Going through the blog archives looking for kernels is tricky business. Some things I just mentioned in passing, never elaborated at all. I’m reminded of so much. It’s memory overload. This morning I was thinking about Kevin again. Been thinking about him a lot lately, moreso now that I’m looking back and seeing all I’ve written about him.
When I was 16 my parents let me go to Toronto with Ronnie and his father for March Break. I hated Ronnie’s father but I was more than willing to endure his abuse in order to get out of Barnettville. I’d never really been anywhere before, one overnight trip to Maine when I was about 9 or 10. A few weekend camping excursions to Fundy National Park with Stacy and her parents. A couple of drama festivals at UNB in Fredericton. But that was pretty much it. I’d never seen anything like Montreal, like the 401. I’d never been on a major highway or ate at a truck stop. Never been so far away from home for so long. Ronnie slept a lot of the way there, but not me. I wanted to see everything, to absorb it through my skin and keep it with me always. Nothing could have prepared me for my first sight of Toronto. We topped a hill around 1 or 2 in the morning and suddenly there were lights stretching in the distance as far as I could see. It was the most beautiful thing, absolutely breathtaking. Even Ronnie’s father was smiling and cheerful as we crossed the city and headed south toward Isabel’s.
I could not believe the miniscule house we were going to stay at. All the rooms were so tiny and jam packed with stuff. It felt cluttered, but really I think they just didn’t have any place to put anything. Ronnie and I slept upstairs in an open loft-like room with many beds. It turned out a lot of people came and went at Isabel’s, they could sleep many and had been for years. That’s the first time I met Kevin. He was 24, very tall, slim and blonde. I didn’t see him much because he worked all day and didn’t hang around with us at night. We were all younger. He was a bit aloof, confident, cocky, sarcastic and I thought gorgeous. I don’t even know if I spoke to him, I was so shy I never said much of anything to anyone that whole week. But he left a lasting impression on me.
Immediately after that trip I started planning to go to Toronto after I graduated. Even though I was only in the 10th grade I spent hours in my guidance counsellor’s office looking through university calendars, choosing possible pursuits of study and seeing what prerequisites I would need to get in. Ryerson, with it’s downtown location, leaped to the top right away, but I wasn’t sold on journalism. I wanted to go to their theatre school. Nobody wanted me to leave the province. Not my teachers, or my parents, or my boyfriend or anyone. And nobody wanted me to get into a program that would pretty much guarantee living in poverty for the rest of my days. I was smart. I could be anything I wanted. I could study law. Why would I waste my life on something in the arts?
They talked me out of theatre studies, but couldn’t talk me out of Ryerson. I just switched my focus to journalism. I’d done my homework. At that time there were very few places to study journalism, and only one place in province at the community college in Woodstock. They couldn’t really press that one because afterall they’d been the ones insisting all along that I get a degree and that program didn’t offer one. There was King’s College in Nova Scotia but they didn’t offer a broadcast component and I insisted I wanted to go into broadcasting, because that was where the money was, afterall they’d been very insistent that I go into something with high earning potential. I half-heartedly applied to Concordia and Carleton, just in case I didn’t get into Ryerson, but I was leaving the province upon graduation, no doubt about it. I may have lost the battle but I definitely won the war.
So I applied to Ryerson, got in, and Ronnie asked Isabel if I could board with them during the school year. They were quite used to having boarders, said yes, and there I was heading off to live with my then ex-boyfriend’s relatives in Toronto. Before I left I remember Stacy and I sitting in the middle of the road between our houses, smoking and chatting. We’d be right around Alden’s house now I suppose, but then it was just woods. I told her about this house I was going to live in, the family, the adorable son. I joked that I’d seduce him and he’d be my boyfriend in no time. I really was kidding. I thought I was too young and insecure for someone like Kevin. I never thought he’d give me a passing look. I just wasn’t in his league. I imagined he only went out with real women and I was just a girl.
But of course the joke was on me, we did get together. And one night we were talking about our first impressions of one another and I found out that I also had a lasting impact upon him that first visit when I was 16 years old. He said he expected Ronnie to show up with a kid, a skinny scrawny twig of a girl. He took one look at me and said to himself, “Whoa! Ronnie’s got his hands full there. He’s got himself a real woman.” Two years later when Kevin learned that I was going to move into his house he joked with his friend Brent that Ronnie was making a big mistake leaving me there with him. That he’d have me in no time. He was really joking. He’s not the kind of guy that would ever steal a girl from a friend or family. He didn’t know Ronnie and I broke up.
It was funny how we both joked about getting together. I like to think it was love at first sight. We certainly had something going on, chemistry, a zing, big time zha zha zhu. He was the best lover I’ve ever had, though I really shouldn’t tell anyone that anymore. What is up with guys anyway? If you don’t want to know the truth, why ask the question? If you really want to make a man happy, pretend you’ve never had an orgasm before, tell him he’s the only one who’s ever been able to bring you to climax. DO NOT tell him your ex was the best lay you ever had, rather than rising to the challenge most men wither at the hint of competition. In my experience anyway.
I think Kevin was my favourite lover because he was the only one I ever really loved, we had a strong soul connection. I’ve been in serious like with other guys but everyone always gets compared to Kevin and nobody ever measures up. We completed each other’s sentences, knew what the other was thinking just by a look or a nod or a touch. I was with him longer than anyone else. He’s the only boyfriend I seriously entertained notions of marriage. If we could have come to terms with the issues of drugs, children and my committment phobia, we likely would have married. Maybe we would have even been happy. His family was the only one other than my own that I ever felt welcomed into, that I ever loved like they were mine.
Don’t get the wrong idea, I’m not pining for the one that got away or anything like that. We had lots of problems, I don’t believe it was healthy for either of us to be together for the long haul. But there were some good things too, and those are the things that I’m looking for with someone else, those things and so much more. I know exactly what I want, and exactly what I don’t. What I’m willing to compromise on and what my dealbreakers are. And until I find someone who’s got a lot of what I want, compromises I can live with and no dealbreakers, I’m perfectly fine with being on my own . . . though this crazy vow of celibacy that I pledged in racier tumultous times (and it was badly needed, necessary even to get my life under control) now seems more absurd with every passing day. I need to re-examine, rewrite my code of conduct, at the very least allow myself a fuck buddy, some recreational sex, no strings, no emotions. But not a slew of guys, just one, on call, just for sex. I used to have the best fuck buddy . . . ah, but that’s another post for another day.
Mood: damp, like the weather
Listening To: Why Does It Always Rain on Me, Coldplay
Hair: needs shampoo, cut, colour