Ethan. Ethan? On my front stairs? How...how should I approach this? Maybe start off smooth and snide. Pretend to ignore him and mutter "Man, I'd love to go home right now, but the vibe is all wrong." And then just walk on by the house. Then I would not answer his e-mails or phone calls (which I was certain there would be hundreds of) until that one day when I'd run into him at, of all places, Good Vibrations. I'd be by the vibrator wall. I'd slowly turn toward him, offer no proof that I recognized him, and say "Gosh. I want to get one of these vibes for my hot, eighteen year old poolboy/boyfriend, but I'm afraid I'll get the wrong type. You look like someone who knows his vibes, what would you get?" He would be not only crushed but rendered impotent by the exchange, and would spend the rest of his life breaking out into hives whenever someone discussed sex toys, acoustics, or that Marky Mark & The Funky Bunch video. One day, five years down the line, he'd be at a party, doing lines of Pixie Stix off some skank's diseased stomach when a certain Beach Boys song would catch his ear. At that moment he'd realize how empty his life was without me, and he would have no choice but to slit his wrists and throw himself into a vat of Hydrochloric Acid and lemon juice. His stomach skank would think it was a bad reaction to the nose candy, but, even though I would have so moved on by then, when word of Ethan's death reached me, I would know that I was the reason he pulled his fizzing body out of the acid vat and threw himself out the plate glass window and on to the salt-covered barbed-wire electric fence.
When I realized how that scenario was far too good for Ethan, I looked him almost dead in the eye and said "Hey."
"Why are you sitting on my doorstep?"
"I felt like an asshole."
If I had written the experience, instead of living it, I would have said "You were an asshole. I hope you didn't come here looking for forgiveness or sex, because you can forget about either." Instead, I said "Don't worry about it." I am a fucken pussy.
"Can I come in?"
No, you cockblocking, bad vibe having piece of spermicide, you can't. "Sure. You have to be quiet, though, my roommates are sleeping."
Let's pretend that we had some long conversation that completely vindicated why he essentially threw me out of his house. Maybe his Dad died, or his roommate urinated in his fish tank. The assumption that we'd reconciled our first encounter, makes us both sound a little less desperate than the truth: as soon as we were inside the door we began snogging.
"Before we go any further," he said with one hand down the front of my jeans, "I have to ask. Do you have AIDS?"
"No. I'm very much negative."
"So what's with all those spots?" I wondered if I'd had such a stressful night that I'd entered some sort of second puberty. Was my face a minefield of pustules? No.
"Spots. They're all over your arm."
"My freckles?" Was it possible he'd never seen a person with freckles before?
"Yea. Freckles. When I'm out in the sun, instead of getting a tan, I get freckles. It's like low carb skin cancer. I've had them since I was born."
"So, they're not like lesions or an STD or anything."
"Unless you consider life as an STD, no. They're just freckles. No more contagious than my hair color."
"Oh." He pushed me on the sofa, slid off his Umbros, and sat his ample ass on my exposed cock. "Ooooh. You like that don't you."
I suppressed a snicker (and perhaps a Twix or two). Talking dirty is a fine art. Ethan was stillfingerpainting.
"I know you love my ass. Don't you Safey?"
I froze. "What did you just call me?"