Two years ago, I fell in love.
My girlfriend and I moved in together after dating for a year, and we were happy. Then distrust began to build. She began reading my private journals, checking my e-mails and phone bills to see if I was talking to ex-girlfriends. I had been cheated on once in university (I heard them fucking through the dormitory door) and vowed I'd never cheat on anyone because of how horrible it feels.
My girlfriend and I talked about the distrust and things were okay for a few months. Then she went snooping and found an e-mail to an ex detailing some of our current sexual troubles.
My justification was that I needed a friend to talk to and that the ex (from 12 years ago) was just that, a friend. My girlfriend freaked. She said that if it was okay for me to talk to ex-girlfriends, it was fine for her to date "friends." She began going out to movies and dinners with men from work and claimed nothing was happening.
I knew the relationship was abusive, but I was comfortable in my misery.
It seemed as though there was nothing for me to do but supplement my career as an unemployable stand-up comic by working as a waiter.
Then, one day, demented hope flashed before my eyes. It was Halloween night and I had to go in to work to pick up some cash the restaurant owed me. All the staff were dressed in costumes, and behind the counter was my fantasy: an 18-year-old with dark brown hair and a full-figured body atop tanned legs reminiscent of a Herb Ritts portrait.
Perfection had embodied itself in this vision of sensuality. Her name was Pauline, and she was dressed in a red-and-black high school cheerleader's outfit set off by orange pom-poms.
She caught me looking at her legs and grinned as she whispered, "Wish I had something to cheer about."
I shot back with, "I've got something to make you yell, 'Go team!'"
She turned away to look after a customer and said, "You should get a costume. We're gonna party at Wide Open later." That was a small, smoky bar two blocks away.
"I'm gonna wear you and dress up as a happy middle-aged man." The fact that I had a girlfriend made my flirting skills horrendous yet absurd. She laughed as I walked away.
I got my cash, sat at the bar and had a couple of pints. Occasionally, Pauline and I exchanged glances. I wondered what it would be like if she were in my life instead of my girlfriend. I was beginning to feel a little buzzed from the beer and decided to head over to Wide Open; Pauline was ready to go, too.
She lit a cigarette and exhaled, then sidled up next to me and whispered, "I know a shortcut." We walked into a park, which was pitch black except for one streetlight reflecting into a fountain. It was 11 pm, and the homeless guys had yet to claim the park for their own. It was perfectly quiet. We sat on the edge of the fountain, and Pauline said, "Let's smoke a joint."
When she pulled out her rolling papers and a bag of weed, the papers slipped and fell into the grass. When she bent over, I peeked at the purple G-string exposed under her skirt. She saw me looking at her lower back and must have sensed my perverse desire.
Without skipping a beat, she reached over and ran her tongue across my neck and into my mouth. Is this cheating? I haven't done anything, and my girlfriend and I are kind of on the rocks. Pauline began to stroke me through my jeans, but because of the beers I wasn't that aroused.
I wanted to tell her we had to stop, that I lived with my girlfriend and we were gonna work things out. She unzipped my pants and started sucking me off. I wasn't getting hard. As I thought about this beautiful woman wanting me I began to get half-hard. She grabbed my hand and slid two of my fingers inside of her.
All my thoughts about infidelity were replaced by filthy lust. I still wasn't hard, but I felt I had something to prove. My manhood hung in the balance. Isn't it every man's fantasy to have a hot 18-year-old want him?
I ripped her G-string to the side and she mounted me. We had no condom. Should I say something? But she smelled so clean - she must take care of herself. I'll pull out.
I stuffed myself awkwardly inside her, and she was so wet, I finally began to get hard. She was turned away from me, the sweet scent of her hair bouncing off my face. She was tight and hot, almost too hot. I squeezed my load off as I yelled, "I'm commminnnnggg!!!" She ground down hard onto me, and I couldn't pull out. I thought she'd be disappointed that I came like a guy having his first time, but she rode out my orgasm and dug her nails into my hands, her body quivering, while she came just as hard as I did. My hands gripped her tits through her satiny bra.
Both my hands had been pierced three times by her fake nails, and blood had been drawn in all six spots. When she let my cock slide out of her I did up my pants, and then she sat on top of me and we kissed deeply.
We sat in the afterglow for a minute, and then she knelt to pick up the rolling papers she'd dropped. I thought about how shitty my life had been until this point and that dreams do come true. Life is beautiful. I wanted to sing the world's praises. She looked upset, and I didn't know why.
She reached down and grabbed her crotch, felt around and yelled, "Did you come in me? You fucker, you came inside of me?!"
I meekly spit out, "Yes, I think I yes, I did. Are you on the pill?"
"No, you stupid fucker. I'm 18. I'm not on the pill! Have you had a vasectomy or anything, you old fuck?"
I was in shock. Did she just call me an old fuck? "No. We can deal with this. It's okay."
She began walking away. "If you see me at work, don't talk to me, you prematurely bald fucker! You're gonna pay for this kid!"
I think, "This can't be happening."
Walking home, I wondered, Could I tell Pauline I loved her? Would I need another job to support a kid? What about an abortion or the day-after pill? Maybe my sperm wouldn't work.
At home I realized I hadn't thought about my girlfriend at all. "I'm an asshole," I thought. All of a sudden, I saw things clearly. She probably wasn't cheating on me; she just needed friends to talk to like I did. How could I tell her what I'd done? I couldn't. She could never find out.
Only then did I realize how much I loved my girlfriend. "I just want to be with her forever," I thought. "I swear I'll never cheat again." I was determined never to let her find out what I'd done, and figured I'd watch TV until a solution popped into my head.
I began watching a reality dating show and must have dozed off. I awoke to screams. My girlfriend was yelling, "You motherfucker, who was it?"
She pointed at my hands, and I looked at the wounds left by Pauline's fingernails. She locked herself in the bedroom, and I could hear her crying. As I pleaded with her to open the door, I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror and saw lipstick smeared across my face. She knew what I'd done. I had to lie. I yelled and pleaded as tears ran down my face.
Finally, the door opened. She looked almost content. She'd packed two small suitcases, and spat in my face as she walked out of my life forever. I slept poorly for the next week and made phone call after phone call, finally tracking her down at her ex-boyfriend's, an extremely athletic Jamaican hiphop artist. She was gone.
I needed to deal with Pauline and found out when she'd be at work. There, I found Pauline had spread the word about our 45-second fling, because all the staff shunned me, and the one gay waiter said, "How can you give an innocent little girl a kid and ruin her life, you bastard?!"
On my way out I met Pauline, who spat through gritted teeth, "I'm keeping it. I know your parents have money. I don't wanna see you again unless you've got a cheque in your dirty old-man hands!"
Instead of the glamorous side of intercourse, I just thought for once you might want a real story about the consequences.