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gutssyI suppose things never really begin how you want them to.
Idealism is so fluid, as subjective from person to person as the truth is itself. That being said, lasting relationships are not typically built on the tentative ramparts of a hookup organized between two acquainted classmates via Skype.
It started with the exchange of questions and complaints regarding the Algebra class we were in together. To be quite honest, I have no recollection of how he even received my information in the first place. He sat next to my best friend, who sat in front of me. I knew him as a quiet, artsy kid, the type who passes himself as apathetic and somewhat elitist. He always intrigued me, because he happens to be the type of person that you cannot avoid hearing gossip about. The fact that the stories were almost completely negative did not damper my initial opinion of him, but piqued my interest even farther, perhaps because I am an intuitive masochist or perhaps entirely because of my lethal curiosity.
Our mutual class was during first hour, and he was not a morning person (interestingly, his type never is). He would hang there over his desk, always with coffee, never with a smile. Only briefly did I ever witness when he put pen to paper and let his delicate lines shape themselves into projections of his mind, but it was far before him that I fell in love with his art.
Our lives went on without crossing, and the semester ended. I was moved into sixth period Algebra, while he remained in first. No longer did I share any time with him during the day, but I saw him periodically moving through the hallways between classes.
Conversation starts on such strange bases, but I suppose they derive themselves from boredom and curiosity. I don't remember how it started, but I remember I was going through one of my extremely sick moments and I was crouching on the floor next to the toilet, phone in hand, for part of the conversation. It did nothing to help my stomach.
I don't remember verbatim, but after quite a bit of complaining on both ends, he offered me sex and drugs, an interesting and quite generous combination. I suppose I had solicited on my own, as I had been, for the past year or so, one to seek out lascivious, casual relations with fellows I may or may not know very well. His words were crude and startlingly dominant, a novelty that both shocked me and subsequently traveled down my spine right to my loins, much to my shame.
I remember then that I was ready and willing to live for another couple months, perhaps, but finished with future planning. And thus, I agreed.
The first night we spent time together, my best friend accompanied us. We walked all around our town for what must have been miles, deep into the night. He was still caught up on rejection by another girl, one who is friendly with me and harbors an extremely low opinion of him. The taste in my throat was slightly sour, and I laughed at myself for feeling the same sort of thing that I felt once in junior high, when the future still mattered. He loves music and he showed us a good many songs. I fell asleep to them that night.
It was after that that we began to spend time together frequently. I was meek and intimidated by him, a beautiful boy with tired eyes and an intensity about him that makes feigning confidence easy to someone like me, but I have never shied away from sex and it was the first time that we fucked that I had more power than he. The first of his vulnerability became apparent to me; I became power-hungry, the desire to dig beneath and find the tender soul of this calloused boy was gripping me harder than ever after that. He undressed first but he was much more nervous than I. He made a playlist of music for what would be his first time, a sentiment that I still find smile-inducing in a lame kind of way. I snatched his virginity away, illuminated by the reddish light of his lava lamp and accompanied by the sounds of his silky, psychedelic music, and acquainted his lips with my own.
I suppose I tend to care too much for it to have remained that simple, friendship and occasional sex. I believe it is he who is at fault, for enrapturing me so shamelessly with his words, which hang with me well into my dreams; with his smile, which began to emerge much more frequently after my coming into his life; with his music, his art, his humor, his beautiful mind.
Uncertainly, tentatively, we came together after that. Emotional attachment always tends to work interestingly like that with me, in that it happens so easily, even when I don't intend for it to happen. Even when it's with someone inconvenient to love, someone with an unfortunate reputation and a plethora of interesting stories from years past. I fell head over heels, something I swore to myself I would never do again to save extreme embarrassment and disappointment. The interesting part of this particular scenario is that he stuck around, and fell for me back.
And so, here we are. An intense and rapid series of events leading to the loving relationship I now nurture. The origins bother him more than me, something I think is quite funny. When he worries about it I tell him, Every relationship starts off differently. We didn't do it traditionally but we are a couple of fucked up kids who don't do a whole lot of things like society tells us to. I believe he appreciates the sentiment.
I suppose there's no telling if this will last or not. Time has passed since then. We work well together, and we have been through very difficult situations. At my current emotional state I am quite ready to give up the promiscuous, single-and-seeking lifestyle forever and remain with the one I am close to now-- aside from the ideas of love and sex, the real important factors of a relationship are the willingness to work and the admittance that the work is worth it. I wonder if we will grow together, me and him. He has inspired life into me and I have done the same, I believe. It would be nice to keep this going for a long time.
But then, I suppose things never really end how you want them to, either.
Idealism is so fluid, as subjective from person to person as the truth is itself. That being said, lasting relationships are not typically built on the tentative ramparts of a hookup organized between two acquainted classmates via Skype.
It started with the exchange of questions and complaints regarding the Algebra class we were in together. To be quite honest, I have no recollection of how he even received my information in the first place. He sat next to my best friend, who sat in front of me. I knew him as a quiet, artsy kid, the type who passes himself as apathetic and somewhat elitist. He always intrigued me, because he happens to be the type of person that you cannot avoid hearing gossip about. The fact that the stories were almost completely negative did not damper my initial opinion of him, but piqued my interest even farther, perhaps because I am an intuitive masochist or perhaps entirely because of my lethal curiosity.
Our mutual class was during first hour, and he was not a morning person (interestingly, his type never is). He would hang there over his desk, always with coffee, never with a smile. Only briefly did I ever witness when he put pen to paper and let his delicate lines shape themselves into projections of his mind, but it was far before him that I fell in love with his art.
Our lives went on without crossing, and the semester ended. I was moved into sixth period Algebra, while he remained in first. No longer did I share any time with him during the day, but I saw him periodically moving through the hallways between classes.
Conversation starts on such strange bases, but I suppose they derive themselves from boredom and curiosity. I don't remember how it started, but I remember I was going through one of my extremely sick moments and I was crouching on the floor next to the toilet, phone in hand, for part of the conversation. It did nothing to help my stomach.
I don't remember verbatim, but after quite a bit of complaining on both ends, he offered me sex and drugs, an interesting and quite generous combination. I suppose I had solicited on my own, as I had been, for the past year or so, one to seek out lascivious, casual relations with fellows I may or may not know very well. His words were crude and startlingly dominant, a novelty that both shocked me and subsequently traveled down my spine right to my loins, much to my shame.
I remember then that I was ready and willing to live for another couple months, perhaps, but finished with future planning. And thus, I agreed.
The first night we spent time together, my best friend accompanied us. We walked all around our town for what must have been miles, deep into the night. He was still caught up on rejection by another girl, one who is friendly with me and harbors an extremely low opinion of him. The taste in my throat was slightly sour, and I laughed at myself for feeling the same sort of thing that I felt once in junior high, when the future still mattered. He loves music and he showed us a good many songs. I fell asleep to them that night.
It was after that that we began to spend time together frequently. I was meek and intimidated by him, a beautiful boy with tired eyes and an intensity about him that makes feigning confidence easy to someone like me, but I have never shied away from sex and it was the first time that we fucked that I had more power than he. The first of his vulnerability became apparent to me; I became power-hungry, the desire to dig beneath and find the tender soul of this calloused boy was gripping me harder than ever after that. He undressed first but he was much more nervous than I. He made a playlist of music for what would be his first time, a sentiment that I still find smile-inducing in a lame kind of way. I snatched his virginity away, illuminated by the reddish light of his lava lamp and accompanied by the sounds of his silky, psychedelic music, and acquainted his lips with my own.
I suppose I tend to care too much for it to have remained that simple, friendship and occasional sex. I believe it is he who is at fault, for enrapturing me so shamelessly with his words, which hang with me well into my dreams; with his smile, which began to emerge much more frequently after my coming into his life; with his music, his art, his humor, his beautiful mind.
Uncertainly, tentatively, we came together after that. Emotional attachment always tends to work interestingly like that with me, in that it happens so easily, even when I don't intend for it to happen. Even when it's with someone inconvenient to love, someone with an unfortunate reputation and a plethora of interesting stories from years past. I fell head over heels, something I swore to myself I would never do again to save extreme embarrassment and disappointment. The interesting part of this particular scenario is that he stuck around, and fell for me back.
And so, here we are. An intense and rapid series of events leading to the loving relationship I now nurture. The origins bother him more than me, something I think is quite funny. When he worries about it I tell him, Every relationship starts off differently. We didn't do it traditionally but we are a couple of fucked up kids who don't do a whole lot of things like society tells us to. I believe he appreciates the sentiment.
I suppose there's no telling if this will last or not. Time has passed since then. We work well together, and we have been through very difficult situations. At my current emotional state I am quite ready to give up the promiscuous, single-and-seeking lifestyle forever and remain with the one I am close to now-- aside from the ideas of love and sex, the real important factors of a relationship are the willingness to work and the admittance that the work is worth it. I wonder if we will grow together, me and him. He has inspired life into me and I have done the same, I believe. It would be nice to keep this going for a long time.
But then, I suppose things never really end how you want them to, either.
