“Get away from me, you drunken asshole.” I ripped his arm away. “You promised to call, over three months have gone by, and I see you making your moves elsewhere.”
I paused for effect. “Here’s my College Rule Number Four: Go fuck yourself.”
Not bad, Rory, I thought. You’re catching on quickly to the power game of male versus female.
“Rory, I made a mistake. I’m the college idiot. Look, you admitted that you were inexperienced. We’d been friends, and I didn’t want to be the douche that took advantage of you. Wow, you’re so beautiful tonight. Give me a second chance.”
There were almost tears in his eyes. Give the guy credit for outstanding performance under the influence...
“How can I trust you?” I stammered, taking a bit of the edge off my voice. I had never been pursued like this by anyone, drunk or sober, so his words both stunned and disarmed me.
Talk about desperation!
“Let me prove how I care about you,” he promised.
I made a finger-down-the-throat gesture. But he wasn’t giving up.
Sure enough, I started receiving a new gift from him every afternoon: flowers, candy, and even a very amateurish love sonnet. Shakespeare he was not. Hallmark he was not. The gifts kept coming and I finally acquiesced, if only because our dorm room was beginning to smell like floral vomit. He became my official boyfriend, but I still had to punish him like a bad dog. (Revenge is so very sweet.)
I enforced a four-feet-on-the-floor policy at all times, although Mike must have been a wrestler, because he sure could do some good stuff with his upper body and those sinewy fingers.
I was learning College Rule Number Five: Every zone can be erogenous if properly stroked.
My life settled in comfortably during the second semester. I had a boyfriend, a 3.8 GPA, and a bright medical future, according to my advisor. As the academic year drew to a close, I knew it was time to offer up my virginity. Mike was getting tired of stopping at second base, and frankly, I was hankering for a home run myself...
It was a complete disaster. We went to some cheesy motel near campus. I had suited up with some special seductive outfit from Victoria’s Secret, and Mike, in typical male fashion, had changed into droopy sweatpants and an outrageous Hawaiian shirt. I stripped down in the bathroom while he found some“mood” music on the motel’s alarm/radio, which was constantly interrupted by someone selling new TVs.
Mike pretended he loved me a lot that night, or, correction, he loved the idea of fucking me and had plotted and planned for this rendezvous. Yet somehow it never turned out as good as the fantasy. Maybe that’s the story of our lives.
I don’t recall it blow-by-blow. I remember sitting down on the side of the bed and saying I was ready. Then I jumped up and down a couple of times. Finally, I was afraid Mike might throttle me, so I removed the final pieces of clothing and lay down next to him.
“I’m almost there!” His eyes were bright, like a small boy experiencing his first Christmas.
He had a condom, and his hands were trembling, so that took a while. There was some foreplay, not much, and after a few moments, he tried to stuff the ballooning tender appendage inside. Of course, being a virgin, I was tighter than a lug nut, and this did not go well. It felt like a sharp implement scraping paint off my insides.
We tried a few more times that night, and even though we stayed together through that summer and my entire sophomore year, sadly, it never really took off. But the lackluster sex wasn’t the real problem, in my book. Something subtle had shifted. I recalled looking over at Mike sleeping one early morning, as I rubbed my eyes. What was I looking at? What had happened to the man I had found so attractive? He appeared no more evolved than a jungle beast.
Suddenly, a very unpleasant scene replayed in my mind: Mike suckling the neck of that very willing redhead coed. I lost interest immediately, realizing that I no longer had to win Mike over, and that the cheating bastard was no prize. I recognized that, during my most innocent days as a young college girl, Mike had an opportunity to show me that he was a standup guy. Instead, he showed me a wolf in sheep’s clothing. I could only project the number of other ways he could be cruel.
And that was the day I fell out of love with my first real boyfriend. Although I felt bad for Mike—I knew that I had hurt him—I didn’t cry. I thought something was wrong with me. A two-year relationship had ended, and I didn’t give a shit? I didn’t spend too much time psychoanalyzing it. I was a teenager, just liberated and ready to roam.
6. Death Is All Too Familiar
Following college graduation, I joined a Peace Corps program for the summer in Central America. I learned firsthand what life looked like when the terrifying ambition to succeed was replaced by the more terrifying ambition to survive.
At the end of the summer, I was back in my parents’ orbit once again. In some ways, I felt as if I had never left.I had received a scholarship to a state medical school in Westport, Connecticut.Technically, I could have lived with my folks in Webberworld, but I opted instead for pseudo-independence, renting a small apartment down the block from the school campus.
My goals had changed. My parents’ vision of delayed gratification no longer held the same value in my eyes. I was still a soldier in their war of ambition, but I would fight for the cause with my eyes wide open.
Things did not start well.
Anatomy lab was a critical introduction and it nauseated me immediately, as I became acquainted with a mold-green, formalin-laden cadaver. I felt as if my skin was turning the same color and texture by osmosis. My senses revolted. Was I becoming the green frog I’d first learned to dissect in eighth grade?
The antiseptic formalin coating only made more vivid the odors of putrefaction, rot, and creepy worm time. For several weeks, I almost doubted my ability to survive medical school.
A team of four worked on each cadaver; my anatomy team had been originally assigned a male. When the body was unveiled from its plastic wrap—like a huge leftover discovered after months hidden in the refrigerator—my partner Anne and I reeled in shock and disgust.
I had attended wakes, but this was entirely different. The pale, naked, partly embalmed old man who lay before us with his jaw propped open (as if in a permanent scream at his demise) was a horrifying sight. He had not been cosmetically treated for family viewing.
