this woman’s work

Looking back — this is long

Mar 10, 2003 The Story of My Life

I’ve been cleaning out computer files and deep in the documents folder I found this picture. The boy on the far right is my very first ever boyfriend. First hand-holding, first slow dance, first kiss, first sex, first everything. He was also the inspiration for my reluctant groupies article in Bitch and this is a pic of his band, Control. They did very well for themselves, toured with The Swans, I think? I don’t know. That was when we were periodically sleeping with each other but not really speaking.

Anyway, this is a picture I didn’t remember saving and I’m not even sure where I got it. From Carty’s site maybe. Carty is the one in the middle. I wanted to write about this boyfriend because I haven’t yet and he’s been cropping up in my mind now and then. He showed up in a dream the other night; he stepped right out of a wall before fading back. I met him in this dream with the same mix of familiarity, anticipation and dread with which I always met him back when I was 17.

So this man, whom I called W. in the article because his name was Joaquin and people used to spell it wrong, was my very first boyfriend and I was pretty damn crazy about him. I won’t give you the details of how we met (9th grade English class) or how we broke up (another woman named Dawn and lots of screaming) because it’s not the story of us that I want to talk about right now (another blogging day maybe), it’s how even real live people become sort of imaginary.

I don’t remember Joaquin very well. I mean, I don’t remember very much about who he is. I remember events and I still have intense sense memories of him. This particular picture, when I saw it, evoked the slick, warm feeling of his body and his smell — green grass and old books. I remember his voice, which was so deep that the first time I heard it on the phone I was completely taken aback. He’s not a very big man but he has this heavy, liquid voice and I was only 14 when he called me. I remember being embarrassed by his voice, it sounded obscene.

Joaquin moved with big, wide open gestures, long arms curving around to his beautiful hands, always cupped. He was one of those young men who dance everywhere, sliding into an inaudible groove, singing softly, eyes drowsy, half-shut. He was sexy, he had charisma but this was his stage show. I got fed up with his hype. He was charming, graceful, insecure. He was smart but I was sure I was smarter. I was jealous of him and every time he skimmed forward, I couldn’t stop myself from storming after him, all stomping feet and awkward angles. Being with him, I hated who I was but I was afraid that it was only his attention that propped me up.

There were men who liked me because they really liked him. I remember one in particular who spent the night with me then called Joaquin to apologize. Not that Joaquin and I were together but no matter how often he left me, I couldn’t get shed of him. No matter how many times I left him, I felt this tie that wouldn’t release me.

I don’t know why I loved him so much but I did, I loved him to distraction. I cheated on all of my boyfriends (sorry guys) with him until I met Brett. Brett is the only man besides Joquin to whom I’ve been faithful. Ironic that I was faithful to Joaquin, actually. In practical ways it’s easy to see why I loved him — my dad was starting a new family, my mom was having a nervous breakdown and Joaquin was there. We did that teen thing, talking all night and grasping, desperate to see each other between classes at school. I thought he was my salvation; I felt like I couldn’t live without him. I remember one night when my mom flipped out (as she was prone to do at the time) and she called my brother and sister and me downstairs so that she could rant and rave at us. The entire time I was clutching a tiny note, this little piece of torn paper on which Joaquin had written, “I love you.” It was a talisman against my mother’s rage. I know I needed him much more than he needed me.

When I think of him, I think of great grief and fury. I think of desperation and frustration. It wasn’t only him — falling in love with other women but promising me that we were “cosmic partners” — it was also such a terrible, terrible time in my life. He symbolizes all of that. I still have dreams where Brett says something or does something and I realize I must have married Joaquin by mistake. I wake up shaking and cold and then I have to wake Brett up, too, to reassure me that he is still his same, gentle self.

At some melodramatic point, I burned all of the letters that Joaquin sent me. I wish I hadn’t now because I don’t remember particulars. Why did I love him so much? What were we to each other? We’ve emailed in the past few years but we have nothing to say to each other. We used to talk for hours. What did we talk about?

He said once that he is grateful for our sexual relationship. We were virgins together and we spent hours one summer doing everything but. I would ride my bike to his house and we would spend the day naked and exploring. He remembers it as such a positive time and so he’s grateful but I only remember what happened later and my impotent fury when he betrayed me. I remember how trapped I felt because ever other boy I met paled next to him. Even the boys who were kind to me, especially the boys who were kind to me.

What I realized a few years back is that who he is in real life and who he is (was) to me are two entirely different people. My memories of our relationship may be surrounded by basic facts (I confronted him at the movie theater with the other Dawn looking on, he threw rocks at my window and begged me not to leave him) but the meaning of those events are fluid. He remembers me, probably, as a self-obsessed harpy, jealous and shrill. I remember him beautiful and damning, refusing to focus his eyes on me. He remembers warm summer nights with gratitude and I remember them with sadness. But I also remember the very first months when holding his hand was a miracle. I remember his hands with great fondness.

He used to say, “You don’t like me; you love me but you don’t like me.” It was some time before I could admit that he was right. I didn’t like him very much. We had nothing in common. He would say, “You’ll end up in the suburbs married and with kids.” And he was right, I have. He’s in Brooklyn making music and movies and I’m back here again, where we left each other fifteen years ago, content with my husband and son. It’s exactly what we thought would happen. He wanted to have coffee a couple of years back and I said no because what would we talk about? I’m still trying to make sense of a relationship that’s been over for more than a decade.

I miss the imaginary Joaquin. Or maybe I miss who I was. Or maybe I wish I hadn’t wasted so much time careening after someone and defining myself as his lover. It’s not that I regret it so much, it’s just that I can’t understand how it happened. I can’t make sense of it and it was such a huge chunk of my life that I want to understand it.

There are people I wish I could confront. No, confront is the wrong word. I have questions for people and I wish we could sit down together in a white room and talk about things that don’t really matter anymore. I would ask C. why he was so cruel and tell B. that I’m sorry and I would ask Joaquin why he loved me. And then I would ask him if he could explain to me why I loved him back.

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