Tripping on Tears (11 page)

“Maybe you were a horndog.”

“I got that girl’s number; turns out she had a very strict father. Believe it or not, I actually had to call her father after I’d asked her out and ask for his permission to take her out.”

“Indian girl?” she asked.

“No, I believe European, somewhere over there. Anyway, I did and he said, ‘Yes.’ You see, I’m good with fathers, even the strict ones. I remember I picked her up and we were heading for a local restaurant; we were going to get a bite to eat and catch a movie. My first clue that things were going to be different on that date was when she asked me, I’d say about two to three minutes into the date, how long I thought couples should wait before having sex after they’ve met.”

“And you said,” she asked.

“I looked at my watch and said, two to three minutes. I can pull over.”

She laughed.

“The question actually took me by surprise; and seriously, I have no idea what I did say. We did go to dinner but we didn’t make the movie. We ended up in the backseat of my parent’s car. I was stupid though, I took a big chance with her.”

Safia just looked at me questioningly.

“You have no idea how heady it is for a teenage boy to be offered the opportunity to actually engage in sex – real sex – intercourse. Back in my day we all said we were doing it, but believe me, the majority of us, and I mean almost everyone, was lying through their teeth. So here I was, offered access to the Promised Land, something I hadn’t expected, and because I hadn’t expected it, I wasn’t carrying any protection.”

“You went and got some, right?”

“You’d think. She didn’t want to stop. She said not to worry, the chances of her getting pregnant were a million to one; what could one time hurt? There was that and the fact that at my age, I was embarrassed by the prospect of buying protection. It was like announcing to everyone what you were going to do.”

“You’re kidding me? You bought that? You thought that?”

“Not the brightest bulb in the box, I know. I know better now; I know that’s bullshit, the one in a million pregnancy line, but you’ve got to look at this from my point of view; I was young and being offered the opportunity to go all the way by a girl whom I was attracted to. Of course I was going to do something stupid.”

“So you guys did it; went all the way? Unprotected?” she asked.

“Yeah. Being both of our first times, it wasn’t much; a bit sloppy and messy, and probably quicker than expected, but, yeah, we did it. It’s funny, because as we were doing it, I knew in the back of my mind I was doing something stupid and wrong, but I couldn’t stop; everything about it was just so different; the sensations, the feeling of being inside her, everything; I’d never experienced anything like that ever before, and it was heady and intoxicating.”

I paused to take a sip of my tea. Memories were flooding back; although I knew that date and what happened on it probably wasn’t as memorable or special to the girl I was with; it had meant everything to me. I kind of wished that that sense of discovery occurred every time; it’s just one of those things you never forget.

“During the brief time we were engaged in sex, I kept thinking to myself that I’d be smart and before I came, I’d pull out of her. If I wasn’t going to use full protection, that seemed at least like an intelligent compromise. The only problem was I was overwhelmed by everything I was feeling. I’ve had a few acquaintances in my life who’ve told me they’ve used that method of birth control; probably the worst and most unreliable, but, I guess, they were too cheap to buy condoms. I’ve never understood how they could do it. I mean, at that moment, when things are going to happen, everything is working wonderfully, all the feelings and sensations, there’s no way in hell I could back away from that before completion. I just don’t have that kind of will power.”

“I assume you don’t have a kid out there somewhere?” she asked.

“No. During the date, this girl, who was in Grade Ten at the time, said some things that indicated there might be trouble at home; we had also talked on the phone more than a few times before our date. I got lucky, she didn’t get pregnant, although I’ll tell you, for those few minutes of pleasure, I spent a lot of time sweating my ass off with anxiety as to whether or not I’d have to go to my parents and tell them I got a girl pregnant. I got really, really lucky. It was a couple of years later that I ran into her father at the mall; we said ‘Hi’ to one another and I asked how she was doing; turns out that about six months after I stopped seeing her, she met some older guy and moved in with him.”

“I thought you said she was in Grade Ten?”

“She was. That’s why I got lucky. The way I figured it, she was unhappy at home; under her father’s thumb and she figured if she went out and got pregnant or something, she’d be taken in by the family of the boy who got her pregnant; especially knowing that if she got pregnant her father was probably going to kick her out of the house. That’s why she didn’t care about using protection; pregnancy was probably an escape in her mind. The few dates after the one where we went all the way didn’t involve sex. I’d come prepared with condoms, but when she found that out, she seemed less interested; one of the things that made me wary and broke us up. So, that’s my first time; unimpressive and embracing all kinds of stupidity.”

“I assume things got better over the years?” she asked.

“I make no guarantees,” I said. “So, how about you? What was your first time like? How’d it come about?”

“You really shouldn’t ask a lady such questions.”

“That bad, huh?”

She smiled. “It didn’t involve love or anything like that; no girly stuff, just basic curiosity.”

“Like a scientific experiment?” I asked.

“I remember in high school, my girlfriends and I would trade books, romance stories, especially if they got a little racy. You know the stuff, a lot of heaving bosoms, torn bodices, throbbing members, and stuff like that. None of our parents said anything about sex; it was like a taboo topic around us; what they never considered is that not speaking about it doesn’t take the curiosity from our minds. It was after I’d finished high school; I didn’t know what I wanted to do, and didn’t want to do what my parents wanted me to do. I talked them into letting me take a couple of local art classes, and it was there I met Daniel. He was a nice guy, no flash or anything, a good sense of humor; I enjoyed talking with him and hanging out. It was after class one evening that I took him by surprise. He offered to drive me home, and when we got to the parking lot, I seduced him.”

“Seduced him? Really?”

My interest was definitely peaked.

“I’m trying to make it more interesting than it actually was. I basically offered myself to him,” she said.

I laughed. “I’d have liked to see the look on his face when that happened. It’s not every day a beautiful woman just offers herself to you. Maybe every other day, but not every day. So, you just decided to have sex with this guy?”

“No, I gave it a lot of thought. Everybody makes such a big deal about it that I figured I wanted to find out what it was all about; what the big deal was all about. I also figured, at that time, that my parents were going to marry me off one day to some guy I didn’t know, and I’d be expected to get married and jump into his bed; this seemed just as good as that; at least I knew Daniel and knew I liked him. Why not make him my first time?”

“How was it?”

“I don’t think Daniel was all that experienced. I hate to say it, but I probably thought what most women think? Is that it? That’s the big deal? I will add though, that I at least brought protection. There was no way I wanted to risk getting pregnant; not out of curiosity. So that was it, my first time.”

We sat in silence for a few minutes, sipping our teas and no doubt contemplating each other’s stories.

“So, it doesn’t bother you that I’m not a virgin; that I’ve been sexually active?” she asked.

“Why should it,” I replied. “It does happen. Nothing wrong with it, and let’s face it, virginity is overrated.”

“Really? I guess being with someone experienced is like wearing a pair of boots that have all ready been broken in. Is that what you’re saying?” she asked.

“No, that’s what you’re saying,” I said, not wanting to get drawn into that thought, but unable to help myself, “but not a bad analogy.”

It wasn’t long after that that Safia went to sleep. It was getting late, and no matter that we had managed to lighten up the evening and find some humor and laughs out of a very serious situation; she was no doubt emotionally drained.

She took the guest room and I headed for the master bedroom, but just couldn’t sleep. After a bit of tossing and turning, I made my way back out to the kitchen and heated up some more tea in the microwave.

This is supposed to be a love story, and in many ways it is; but in a love story, I really shouldn’t reveal this. As I sat there at the table, I couldn’t help wondering if I’d made a mistake. Safia was here. She’d moved in. While one part of me was happy with it, another part was frightened. It was a big commitment, and I’d made it to her. What if I’d been wrong about her? I’d never lived with a woman before, and now, after only a very short time, I was living with her. It was irrational, I know, because while I dealt with that late night anxiety, I also knew deep down it was right. You talk about conflicting emotions – it’s a wonder I wasn’t a basket case. It was also then that her cell phone rang. She’d left it on the kitchen table when she’d gone to bed.

I wasn’t sure what I should do, so I elected to answer it. The voice on the other line was her brother’s.

“Is Safia with you?” he asked.

He was keeping his voice low, as if he was secretly making this call and didn’t want anyone else to know. As far as I was concerned, this was a good thing. Her brother cared about her and wanted to make sure she was safe.

“Yeah,” I replied. “She’s okay; she’s sleeping, in my guest room.”

There was silence on the other end. I guess he didn’t know what he wanted to say.

“You’re welcome to come by anytime and check up on her,” I offered.

“Bye,” he said, hanging up the phone.

Safia said she had a younger brother, and at that moment I was proud of him. He was worried about his sister and was checking up on her. That was a good thing. Feeling there was hope after all, I retired to bed and finally fell asleep.

CHAPTER
Ten

MY
Fears
of us moving in together, which actually only surfaced once Safia had moved in, quickly disappeared. She went to work at Koffee Krisp and I continued working on my book. Now that we were officially together, there was no need for me to go to the coffee shop every day, although as we’d been dating, I had popped in from time to time.

It’s funny, the fears we harbor. Isn’t the company line that all we guys want to cling to is our independence? We want to be as free as a bird, with the ability to do anything and everything we want, whenever we want to do it. Who hasn’t heard a friend or two question another friend about becoming tied down with a particular woman? “You’re giving up your independence,” they’d say, as if that independence was a prized possession. And what did those guys do with that independence? Aside from the freedom to freely pass gas, scratch themselves inappropriately and lounge around the house in their underwear, the pair they’ve worn for the last five days, they used that independence and freedom to chase women. We spend so much of our time acting like women are the old ball and chain, but when we’re not locked down; we’re out looking for the very thing we fear is going to put us in a ball and chain.

Late that first night, I don’t know what I feared? I never thought I’d been afraid of commitment, as I’d grown up watching my parents happily committed to one another, while at other times, wanting to get one or the other committed. They made it work, even when they were annoying the hell out of one another. Was I afraid she was going to somehow change my living environment? Somehow my home would sense a female presence and suddenly start transforming into something more feminine and less comfortable for me? Was I afraid she wasn’t going to let me out of the house? Let’s face it, my partying days were over, and even when they weren’t, it was probably never as good and wild as exaggerated memory liked to let me believe. If I wasn’t hooking up with a friend for drinks, which I’d pointed out before, had become less and less frequent, or hanging out at Koffee Krisp because Safia was there, and I desperately had wanted to meet her, I was pretty much a homebody. I was staying in working on my book, reading or watching a movie. What in the hell was I giving up that should have caused me so much anxiety?

Nothing.

It actually felt good to be at home with someone, sharing meals, discussions and movies. Sure, I was holding in a lot more gas than might have been healthy for my colon, but it was fun to spend evenings with Safia - just being together. I also discovered that it was also fun rediscovering those movies I loved, introducing them to her and seeing them for the first time again, through her eyes. Seeing how I was a film buff and she wasn’t, most of these movies were new to her. I also discovered she had new things to introduce me to as well – namely Bollywood.

“
Koi...Mil Gaya
?” I asked, as Safia moved to the Blu-Ray player to put one of her favorite Bollywood films in it.

“It’s one of my favorites,” she said, thrilled to be introducing me to cinema that had been a part of her life.

“It’s subtitled, right?”

“Of course,” she said.

I checked out the DVD box; it was a pirated copy of the film; something she had bought for two or three bucks at a local flea market and featured the film we were about to watch and another called,
Kal Ho Naa Ho
. The common denominator, as far as I could see, was the actress on the box cover, who appeared to be starring in both films.

“It stars Hrithik Roshan and Preity Zinta. I had a big crush on Hrithik when I was growing up,” she explained. “It was a big hit when it came out and was said to be inspired by
E.T.
”

“Bollywood films tend to borrow liberally from Hollywood themes and movies,” she continued. “I’ve actually seen a website that tells you what Hollywood film each Bollywood film has kind of borrowed extensively from. I don’t think copyright is as big a deal over there as it is here.”

“Interesting,” I said.

Koi...Mil Gaya
was my first Bollywood film, or at least the first I didn’t channel surf past, and to tell the truth, I quite enjoyed it. I could see why she had a crush on Hrithik, he was definitely dreamy, and although I didn’t say so to her, Preity was no slouch in the looks department herself. I was absolutely fascinated by the interplay of story and song and dance numbers; Indian producers and directors knew how to make it look seamless. As for the dancing, I developed a new respect for dancers when I saw the way Hrithik was moving. People are always going on about Michael Jackson or others being these amazing dancers, and they are, but those who say that haven’t seen Hrithik moving.

Safia was thrilled that I’d enjoyed the movie, and our movie viewing came to not only include my black and white classics, but also Bollywood films she loved. And I could see that much like me, she enjoyed re-watching these films and seeing them through the eyes of another.

Along with continuing to get to know one another, I was happy when her older sister, Rijja showed up at our place – see, not ‘my’ place, but ‘our’ place – with suitcases and boxes full of Safia’s personal items. Her parent’s household was still in turmoil by Safia’s revelation and her leaving home and moving in with me, so Rijja and her friend, Sandra had had to wait for the right time to pack up her stuff. They’d mentioned doing it to her parents, but they had refused to let them, saying she was gone now and all she deserved was whatever she could carry or was wearing on her back. Her sister and Sandra had waited for a day when they knew her parents were going to be out for a long time, and they hurriedly threw her things together and got them over to my place. Rijja knew she’d be in trouble, but at the same time, she was worried about her sister and wanted to do something that might comfort her. Safia was thrilled to not only see them, but to get the remainder of her clothes and many personal items she’d thought she’d lost forever.

Safia introduced me to her sister and Sandra, but for the most part, I got the impression her sister didn’t want much to do with me. I was there, so they had to say something, but for the most part they kept their distance, talking with Safia in a lot of hushed tones. It’s funny, even though you know you’ve done nothing wrong, when you see people talking in hushed tones and stealing glances in your direction, somehow, unreasonably, you feel like you’ve done something wrong – you’re guilty of something.

I helped with the boxes, the manual labor, but other than that, I kept my distance; that seemed to be what was wanted. At the same time, I was dying to talk to Rijja; I wanted to know what had been happening at her and Safia’s family home? I was just curious as to what she thought her parents were thinking. We’re all human, and sometimes in the moment we get carried away and say and do things we later regret – like disowning your daughter. That was a big one in my eyes. After the initial blow up between Safia and her parents, had she noticed any chinks in her parent’s armor – any signs they might have regretted their actions? I mean this is your daughter? You’ve held her as a helpless little baby, and watched her grow up; the two of you have been her protector for so many years; the two people whom she looked up to and loved deeply and unconditionally. You’ve been her everything, and one night, one difference of perspective, and everything was shattered. It didn’t make any sense. Surely they must regret their actions? I just couldn’t see how it could be any other way, no matter what anyone else was saying, or what I might kind of be overhearing. I was wrong,
but more on that later.

At one point I just left the house. I didn’t leave Safia in a lurch, but came up with an excuse as to why I had to go; I figured if I wasn’t around, her sister might feel more comfortable and spend more time with her. As much as we were enjoying each other’s company, I knew that being around family would make her happy.

Here I was the hapless loner and author, being driven out of my own home by the woman I loved, whom I accidentally met, and her sister and friend. I was in exile, and praying they didn’t snoop around too much. All I needed was for her sister and friend to find my
Playboy
collection and they’d use that as a pretense to call me a pervert and convince her she needed to move out and go home – beg her parents for forgiveness. A magazine really shouldn’t be this much of a worry in one’s life.

When I got back home, Rijja and her friend were gone, and Safia was in the guest room hanging up her clothes; she had transformed the room with her stuff, and seemed happy and content.

“I hope you don’t mind,” she said, “but I put some of the stuff you had in here down in the basement. I needed some room.”

“It’s your room to do with as you please,” I said.

Safia continued unpacking her clothes and hanging them up; I’ve never lived with a woman, but I had a mother and sister, and damn if women don’t have a lot of clothes. I swear to God they must be planning to wear something different every day of the year.

“Are you okay?” I finally asked.

She just looked at me.

“You know, seeing your sister.”

“Yeah,” she said.

“Did she say anything about your parents?” I asked. I wasn’t sure I should get into that, she seemed happy, and I didn’t want to upset her, but curiosity killed the cat and I was ready to be maimed if that was what was needed.

“They haven’t changed their minds,” she said, as she continued going about her business. “They’ve forbidden my sister and brother to talk to me.”

“Is that why your brother didn’t come?” I asked.

“They didn’t say.”

I was watching her closely; looking to get a feel for what she was thinking; I really wasn’t getting anything concrete. Then she sat down, a serious look on her face.

“I’d hoped that maybe they’d changed their minds, or were willing to talk about this some more, but according to Rijja they aren’t,” she said. “At first I was a bit upset; I’d hoped. Then as I thought about it, I realized that I couldn’t let it destroy me. I didn’t disown them, they disowned me. I love them, but if they don’t want to love me, what can I do about it? Stop being me? Become their robot, doing whatever they say whenever they say it? I’m their daughter, but I’m also a human being, with thoughts, feelings, wants and desires. I’m me, not them.”

I could see she was passionate about what she was saying; there was a fire in her eyes.

“I have to live my life on my terms, not theirs. I want them to be a part of that life, but if they choose not to, I’m not going to become someone I’m not, or do something I really don’t want to do. They should love me for who I am, and nothing more. All of this, what has happened, it’s their problem not mine.”

“I’m sure eventually they’ll come around,” I offered.

“Right now, I really don’t care. I’m where I want to be,” she said.

Six little words that lit up my world: “I’m where I want to be!” I added the exclamation mark because that’s how I heard it. I’d thought my life was going to go in one particular direction, and now it had veered off course, and I was damn lucky to be taking that ride with Safia.

“I’m glad,” I said, “because I want you here.”

I have never wanted a woman more in my life than I’d wanted Safia at that moment. I wanted to move to her, kiss her deeply and passionately and then pick her up and throw her on the bed, ripping off both our clothes and making passionate love to her right there and then; that’s what I wanted to do, but I also didn’t want to make a mistake and make a move too early, when she wasn’t ready, so what I did was stand up and say, “I’m going to put on a pot of coffee; maybe get some work done on my book.”

“Sounds good,” she said, standing back up and going to work on her wardrobe.

“Oh, by the way...,” she said as I got to the bedroom door. I stopped and turned back to her, “...nice
Playboy
collection, perv.”

She had a big smile on her face; I’d been busted.

“They came with the house. I swear,” I stuttered, before turning and racing to the safety of my coffee maker.