Strangers

A Story by elynne

This is from my freshman year of college and the struggle with lonliness and "hookup" culture

I sat on the couch and suddenly his arm was around me. No warning, just movement. I could feel my skin tingling underneath the weight of his arm, but I couldn’t figure out if the sensation came from the multitude of drugs racing through my system or if it was the tingling of skin associated with attraction. Unable to hold myself up straight with his arm pushing against me, pulling me closer to him I gave in and let my head rest against his chest. He was funny. I remember him being funny. We’d laugh and talk with the miscellaneous group of people that had accumulated in the room. As we grew more comfortable, he reached over and snatched my red ball cap off my head placing it on top of his unruly mane of brown hair with a mischievous grin. I just laughed and let him have it. It looked good on him. I’d get it back before I left.

I stared at the pools of beer, rum, and coke that covered the dirty white tiled floor and smiled slightly. This was a place that two semesters of college had taught me to love rather than despise. I felt light and happy, but I was still unable to attribute the feeling to a specific substance or person. No one seemed alarmed by how close we were to each other on that couch. No one seemed to think it was strange, so I convinced myself it wasn’t strange. I found things to like about him, which wasn’t all that difficult if I didn’t think about it too much. Every time I laughed I would crane my neck to look up at his brown eyes that were incased by quirky blue frames. I thought he was kinda cute in an eccentric way. He was fun too. When natural lulls in the conversation came, he would always chant “do something crazy!” and then sit back while someone drunkenly responded. He was an instigator for sure, but I liked it. It was exciting. He was exciting.

We sat on the couch surrounded by friends for a good amount of time, probably about an hour. It’s hard to know though. Time was obscured by our state of minds. Clocks were out of reach and unreadable. Everyone was content with being in the moment, just as I was. He leaned over and whispered “want to go smoke in my room”. I didn’t, but I liked his attention, so I just answered with a simple nod. He stood and held his hand out for me. I followed. For the first time, people in the room seemed suspicious of us. My best friend’s head shot up and he raised a quizzical eyebrow, “What are you doing?” I responded by simply pointing to him and saying, “his room.” My buddy shrugged, letting it go. I guess he figured that I could take care of myself. I always had. There wasn’t a precedent behavior of mine to stir concern.

In his room, I felt awkward and out of place. Without his hands there to physically hold me close, like they had been on the couch, I began to drift away from him. I reached into my purse and placed a bottle of weed on his tobacco covered desk and waited for him to decide what we were doing. He reached for his bong and began packing the bowl, but before he light it he placed his hand on the back of my head drawing me into him. Our lips met. His were forceful and strong, but I didn’t push him away. I let it happen. I let our tongues entangle. I opened my mouth for him. I let him get his fill, thinking this would progress naturally, but he pulled away and with a gentle “thank you” returned to the bong. Suddenly I felt like I had done something wrong. I went from not wanting him to wanting to please him more than anything. I wanted to prove that I was worthy, that I was something that couldn’t be dismissed so easily. He passed the bong to me and I placed it to my lips. With the next few hits, my mind went blank. I just sat there staring at the screen as song after song went by unable to organize my thoughts into coherent verbal expressions. Finally I just got up, told him good night, and walked myself back to my dorm.

The next morning I woke up disappointed in myself. I couldn’t figure out if I was disappointed in myself for doing anything at all with him or for not doing more. The whole week I scanned everywhere I went on campus for his blue framed brown eyes and unkempt mane. I wanted him to say something to me. I wanted him to acknowledge me. I wanted to be more than just some drunk girl he made out with. If he approached me I never knew what I would say, but I wanted him to notice. I’d show him that I wasn’t always so dumb and drugged out. I’d show him that I was worth something, that I was funny, that I was smart, and that I was pretty. I just wanted for a second to not feel so goddamn lonely.

But I was blaming him for something he didn’t do. He was a gentleman. He didn’t take advantage of a drunk girl. He let me go home. I just wanted to be something good to someone. I wanted to be desired. I needed to be desired, because I was never enough. To my father I was always too much like my mother. To my mother I was always too much like my father. To my guy friends I was always just a girl. To my girl friends I was always too much of a bro. I’m replaceable. I’m easy. There’s a hole in my heart that I don’t know how to fill. I tried to fill it with drugs, with friends, and that night with him. He didn’t want to be just something I used to plug the gaping hole in my heart in the same way that I didn’t want to be just some girl he made out with. I admire him for his respect for me and himself and maybe someday I’ll tell him that. Maybe someday we’ll be close friends. Maybe someday I’ll confide in him about my low self-worth and he’ll confide his insecurities in me as well. Maybe someday, but for now we’re still strangers.