I met my first black boyfriend at the local community college. Tyrone and I sat next to each other in Russian history class. Our professor was a thick-accented Russian who talked more about his childhood than he did about Russia's history. On our midterms we were asked actual questions about his personal life--in what city he was born, how old was he when he learned to ride a bike without training wheels. Tyrone and I would laugh at the absurdity of Professor Beregova's self-importance, but everyone else there seemed to think this was perfectly normal lesson planning.
"This can't be happening at real colleges," Tyrone said to me one day after class. "Why doesn't anyone else in class think this is strange?"
"I know," I said. "And this is supposed to be one of the top-ten community colleges in the country."
When I brought Tyrone home for dinner, my father tried as hard as he could to act like it didn't bother him but was constantly looking at Tyrone out of the corner of his eye. When we held hands, my father twitched slightly and looked away. I had fantasies of inviting him to sleep over, knowing my father wouldn't object in front of Tyrone. If it had been a white boyfriend, my father would have protested in front of everyone, but in his never-ending plea to appear color-blind, I knew my dad would not only allow him to sleep over but would probably offer up his own pajamas. The only topics my father was able to discuss with Tyrone were football, basketball, and slavery.
Tyrone and I broke up a few months later when he transferred to a more respectable college somewhere in Michigan. When I told my father about his transfer, he feigned disappointment. "That's too bad, love. He was a nice guy. Not too dark, could almost pass for a Colombian."
"Why would he want to pass for a Colombian, Dad?" I asked.
"Listen, don't start with the racial stuff, okay? I think the sbvartzers have a lot of courage; I love the blacks. Dogs don't seem to like them, but I don't have a problem. Look at Oprah!"
"That's real nice, Dad. You have a real way with words. You should think about running for public office."
"Yeah, well I'll tell ya, it wouldn't be the worst thing. You're not the first person to tell me that, love. And you probably won't be the last."
Tyrone had been the first black man I had had sex with, and I felt very strongly about venturing farther into that arena. So during the two months I had to kill before Ivory and I were off to California, I started chatting online with Jerome, whom I met on ChocolateSingles.com. Since he also lived with his parents, I had to wait until mine were out of town before we could set up our first rendezvous. My brothers and sisters had all moved out and I was the only child left at home. Jerome and I had exchanged photos of ourselves, and as long as he looked somewhat similar to his picture, I knew we would be having sex.
We agreed on dinner and a movie, which I suggested mostly because I didn't want to be obvious about my overwhelming desire to have sex with another black man.
We planned to meet at six o'clock at a steakhouse not far from my parents' house. Unfortunately, earlier that day I had done quite a number on my hair. I had been inspired to cut my own bangs--the result of which was not at all positive. In short, I looked as if I had lost a fight with a pair of craft scissors. I managed to get my bangs under control by placing a barrette directly above my forehead where it met my hairline. It wasn't a good look for anyone, but on the bright side, the severity with which my bangs were pulled back made me look much more alert than usual.
Jerome was already seated when I arrived. He was six-two and gorgeous, with a body absolutely to die for. He was twenty-five, had a short buzz cut, light brown eyes, and a big happy smile. He was ten times better looking than his picture. "Jerome?" I asked innocently, as if he weren't the only black person in the entire place.
"Hello," he said, standing up to give me a kiss on the cheek. His skin was the softest I had ever felt, and it was the exact color of a Reese's Peanut Butter Cup. I couldn't believe how beautiful he was. If this guy hadn't lived with his parents, he would've been out of my league. He glanced at my barrette a couple of times and I felt my face getting hotter. He was obviously wondering why I'd placed a barrette so close to my forehead.
I was furious about giving myself a home haircut. How could I have been so stupid? Clearly, I had to say something to allay his fears. "I had a little accident today," I told him.
"Oh, no," he said.
"It was nothing serious. I was actually volunteering at the Boys and Girls Club of America and a little boy set my hair on fire by accident. He has ADD and it's a pretty sad story."
"Oh, my God, were you hurt?" Jerome asked.
"No, no, no," I said, relieved that the lie seemed to be working. "I felt pretty stupid when I looked in the mirror, but I was more concerned about Linus."
"How old is the boy?" asked a horrified Jerome.
I scrambled to think of an appropriate age for a child who would set someone else on fire. "He's seven," I told him, "but challenged." I didn't know where these lies were coming from, but I couldn't stop myself. I was so intimidated by him I just jumped into a story I was sure would give us a lot to talk about.
Within the next fifteen minutes Linus had also been born a Siamese twin whose brother didn't make it through the surgery and whose biological mother had tried to auction him off on eBay.
"I didn't even know there was a Boys and Girls Club around here," said Jerome.
I had never seen a Boys & Girls Club in my life but wasn't about to tell Jerome that. "Oh, there's one at the mall," I blurted.
"Really?" he asked. "That's weird."
"It's new," I said. I knew I would have to stop lying eventually but didn't know how to. We needed to change the subject quickly and I needed a drink to relax.
Though I wasn't of legal drinking age, I had an ID with my picture on it and all of Sloane's information. My mother had given me Sloane's birth certificate when I turned eighteen after I explained how difficult it would be to fit in at community college without an ID. My mother agreed to aid my abuse of alcohol but only if I promised never to tell my newly converted Mormon sister, whose identity I had stolen.
"Are you okay? You look--" Jerome said.
"I'm fine," I said.
If I could just calm down for a minute, I could be normal. I hailed the waiter and ordered a vodka and cranberry. Jerome ordered an ice water. Shit, I thought.
"You don't want a drink?" I asked.
"I don't drink," Jerome said.
This was going to be a complete disaster. What did he mean he didn't drink?
"Ever?" I pressed on.
"I just don't like the taste," he told me. Then he leaned in. "That doesn't mean I don't know how to have a good time."
I smiled and said, "Are you sure you don't want to have just a beer or something?"
"I'm sure." He smiled. This was going to be a long dinner. I had never been on a date with someone who didn't drink and I didn't like it.
If this guy had any sort of affiliation with Alcoholics Anonymous, he would definitely try to recruit me, so I asked to make sure.
"You're not in AA, are you?" I said it in a way that implied if he was in AA and would be bothered by my drinking, I would simply skip it. This wasn't really going to happen, of course; I just wanted to come off like I had manners. I immediately had images of becoming his AA sponsor and waiting for the night he'd call me and tell me he wanted a drink. I'd by jumping up and down screaming through the phone, "I have one! Come over!"
"No, no. You go ahead, I don't mind. I just don't like it."
So I went full speed ahead. By my fifth drink, I was beginning to be the more normal version of myself, which meant that I would only pepper my stories with half-truths rather than create them entirely out of thin air.
It turned out that he was a third-year law student at Seton Hall. His mother and father owned a shoe store outlet in Secaucus, New Jersey.
"Oh, wow. I love shoes," was my soulful response.
He was a really decent guy with a charming personality and I had n
o idea at all what he was doing with me. He loved his parents a lot and talked about his mother in a way that more men should. It was sweet to watch and I hoped that when we married, he would hold me in the same regard.
The thought of not sleeping with him right away crossed my mind, because I wanted his respect, but there was no way I would be able to control myself. He was too cute and sweet. And I knew if I dated him, he would probably end up hating me anyway.
"Do you want to skip the movie?" I asked.
"Sure, if you want to," he replied.
"My parents are out of town. We could go back to my house and hang out."
"We could do that," he said.
He followed me back to my house and parked his car in the street. Like most first-time visitors, he asked me why there were so many cars in our driveway and I explained to him that my father had a bad car habit and was unable to sell any of the jalopies sitting in our driveway. I told him if he wanted, I could get him a sweet deal on an '85 Buick wagon with no engine.
"So none of these cars work?" he asked.
"A couple of them," I told him. "It's not like you'd want to drive them anywhere anyway."
He had the same scowl on his face that our neighbor had every time he called the police to report my father for having too many cars in the driveway.
"Jeez," Jerome said.
We got inside and went straight into the den. I turned on the television and poured myself a Grey Goose and Tang. He, of course, wanted nothing alcoholic, so I gave him a Coke. It felt like I was at a Chuck E. Cheese birthday party. How was he going to make his move on me without any alcohol? I could easily make a move on him but wasn't sure if he liked me as much as I liked his body.
It was only nine o'clock, so we turned on the TV and started watching America's Funniest Home Videos. I was tempted to pop in the porno I had stolen from my brother but didn't want Jerome to think I was completely fucked up. My brother was in culinary school and had left behind more than fifty porno videos that he went to the trouble of hiding in the linen closet. Every once in a while he would call home and ask my mom to send him one of his videos. They weren't in their jackets anymore, so you would know they were pornos only by their titles. My mother asked me once if I had ever seen Kristen Does Kentucky, and I told her, "Yes, it's a story about a girl who is torn between two lovers. Literally."
"Your brother must really like it, he wants me to send it to him," she said.
Jerome and I started moving closer and closer together. He was rubbing his hand back and forth on my leg when I threw my head in his lap and stared up at him.
"You're adorable," I told him.
He laughed and then kissed me. Finally, we were making out. He had the softest lips I had ever felt and he smelled like Drakkar. I loved, loved, loved Drakkar. I put my hands around his back and held on to his immense linebackerlike physique. Everywhere I put my hand, I found a new muscle. I put my hands inside his shirt to find the hardest six-pack I had ever felt. This guy was in unbelievable shape, and his skin was sooooo soft.
I was so turned on I could barely control myself. I had to stay cool, though, and not forget to suck in my stomach. I wanted him to think I was on a physical par with him, so I kept my body in its most flattering position: horizontal.
He maneuvered himself to get on top of me and do some dry-humping when I felt what could only be a third leg. I wiggled underneath him in order to confirm.
"Is that your penis?" I gasped.
He let out a small chuckle and kept on kissing me.
"Seriously," I said. "Is that your penis?"
He stopped kissing me and lifted his head to look sternly at me. "Yes, that's my penis."
"Well, that's gonna be a big problem," I said.
He just stared at me.
"I'm sorry," I told him. "Your penis is too big." I had a girlfriend who had cried during sex once and now I knew why.
He got up off of me. "We can still fool around," I assured him. "We just can't have sex."
"Well, what makes you think I want to have sex with you anyway?" he snapped.
I wanted to tell him that it was pretty obvious, judging from the time bomb growing in his pants.
"All right, geez, don't get so offended," I said. "Just in case you wanted to, I want you to know I can't." You would have had to be the size of the Lincoln Tunnel to accommodate that thing.
"Well, you're not the first one," he said, defeated. Apparently this had happened before.
"Really? I'm so sorry, you're just too big. It's like a space shuttle," I told him. He looked bummed and I felt bad for him. "We can go in my room and do other things." By other things I meant sleep, because I didn't want that thing coming out of its shell for fear that it might attack.
Once we got into my room we did a lot of kissing and heavy petting, and that was pretty much it. We started dry-humping, and I was pretty sure he came in his pants because he passed out about thirty seconds later.
At around eight the next morning I heard sounds coming from the kitchen. My room was on the first floor not far away.
It was my father talking to our dog, Whitefoot. "Are you a good Jewish doggy who was a good little boy the whole ride home? Are you? Do you want to go to Hebrew school with all the other Jewish doggies in the neighborhood? Are you a good boy? Are you a good boy? Are you a good boy?"
Fuck. My parents were home. I looked over at Jerome, who was sound asleep. I quickly got up and locked my door, then reconsidered, put on some clothes, and woke him up. "Jerome," I whispered, "my parents are home."
"Oh, shit!" he said, flinging himself out of bed. "I thought they were in Martha's Vineyard."
"They were. I don't know what they're doing back so soon. Just stay here and I'll find out if they're leaving again."
In order for Jerome to leave through the front door he would have to pass through the kitchen. Things didn't look good. I opened the door and strolled out.
"There she is! Hi, love, what's cookin'?" My dad was in a good mood, and I wanted it to stay that way.
"What are you doing home?" I asked sleepily, as if I wasn't totally awake and alert.
"We met a couple up at the Vineyard who need a car for their son. He's going off to college. I told them I was a car dealer and they want to buy a car. I'm bringing one back up for them. That neat little Civic we've got out in the driveway." He said this as if I hadn't seen the two-door blue hatchback with one of the doors covered in red primer every time I pulled up to the house. He also said it like it was a great car that anyone in his right mind would want to buy. "Those little cars last forever," he said.
"Does it even start?" I asked him.
"Does it even start? Of course it does! It just needs a little help, that's all. I'm gonna go get the oil changed and then drive back up today."
"Good fucking luck," is what I wanted to say. "Is Mom still on the Vineyard?" is what I really said.
"Yes, she is, doll, and she misses you terribly. That's why you can drive your car up so we have a ride home."
"When?" I asked, but before he could answer, there was a loud bang on the front porch outside. I have never spoken to Kato Kaelin, but I'm assuming it was similar to the loud bang he heard when O.J. snuck back in the house after killing Nicole and Ron (or not).
"What in the hell was that?" my dad asked, as Whitefoot spit out his bagel with cream cheese, started barking, and ran to the front door.
"I didn't hear anything, Dad."
"Don't be an idiot, love, of course you did," he said as he got up to go to the front door. I walked behind him, trying to think of a way to keep him from seeing what I could only presume was Jerome making a getaway. But I couldn't think of anything.
As my father opened the door we saw Jerome topless and running down our front lawn. He leaped into his car and drove away.
"What in the hell was that?" my father asked.
I just stared at the sky, hoping for an incoming asteroid.
"Goddamn it, Chelsea. What in the hell hav
e you done now?"
My relationship with my father had been on the proverbial fritz since the time I was fifteen and called the police to report him for child molesting. He had never molested me, but I wanted to have a party that weekend and needed him out of the house. It had been a long time since he had smacked me in the face, his signature move, but I was still nervous. Only a couple months prior he had gone into what I can only describe as a King Kong/Donkey Kong fit of rage where he unloaded all the planters on our back deck, along with their flowers, plants, and soil, onto the ground. This was in response to my mother hiding the remote control for the television and my father being too lazy to get up and turn it on manually.
I backed away from him as quickly as I could and made a run for my room. "You're a real piece of work, you know that, Chelsea. A real piece of work. I have a good mind to call the police and report the car he was driving. I'm sure it was stolen," my father shouted following me.
"No, Dad," I said, behind my closed door. "It wasn't stolen, you racist. It was his."
"Goddamn it, Chelsea, open this goddamned door before I break it in. What kind of girl runs around town with a bunch of strangers?" he yelled. "Do you even know that guy?"
"Of course I do," I argued from behind my door. "We met on the Internet."
"Oh, for Christ's sake. You know what, Chelsea, I've got news for you. If you want people to show you respect, you don't just give your shit away."
Huh? Was my dad suggesting that I start charging people?
I considered telling my father that Jerome's penis was too big and we didn't have sex, but I didn't know if the word "penis" was allowed. I knew "slut" was because he had just called me that. I looked over and saw my open window and then saw my father's face come through it.
"Aaaah!" I screamed.
"You better listen to me, you little pain in the ass!" My father's head is the size of a beach ball and couldn't fit through the window with a shoehorn, but it didn't stop him from trying. "Your mother and I are sick of your shit, running around with strange men, your half-assed attempt at community college, no job. What the hell kind of life do you want for yourself?" As my father was yelling out one insult after another, I thought about throwing a snow globe at his head. Unfortunately, I didn't have one.