Boy of the Week

February 28, 2011
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I’ve been called a heartbreaker before. I’ve never called anyone wrong for saying it before, so why start now? I only see proof to that claim as I sit in the back seat of my old Saturn with what my peers have so aptly, if somewhat cruelly, named my “boy of the week.”

“You’re really good at that,” he giggles meekly after we have been kissing for about a minute or two. Yet another claim I won’t dispute. Not out of hubris, but out of simple knowledge of the fact that I’ve been in this exact same situation too many times. I just smile at him and say,

“So are you.”

Not a lie, for once. Not only is he good, but he’s also quite attractive. He has Sandy, naturally blond hair, green eyes, a reassuring grasp, a nice butt, and an all-around great body.

My friends have always asked me why I don’t try an actual relationship instead of my usual routine of the “boy of the week.”

“Come on James, I know a guy that you would love. He’s in my art history class; he’s witty, gorgeous, and so nice. I showed your picture to him on Facebook and he said he thought you were hot. Why won’t you just let me set you two up?” My friend Sarah said while we were watching Glee last Tuesday in my dorm. I just ignored her and kept watching the cast’s splendid performance of “Time Warp.”

I had no interest in bearing my soul to her. Why should I? I came to college in San Francisco for two reasons, to get away from my life in Ohio and everything that happened there and to get a decent education. Also San Fran gave me the attractive quality of being completely anonymous, allowing me to never get close to another human being again. I would never make the stupid mistake I had made when I was young.

Yes, I would never again let someone do the things Robbie had done to me when we were kids. This is why I only kiss my “boy of the week”; I don’t ever want to feel dirty like I did with that monster. Never able to get clean, never feeling like I was good enough for anyone, never valuable.

But right now, I do feel valuable. My routine makes me feel valuable. Who wouldn’t feel valuable when all the guys in town are lining up just to kiss you? So that’s exactly what I’ll go back to doing. I will go back to kissing this boy, and fogging up the windows like some cliché 50s couple who’s parked at the local drive-in theater. I don’t care that I know he won’t be around next week; it is my way after all. For now I’ll pretend it isn’t. I’ll pretend that it’s not my habit hurt, so I can get lost in the moment.

Because at the end of the day it is so much easier to hurt than be hurt.





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