Romance is dead, and I’ll tell you why. When I was nine years old my cousin and I would
kiss each other in the jacuzzi and we didn’t know why. I never really liked the
way the hair above her lip felt, or her slippery lips; and I’m sure she hated my
crooked teeth and how my breath smelled like Cheez-Its. But she was comfortable
and soft and we didn’t know what it meant. And pressing your lips against
someone didn’t mean you had to be drunk, or sweating, or fumbling to unbuckle
their pants for ten minutes so they could fuck you for two, and then ask you
politely to go home because they felt like sleeping alone.
By the time we were ten we weren’t kissing so much, and we had started fighting over
things like American Girl dolls and who got the last cookie. We went to
Blockbuster every weekend and picked out a scary movie to watch, and then a funny
one for afterwards so we would feel better. By the time I was nine I don’t know that my cousins always wanted
me around, because I would get so thrilled during hide-and-seek that I would piss my
pants in my hiding spot and call time-out. Every single fucking time.
By the time we were twelve, Amanda and I could look at each other and know we were
both going to pretend that we never kissed in her jacuzzi while checking
the window to make sure her mom wasn’t looking at us. We could talk about boys
that we wanted to kiss, but never thought about putting our hands all over them.
Amanda and I shared secrets and buried others in the back of our minds. We
stopped watching scary movies and tucked our bodies close together only when we
had to sleep in her twin bed. I showed her my first thong and started hating
myself because she had a boyfriend named Joe, and she joined the cheerleading
squad, and her mom bought her clothes from Abercrombie. My hips were too big to ever borrow her pants.
One time Amanda pulled me into her room, and sat me down on her bed with her and said
me she had something to tell me. She told me quickly, in a sharp, funny voice,
“Chealsie and Pablo fucked!”. And she slid her finger into a hole she created
with her other hand. I was thrilled and intrigued. It seemed unimaginable. I
opened up the hatch in my mind that held the memories of me sitting on the
couch, re-winding and watching over and over again the sex scene from Double
Jeopardy. Ashley Judd’s beautiful naked body humping her husband on a boat,
being able to see her spine shine through her raw skin. I felt guilt and shame
for unraveling the impurities in my mind, feeling wetness seep out onto my Wet
Seal underpants and a warmth running through me. I felt even worse not being
able to decipher whether or not I was jealous of Ashley Judd or her husband.
They both seemed so beautiful.
Romance is dead because you are no longer a vulnerable child, but an adult with clammy
hands and unabashed evenings with strangers. You like the hair above someone's
lip and you don’t want to just kiss them, but pull them closer and feel their
pulsing body parts rubbing against you, like striking a match. “Don’t worry,
this won’t hurt.” But you’re bleeding onto the sheets that their mother bought
for them when they got their first apartment, and everything tastes salty, and
your hair is matted together with sweat and a tangled lover: someone who told
you they would never, ever hurt you even though that stain never came out in the
wash.
kiss each other in the jacuzzi and we didn’t know why. I never really liked the
way the hair above her lip felt, or her slippery lips; and I’m sure she hated my
crooked teeth and how my breath smelled like Cheez-Its. But she was comfortable
and soft and we didn’t know what it meant. And pressing your lips against
someone didn’t mean you had to be drunk, or sweating, or fumbling to unbuckle
their pants for ten minutes so they could fuck you for two, and then ask you
politely to go home because they felt like sleeping alone.
By the time we were ten we weren’t kissing so much, and we had started fighting over
things like American Girl dolls and who got the last cookie. We went to
Blockbuster every weekend and picked out a scary movie to watch, and then a funny
one for afterwards so we would feel better. By the time I was nine I don’t know that my cousins always wanted
me around, because I would get so thrilled during hide-and-seek that I would piss my
pants in my hiding spot and call time-out. Every single fucking time.
By the time we were twelve, Amanda and I could look at each other and know we were
both going to pretend that we never kissed in her jacuzzi while checking
the window to make sure her mom wasn’t looking at us. We could talk about boys
that we wanted to kiss, but never thought about putting our hands all over them.
Amanda and I shared secrets and buried others in the back of our minds. We
stopped watching scary movies and tucked our bodies close together only when we
had to sleep in her twin bed. I showed her my first thong and started hating
myself because she had a boyfriend named Joe, and she joined the cheerleading
squad, and her mom bought her clothes from Abercrombie. My hips were too big to ever borrow her pants.
One time Amanda pulled me into her room, and sat me down on her bed with her and said
me she had something to tell me. She told me quickly, in a sharp, funny voice,
“Chealsie and Pablo fucked!”. And she slid her finger into a hole she created
with her other hand. I was thrilled and intrigued. It seemed unimaginable. I
opened up the hatch in my mind that held the memories of me sitting on the
couch, re-winding and watching over and over again the sex scene from Double
Jeopardy. Ashley Judd’s beautiful naked body humping her husband on a boat,
being able to see her spine shine through her raw skin. I felt guilt and shame
for unraveling the impurities in my mind, feeling wetness seep out onto my Wet
Seal underpants and a warmth running through me. I felt even worse not being
able to decipher whether or not I was jealous of Ashley Judd or her husband.
They both seemed so beautiful.
Romance is dead because you are no longer a vulnerable child, but an adult with clammy
hands and unabashed evenings with strangers. You like the hair above someone's
lip and you don’t want to just kiss them, but pull them closer and feel their
pulsing body parts rubbing against you, like striking a match. “Don’t worry,
this won’t hurt.” But you’re bleeding onto the sheets that their mother bought
for them when they got their first apartment, and everything tastes salty, and
your hair is matted together with sweat and a tangled lover: someone who told
you they would never, ever hurt you even though that stain never came out in the
wash.