If You're Not Yet Like Me (3 page)

I
’m sure you’re thinking: “But, Joellyn, you can’t fade to black now!” You want all the details: the urgent kisses, the flailing to get a better purchase on the couch. Cue the heavy petting, the tiny groans (his) and the giggles (mine). You want the line, “Let’s go to the bedroom.” You want me to tell you how I took Zachary’s hand and led him down the hallway.

But it was all so predictable you don’t need me to describe it.

A few things, though: When I said, “Let’s go to the bedroom,” Zachary replied, “I’d like that.” It was a classy response, I have to admit. And when we got into the room, I didn’t turn on the lights. It wasn’t because I’m ashamed of my body. I work out regularly, and my small waist and smooth skin are marketable qualities. But I couldn’t let him see my undergarments.

In the dark, I told Zachary to sit on the bed.

“What?” he asked, as if he didn’t understand what I was doing.

I did not want to say “striptease” out loud. This was pathetic enough. Instead I said, “Watch.”

I reached my hands under my dress and rolled my underwear down my legs. I kicked them off my ankles, and as they flew through the air like some demented, injured bird, the kind that would squawk instead of sing, I realized Zachary could reach forward and grab them, even bring them to his face. It would be playful, and if he sniffed them, that would be a little dirty, and bold. But the granniness of the panties would ruin it. I’d have to turn on the lights and apologize.

As if in some slow-motion sports footage, I lunged forward to intercept the underwear. They fell into my palm easily, and I saw that Zachary hadn’t moved. He’d never planned on touching my panties. Why not? I balled up the underwear, the heat rising up my neck, and quickly shoved them into the open drawer behind me.

I took a deep breath. I approached the bed, and spun around so that my back faced Zachary. “Can you help me with my zipper?” I asked. It was—I must boast—pretty smooth. He did as he was told.

Alas, those were the highlights. The rest progressed as you would expect—or, as I expected it would. Zachary fell asleep right after. I did not.

D
ickens was the only other man to see my granny panties. That isn’t his real name, but he doesn’t deserve a real name, and besides, Dickens suits him. For one, I met him at a Christmas party, where he was dressed in a velvet vest and top hat, and other sartorial accoutrements of nineteenth-century England. He was singing carols in a quartet that performs at various functions. They charge quite a lot. He’s a tenor.

I went to the party with a friend who knew the hostess and her husband. I only went because she said they would be serving bacon-wrapped dates and that the husband always stocked the bar with top-shelf liquor. I was having trouble with my finances at the time, which meant I would attend any event with free food and booze. Most people would call me sociable, festive even, but it’s really that I’m a freeloader. I cannot stand potlucks. Needless to say, I wasn’t as interested in the party and its guests as I was in feeling full before bed. I had about seventeen dollars to my name, and I had to make it last a few days.

Dickens hit on me. On my way back from the bathroom he waved me over to the quartet. They were taking their first break, and it was disconcerting to see a man from the Victorian era nursing a bottle of Beck’s. One of the two female singers was texting. It felt very Bill and Ted, and that pleased me.

“Hello,” I said.

“Hi,” Dickens said. He was actor-handsome. A few lustrous black locks fell from beneath his ridiculous hat. And that jaw line: he could slice me in two.

He wanted to know if I had any requests.

“For songs, you mean?” I asked. I am a very skilled flirt.

“Not necessarily.”

“Surprise me then,” I replied.

“Oh, certainly.”

I went home with him that night.

The only reason I was wearing the granny panties was because I couldn’t afford to do laundry. It speaks to the magnitude of my lust that I forgot I had them on until Dickens flung me across his bed, née futon, lights on. He slipped off my jeans and paused. “Oh,” he said, as if someone had just told him his mailman had died. I suppose I was the one surprising him that night—he hadn’t taken me for a human woman. I should have known then that his heart was about as tender as barbecue charcoal. Not that I cared, not that night. Another reason I call him Dickens? He has a big dick.

What I assumed would be a singular night of pleasure with Dickens evolved into something more substantial. That is to say, he wanted me to sleep over, and the next morning we went out for breakfast. And he texted me later, to say he would think of me that evening, when he sang, “Little Drummer Boy.” I couldn’t discern how this song connected to me, or us, but still, it gave me a thrill.

The next time I saw him, I wore tasteful lingerie and lipstick. I wanted to believe he wasn’t too handsome for me, though now I know I was only fooling myself: a good looking man almost never has a female equivalent. A truly handsome man is a rare occurrence in nature, and that’s what makes him so valuable. Nevertheless, I felt confident around Dickens, who wore expensive shoes and kissed with a brave, athletic tongue. He was prettier than I was, but perhaps that spoke to my own beauty. That he even bothered with me, that had to say something.

But I should have been careful. For one, Dickens wasn’t just actor-handsome, he was an actor. He’d done a few commercials and guest spots on TV, and he talked at length about his brand. He was not to be trusted.

The day Dickens landed a movie role, about three weeks into our affair, we met for dinner at a small Italian restaurant. He ordered us a bottle of wine. He fed me a bite of his pumpkin ravioli. I told a story, which he laughed at. I thought things were going well. I was sure we’d entered the province of boyfriend-and-girlfriend.

Not so. The waitress put down the check, and Dickens looked deep into my eyes. I knew immediately that things were over.

“I’m sorry, Joellyn,” he said.

“Sorry for what?”

He sighed. “I have this place in my mind, it’s called Imagine Land.”

“Imagine Land?”

It was something Dickens had invented when he was a kid. It was a place where everything was as he wanted it to be. “It’s always changing,” he said.

“How?” I asked.

“Well, when I was eight, there’d be corndogs for every meal. Now I imagine great coffee and small-batch whiskey.”

He smiled, a toothpaste commercial come to life. Another reason Dickens deserves his name? He’s a dick.

“Somewhere along the line,” he continued, “I began to think that Imagine Land was just another word for the future. Like, I can make this world happen, if I see it clearly enough.”

“So you’re into positive thinking.”

He winced. “I guess. But that’s what I’m trying to tell you. The woman in Imagine Land, she wouldn’t put it in those terms.”

“I see,” I said.

“I thought you would,” he replied, and picked up the check.

Dickens drove me home that evening and kissed me goodnight. That he squeezed my breast as he did so is another point against him. It implied nothing, and yet he wanted me to take it with me, into tomorrow.

T
he morning after we slept together, Zachary asked me if I wanted to get bagels and I politely declined. I’d woken with his arm across my chest like a seatbelt, and his pale, putty face plowed into the mattress, and I knew I had to act bloodlessly. I would ask him to leave, then take an aspirin, clean my apartment, and assess the situation. I would either treat the previous night as a forgettable oops, or I would answer the phone when he called. “But how did you feel about him?” you ask, and that’s precisely what I needed to decide.

On my sun-stricken front steps, Zachary leaned down and kissed me. He thanked me for the evening, and I was surprised by how cute he looked, his hair unkempt, the dimples at his mouth hinting at a charming bashfulness.

“I had a great time,” he said. He paused. “Did you? I mean, was it okay?”

His insecurity—the pleading eyes and furrowed brow—was almost too much to bear. Right when I thought he might not be so bad, he had to prove me wrong. I looked away. Didn’t he have the sense to cover his fears with banter like everyone else? I was about to say, “Don’t. Just don’t,” but Zachary brought his index finger to my lips, as if to hush me.

“Just forget I said that,” he stage-whispered.

I had to laugh; it was as if he’d read my thoughts.

“I didn’t actually mean for you to answer,” he said.

And with that, he told me he’d call me. He walked away.

It wasn’t that I missed Zachary after he left; it was that I imagined he missed me, and that felt wonderful. I saw our lives in split screen, so that as I swept my floor, Zachary was pulling into his parking spot, a big floppy grin on his face. As I showered, Zachary shaved at his bathroom sink, making eyes at his reflection in the medicine cabinet mirror, pretending, for a moment, to be me. As I lay on my couch, he did the same on his, his hand reaching for his belt buckle as he recalled our previous night together. He moved through one image of me and another, like thumbing a flipbook. He wanted to call me, but he had to wait. Zachary knew that much.

I decided I wanted to see him again.

Make no mistake: It was still, at that point, a decision.

I
was in eighth grade when my family bought a house down the street from the one we’d been renting for nearly my entire life. For two weeks we possessed both houses at once, and during that time I liked to take the spare key to the new place and let myself in while my parents were still at work. The house was one block south, hidden behind a cement wall covered in ivy. I remember thinking it was like a castle. My parents have since replaced the wall with a white picket fence, a popular choice in the valley; it’s certainly more inviting, but it purges all mystery from the property.

Every day for those two weeks, I’d slip behind the wall and run across the front lawn to the door. The lock was always a little sticky, and I had to fiddle with it to get inside. Aside from a bottle of Windex on the kitchen counter and a few boxes of tools in the living room that my father had brought over, the rooms were empty. From the front door, I could hear birds singing in the backyard—there was nothing to interfere, is what I’m saying.

On these visits, I might lie beneath the windows in the living room, or do somersaults. Once, I hid in the hallway closet, swallowing my own breath. I did the splits in my parents’ room. I spun in circles in the dining room, yelling the alphabet.

In my own bedroom, however, I was sensible. I planned where the furniture would go: the dresser next to the door, and my bed in the corner. My mother said I could put the old rocking chair there if I wanted, and I imagined it first in one corner and then in another. I tried to keep track of the furniture in my mind, but, like solving a complicated math problem, the design kept dissolving before I could finish. It was almost compulsive how I mentally arranged and rearranged the furniture, like counting steps, or tying and retying my shoe laces.

I’m telling you this story because it reminds me of Zachary. You can see the connection, can’t you? How I tried to manage every arrangement, every little possibility?