From Hallmark to Hell.
It didn’t take me long to realize that “going home” with a guy – even if our eyes locked across a crowded room – didn’t necessarily mean I was going to marry that person. I may have started college with severe naivety, but I learned very quickly that what I was doing with guys wasn’t doing anything for me.
Unfortunately, I had no idea what else to do. It seemed like all of my friends were drinking to oblivion and going home with guys, too. So I just kept doing it.
After many, many frat parties, and many, many drunken trysts with college boys who were basically strangers, a boy named Mike called my dorm … and asked me out.
That phone call was exhilarating. Somebody actually liked me! As an added bonus Mike was the best looking guy in my class – a soccer player from New York. With his exotic back story, I’d always admired him from afar.
When I told my friends he’d asked me out, we all squealed with delight. What would I wear? Where would we go? I spent three days giggling about the possibilities until finally, it was time to go on my first college date.
Mike showed up to walk me to the bar, where we’d decided to go for drinks. Let’s face it – there wasn’t much else to do in that tiny town. We talked shyly all the way there, then drank some beers and loosened up a bit. Mike was a perfect gentleman, holding the door for me, buying my beers, leaning in close as we tried to talk above the din. We had an absolutely fine time.
Heading back to my dorm, we were laughing like old friends. It was chilly, so Mike wrapped his jacket around my shoulders. I felt like I was in a Hallmark movie; I could practically hear the soundtrack playing.
He walked me to my room and I invited him inside; I wanted him to see my posters and record collection.
As soon as we stepped inside, Mike started kissing me. Okay, I thought. The best looking boy on campus is kissing me! I decided music could wait.
We kissed for a minute and then, abruptly, Mike pushed me back, grabbed the top of my head with one hand, and shoved my face toward his crotch.
Suddenly this didn’t feel romantic. In fact, it bordered on abusive.
I ducked away from his hand and broke free. The magical night we’d had vanished; the spell was irrevocably broken.
“What are you doing?” I whimpered.
“Come on,” he said.
“What do you mean? Why are you doing this?” My voice cracked.
Mike looked perplexed. He didn’t seem to have an answer. Finally he stammered, “What about all those other guys?”
Other guys?
My stomach clenched and tears stung my eyes. From Hallmark to hell, in the blink of an eye. I may have been drunk, and I may have been naive, but I wasn’t stupid.
“Go home,” I said. I turned my back on him and sat down on the bed. A part of me hoped he would stay, sit down and reassure me that this was all a mistake. But Mike – who was still standing stupidly by the door – just walked out without a word. There was no apology. In fact, we never spoke again.
I lost something that night – some part of me that had been tucked away and hopeful. It crumbled inside me, swirled like dust, then disappeared forever.