get to the bridge, our undestined destination. Even though there's no sign, no arrow, Jed turns at the last minute and parks us in a verge right before the bridge leaves the ground.

The trunk pops open, and Jed runs round back to retrieve a bag of oranges and a sweatshirt of his that fits me better.

Shall we make like lizards and leap?
he asks.

I have never felt the urge to jump off a bridge,
but there are times I have wanted to jump
out of my life,
out of my skin.

Would you stroll me down the promenade instead?
I ask back.

He offers his arm and says,
Most certainly, my splendid.

I am surprised there's a sidewalk—the bridge stretches between two points of nowhere, there are no other pedestrians in sight. The walkway is narrow—if Jed and I walk side by side, one of us ends up right in the lap of the traffic.

Make way for ducklings
, I suggest.