By Renée Ricciardi

He called me with a spur of the moment invite to watch a movie at his apartment.

“Watch a movie?” I mocked, us both chuckling knowingly.

Surely it would be another make out session while his son spent the night at grandma’s. It was late afternoon and as an unemployed recent high school graduate, I hadn’t left my house that day, or gotten dressed for that matter. I mulled over the idea of seeing him on that lazy August night and answered “only if I can wear my pajamas.”

“Are they sexy pajamas?”

“No.” I quickly retorted, and he yielded his plea. It would bother neither of us if I was wearing oversized sweatpants and a baggy shirt. He has seen me at my worst: with sweat beads, flushed cheeks and long brown hair pulled into a knotted mess of a pony tail.

Troy and I had met only a few weeks prior, at the local YMCA, where we exchanged glances and smiles.  At the sight of my inexperienced weightlifting routine, he assumed the responsibility of training me. Though we hit it off right away, in the back of my mind, I felt guilt, due to a more than obvious age difference.  I was the humble age of 18 while my blue eyed boy was a whopping 31. But before I knew it, we were spending time together outside the gym.

And so we made plans to meet that night.  As I showered, an idea sprung into my ambitious young mind. I would surprise him. I would leave my house inconspicuously dressed so as not to raise suspicion from my parents, then I would quickly change into a sleek black cocktail dress, heels, giant feather boa, and my father’s spring form top hat.

Dressed to the nines, I reached Troy’s apartment to find the door unlocked.  I stumbled noisily up the creaky wooden stairway and found him lying in bed with his lap top and dressed in none other than striped blue pajama pants for our supposed pajama party. I was simply awed by his absolute beauty, that of mind and body. With every glance at him he seemed increasingly more glorious. His carved stature was not different than the average ancient Roman statue. His two arms were delicately ornamented by colorful tattooed sleeves; with one arm an astronomically-accurate-to -scale diagram of the entire solar system, which added to the elusiveness of his character. He was not my partner. He was on a higher level - more like an icon. I idolized him the way a prepubescent girl worships pop stars.

Without wasting time, I assumed my position on top of him, forcing his lap top shut. “What I would love to do to you in that dress!” he said while sliding his palm up my thigh. But the concept of sex was overwhelming to me, and I just wouldn’t want to do anything so objectionable. But as the passion grew stronger my adamant nature grew weaker.

We agreed to find a condom. And put it on the bedside table. And I looked at it lying there for some time. And then I picked it up. And then I read the fine print. And held it to the light. And made sure that it wasn’t torn. And put it back on the table.

While I was idling there, over thinking and frozen by nerves, he was busily setting up. He lit candles. “Candles?! Now how can I say no?” I thought to myself. Then I heard the music. Michelle Branch, my absolute favorite. Obviously he had seduced a woman or two and was a master of the act. Starry-eyed, I was pushed beyond the point of no return.

Consequences aside, I threw myself at him. We briefly mentioned having sex before this night, and when I say ‘briefly mentioned’ I mean I often found myself blurting out “I want you inside me!” during more than intense fooling around. Ready for action, he moved closer and I could not decide if I should say “I Love You”, or not. Did I love him, or not? Should I ask him if he loves me? I slowly shut my eyes and I gave in, while saying nothing.

And now let us fast forward through that blissful scene, through the next few days, until a full week had gone by. I was alone in my kitchen baking when I received a phone call from Troy. He was cold, he was distant. I ask what is wrong.

“Something happened. I need some time to myself.”

If a man were to say this to me now, with my more developed relationship insight and wisdom, I would ask questions, state my opinion, perhaps argue, give him a hard time, put him in his place, tell him that he deserves to be alone and lonely.

However, I was young. I was tall, beautiful, and most of all, inexperienced. I had never had a boyfriend and this gym fling was the closest I had been to a relationship. My first kiss happened only several months prior and this full grown adult had over 15 years of dating experience on me. I didn’t know what to think, let alone say, and numbness came over me. I simply obeyed, said “ok,” and hung up.

Troy was the first man I met who had patience for a woman. The few boys I had mingled with before him declared their sexual desires in a way that made me want to turn and run. I was no prude, but Troy's lack of a statement about his intentions caught me off guard at that age, and I ultimately rewarded him with my body. Now I know that he was no different than those younger boys, and that men only grow more subtle with their coerciveness with age.

We don’t speak too often now, just every few months when I figure a phone call might serve us well; but I leave it to fate for our paths to cross. Of course there is a tang of bitterness in my heart but I realize that on that night my teen eyes of naivety were opened, something that needed to happen -- and sooner I suppose is better. I have learned it is better to withhold myself, and I’m now waiting for someone deserving. The exit is always most difficult, and the way he escaped from me, slipping through my fingers like sand, has left an ever-healing wound that’s purpose served me well.