him around, but he was stubborn and refused to be thrown by anything I lobbed at him.
We both attended the same small college in the nearby town of San Angelo, and I spent long lunches in his dorm room where we talked about life and dreams and childhood, and nothing happened at all because I’m not that kind of girl . Until he kissed me. And then he convinced me that he wasn’t gay at all, and was very concerned to learn that I equated gay people with vests. “Not in a bad way,” I pointed out. “I just assumed that only gay men would be okay with wearing acid-washed vests.” (Years later, gay friends would point out that that sentence alone proves just how little I knew about gay men at the time, and that I had obviously confused “acid-washed vests” with “assless chaps.” Then I point out that I’ve never confused the two, because one is much more drafty than the other. Then we all laugh and order another round and toast to how great it is to have fun, gay male friends. Hint: It’s awesome. Go find some right now. Gay people are just like you and me, except better. Except for the ones who are boring, or are assholes. Avoid them.)
A few weeks after meeting Victor he told me, “I’ve decided I’m going to be a deejay,” and I replied, “Well, of course you are . And I’ve decided to be a cowgirl-ballerina,” but then the next day he was hired as a deejay at thebiggest rock station in four counties. It was unsettling. Mainly because it was the same confident tone he’d used when he casually said, “I’m going to marry you one day.” I snorted and rolled my eyes, because there was no way that was going to happen.
Victor was wealthy, and ambitious, and a member of the Young Republicans, and the exact opposite of the type of guy I went for. And also he was still wearing a vest. So I laughed at his little joke, but he didn’t laugh back, and in the back of my head I was a little worried that he was right. In spite of the fact that we had almost nothing in common, I found myself completely in love with him, and he casually asked me to marry him almost every day. And I laughingly said no to him every day, because he was very dangerous. Not physically dangerous, of course. Although one time he did punch me in the nose. I mean, technically it wasn’t his fault, because he was just doing his kung fu forms and I was standing in his dorm room, thinking about how boring kung fu is, and then I saw something on the floor and I’m all, “Potato chip!” and I bent down at the exact same moment Victor swung around into a form, and he punched me right in the fucking nose. Then I felt bad, because he was so visibly upset at accidentally almost knocking me out, and also because in the chaos one of us had stepped on the potato chip.
Oh, and another time he gave me a sex concussion. I can’t really go into the details, because my mother will probably read this, but basically he had a bunk bed in his dorm room (because he’s an only child and only children are obsessed with bunk beds for some reason), so we were on the bottom bunk and I tossed back my hair in what I envisioned would be a total porn-star move, except the wooden beam of the bunk bed above us was too low, and so I violently head-butted the wood plank and totally knocked myself out, which is pretty much the least sexy thing you could ever possibly do. Like, if I also lost control of my bowels that would be worse, but not by much. Then when I’d recovered, Victor was all, “Sex concussion, motherfucker!” like it was something to be proud of. Basically it was like autoerotic asphyxiation, except instead of being choked you get whacked in the head with a two-by-four. And instead of having an orgasm you lose all muscle control and pee on yourself. Which I totally did not do because that would be disgusting. I hardly ever pee on myself.
But none of those things were what I meant when I say he was dangerous. I meant that he was dangerous mentally . For
We both attended the same small college in the nearby town of San Angelo, and I spent long lunches in his dorm room where we talked about life and dreams and childhood, and nothing happened at all because I’m not that kind of girl . Until he kissed me. And then he convinced me that he wasn’t gay at all, and was very concerned to learn that I equated gay people with vests. “Not in a bad way,” I pointed out. “I just assumed that only gay men would be okay with wearing acid-washed vests.” (Years later, gay friends would point out that that sentence alone proves just how little I knew about gay men at the time, and that I had obviously confused “acid-washed vests” with “assless chaps.” Then I point out that I’ve never confused the two, because one is much more drafty than the other. Then we all laugh and order another round and toast to how great it is to have fun, gay male friends. Hint: It’s awesome. Go find some right now. Gay people are just like you and me, except better. Except for the ones who are boring, or are assholes. Avoid them.)
A few weeks after meeting Victor he told me, “I’ve decided I’m going to be a deejay,” and I replied, “Well, of course you are . And I’ve decided to be a cowgirl-ballerina,” but then the next day he was hired as a deejay at thebiggest rock station in four counties. It was unsettling. Mainly because it was the same confident tone he’d used when he casually said, “I’m going to marry you one day.” I snorted and rolled my eyes, because there was no way that was going to happen.
Victor was wealthy, and ambitious, and a member of the Young Republicans, and the exact opposite of the type of guy I went for. And also he was still wearing a vest. So I laughed at his little joke, but he didn’t laugh back, and in the back of my head I was a little worried that he was right. In spite of the fact that we had almost nothing in common, I found myself completely in love with him, and he casually asked me to marry him almost every day. And I laughingly said no to him every day, because he was very dangerous. Not physically dangerous, of course. Although one time he did punch me in the nose. I mean, technically it wasn’t his fault, because he was just doing his kung fu forms and I was standing in his dorm room, thinking about how boring kung fu is, and then I saw something on the floor and I’m all, “Potato chip!” and I bent down at the exact same moment Victor swung around into a form, and he punched me right in the fucking nose. Then I felt bad, because he was so visibly upset at accidentally almost knocking me out, and also because in the chaos one of us had stepped on the potato chip.
Oh, and another time he gave me a sex concussion. I can’t really go into the details, because my mother will probably read this, but basically he had a bunk bed in his dorm room (because he’s an only child and only children are obsessed with bunk beds for some reason), so we were on the bottom bunk and I tossed back my hair in what I envisioned would be a total porn-star move, except the wooden beam of the bunk bed above us was too low, and so I violently head-butted the wood plank and totally knocked myself out, which is pretty much the least sexy thing you could ever possibly do. Like, if I also lost control of my bowels that would be worse, but not by much. Then when I’d recovered, Victor was all, “Sex concussion, motherfucker!” like it was something to be proud of. Basically it was like autoerotic asphyxiation, except instead of being choked you get whacked in the head with a two-by-four. And instead of having an orgasm you lose all muscle control and pee on yourself. Which I totally did not do because that would be disgusting. I hardly ever pee on myself.
But none of those things were what I meant when I say he was dangerous. I meant that he was dangerous mentally . For
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