I went back and fucked her again, the girl who got left behind, my teenage love who broke me. I tried to reconnect with that feeling we had once, that we were forever, that it was a perfect union of us against the world.
I went back years later, when I was 17 or so, and hung out with her and my old friends. It wasn’t the blind fumbling from before, that of a 13 and 14 year old, drunk on Southern Comfort and entangled in the dirt and grass behind the middle school on a Michigan summer night. She was always the perfect woman to me, probably because the relationship--such as it was, or ever could be at that age--ended before it was given a chance to go sour, because I moved away. I have to say it seems silly to use that portentous, pretentious word--relationship--in connection with people so young, but of course it meant everything then, and in a way still does in terms of the way my heart turned out.
And of course it’s silly to blame a case of what some would term puppy love that was rent asunder for a lifetime of shallow prongings punctuated with the occasional deeper feelings (and subsequent betrayal) that I describe. Of course my entire sexual/romantic life didn’t begin and end with this one girl. On the other hand, it hardened me. It made me seek out satisfaction in easy ways, in shallow ways, and when it came to deeper ways, it made me search for and falsely discover feelings that weren’t really there for girls that were not worthy of the pedestals on which I placed them.
It was on a couch in my friend’s basement, that encounter years later, that attempt to recapture lost magic. Drunk again, yes, with Zeppelin playing in the background and a bunch of drunk kids upstairs. It was sex and that was great, but it was mostly pretty sad. We didn’t have much to say; it was almost like a duty. Either I gave her gonorrhea or she gave it to me. I think it was the former.
We never really talked again after that I don’t think.
So much for love.
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