her smile? It’s like she’s in on some secret and you’re desperate to find out what it is. I fell for her instantly, which was romantic to Layla but not nearly as endearing to Claudine DeMarco, my girlfriend at the time.
I wasn’t going to cheat, and I wasn’t going to lie (teaching me early on what a mistake that is, as you’ll see), so I sat Claudine down after fifth period and broke up with her. She screamed bloody murder for a minimum of a half hour. I was very late to geometry. I sat and listened—it was the least I could do—as shewailed and sobbed and wiped her runny nose on her sleeve and yelled at me some more. Tears spilled down her mascara-streaked cheeks, and she kept at it until her eyes were slits and her voice sounded like she inspired the word “hoarse.” It was madness. Finally, it stopped. She blew her nose, regained her composure, and looked seriously at me for a moment. Then she shrugged her left shoulder and calmly tossed out, “I guess I should have given you oral, huh?”
I was ridiculously proud of myself for somehow managing not to reply with “Hell, yeah.” But the truth is, that breakup had nothing to do with the lack of oral. It was the lack of something else. Something I didn’t even know existed in the world until I met Layla.
But, yeah, oral would have been cool.
We started out as a group: me; my buddy Doug (who was always too much of a clown to have a girlfriend back then—now he’s in IT, which I always joke is equally attractive to women, though he just got married); Steve; Steve’s girlfriend, Michelle; and Layla. The five of us would hang out during lunch and every day after school. Weekends were ours to tear up the town—which mostly meant Doug, Steve, and me playing video games, Layla and Michelle making fun of us, and then all of us dropping by the multiplex to see whatever new movies had been released. Eventually, Steve and Michelle broke up, Doug moved away, and our party of five became a table for two.
Layla was the first person ever able to make me behave. And I don’t mean by scolding me or laying down any kind of law. She was the first person who inspired me to not be a dick. I actually cared what she thought of me, and wanted to do things that would make sure she
kept
liking me.
Apparently, it worked, because we got married about five minutes after we finished college. I’m not sure it was the wisest move, since neither of us had ever been with anyone else, but at least Iknew I’d never suffer by comparison. It just seemed like the natural thing to do. It’s never been a secret that I’m not the poster child for impulse control. So, sure, we may have been a little young and may not have put in the right amount of forethought, but luckily for me it worked out. I took no small amount of ribbing from my buddies over getting hitched so soon and so young, but I knew that there wasn’t a single guy among them who hadn’t been secretly in love with Layla since she burst onto our scene, so I took every crack with a grain of salt.
I knew I loved her the first time she called me an asshole. Romantic, huh? Sad but true. She was the only person to call me on my shit, and she wasn’t bitchy or controlling. Just honest. And usually right—though I rarely admitted it.
I like to say I grew up with Layla, but I bet Layla would insist she’s still waiting for me to grow up.
All of our friends started to get married about five or six years after Layla and I did, and about twelve years after we started dating. But there was something intrinsically different about those relationships. Maybe because they hadn’t been there for every first, good or bad. Maybe because they were based on a more adult foundation. Either way, watching my buddies and their wives, I couldn’t help but wonder if there was something missing from my own marriage. I’ve been thinking about that a lot lately.
Don’t get me wrong—I love her. I know she’s the best thing I ever found.
I wasn’t going to cheat, and I wasn’t going to lie (teaching me early on what a mistake that is, as you’ll see), so I sat Claudine down after fifth period and broke up with her. She screamed bloody murder for a minimum of a half hour. I was very late to geometry. I sat and listened—it was the least I could do—as shewailed and sobbed and wiped her runny nose on her sleeve and yelled at me some more. Tears spilled down her mascara-streaked cheeks, and she kept at it until her eyes were slits and her voice sounded like she inspired the word “hoarse.” It was madness. Finally, it stopped. She blew her nose, regained her composure, and looked seriously at me for a moment. Then she shrugged her left shoulder and calmly tossed out, “I guess I should have given you oral, huh?”
I was ridiculously proud of myself for somehow managing not to reply with “Hell, yeah.” But the truth is, that breakup had nothing to do with the lack of oral. It was the lack of something else. Something I didn’t even know existed in the world until I met Layla.
But, yeah, oral would have been cool.
We started out as a group: me; my buddy Doug (who was always too much of a clown to have a girlfriend back then—now he’s in IT, which I always joke is equally attractive to women, though he just got married); Steve; Steve’s girlfriend, Michelle; and Layla. The five of us would hang out during lunch and every day after school. Weekends were ours to tear up the town—which mostly meant Doug, Steve, and me playing video games, Layla and Michelle making fun of us, and then all of us dropping by the multiplex to see whatever new movies had been released. Eventually, Steve and Michelle broke up, Doug moved away, and our party of five became a table for two.
Layla was the first person ever able to make me behave. And I don’t mean by scolding me or laying down any kind of law. She was the first person who inspired me to not be a dick. I actually cared what she thought of me, and wanted to do things that would make sure she
kept
liking me.
Apparently, it worked, because we got married about five minutes after we finished college. I’m not sure it was the wisest move, since neither of us had ever been with anyone else, but at least Iknew I’d never suffer by comparison. It just seemed like the natural thing to do. It’s never been a secret that I’m not the poster child for impulse control. So, sure, we may have been a little young and may not have put in the right amount of forethought, but luckily for me it worked out. I took no small amount of ribbing from my buddies over getting hitched so soon and so young, but I knew that there wasn’t a single guy among them who hadn’t been secretly in love with Layla since she burst onto our scene, so I took every crack with a grain of salt.
I knew I loved her the first time she called me an asshole. Romantic, huh? Sad but true. She was the only person to call me on my shit, and she wasn’t bitchy or controlling. Just honest. And usually right—though I rarely admitted it.
I like to say I grew up with Layla, but I bet Layla would insist she’s still waiting for me to grow up.
All of our friends started to get married about five or six years after Layla and I did, and about twelve years after we started dating. But there was something intrinsically different about those relationships. Maybe because they hadn’t been there for every first, good or bad. Maybe because they were based on a more adult foundation. Either way, watching my buddies and their wives, I couldn’t help but wonder if there was something missing from my own marriage. I’ve been thinking about that a lot lately.
Don’t get me wrong—I love her. I know she’s the best thing I ever found.
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