The Boyfriend Chronicles: David

The Boyfriend Chronicles: David
(Originally posted 9/4/2003)

I haven’t really decided how best to start. Do I do this chronologically? That seems easiest, except for two things. I can’t really remember the order and I’m not sure where it all begins. Do I start with my first kiss? The night I lost my virginity? My first crush? The time Barbie and Ken christened every room in the Dream House (and the elevator!)?

Hm. I believe I’ll begin with Dave.

I did not sleep with David, which is why he’s not on The List. But he did have a monumental impact on my approach to men and therefore I believe he is significant. I wish it were otherwise.

David was married and 30-something. I was 17. Or maybe 16. Or possibly 18. (Does it matter?! Jeez.) We worked together at the local grocery (oh, I was definitely out of high school then, so I’ll say 17ish) and I cannot for the life of me determine what I saw in him at first. He was a nerd. Skinny and badly dressed in too-tight button downs from K-Mart (they had snaps on them!) and truly awful polyester pants. He had scruffy hair that looked as though he’d cut it himself with hedge trimmers, was pale as an invalid and couldn’t see his hand in front of his face without thick glasses. He had every disqualifying quality in my little pink book.

Except a wedding band.

I can honestly say I didn’t know he was married at first. My girlfriend Karin and I used to tease him as we passed through the pet supply aisle he stocked on our way to the break room. Karin soon tired of him, but I became enthralled by the kind flattery he sprinkled in among the witty barbs and intellectual conversation (there had to have been intellectual conversation, I’m positive of it).

I don’t remember how it all progressed, but it did, in spite of my eventually uncovering the fact that he had a wife. I don’t think he specifically tried to hide it, I think he felt it more convenient to just not mention it until I asked. We started leaving notes for each other, notes that progressed into love letters that progressed into furtive meetings in the deli parking lot or the park whenever I could sneak away in my parents’ Oldsmobile. We kissed and fondled and snuck around. I taught him how to dress and told him how to cut his hair. He lavished me with the praise and attention I so desperately craved. We gave each other silly presents and made a game of our relationship; he signed his notes “B.B.” and I signed mine…actually, I don’t remember what I signed mine as, only that I kept them in an empty Triscuit box under my bed. We kept a low profile when his wife found one of my notes and kept an even lower one when my father caught us taking a walk together. But we kept on, mostly.

We broke it off a few times. Eventually I think the novelty wore off and I grew tired of his dependence on me. I met him in the park one night after work, and after making out for a while (I think that’s the night I had my first ‘real’ orgasm), I told him I had to go. What I meant was, I had to go and never ever see him again. So he told me he loved me, and I think it was a last ditch effort to retain the one thing in his life that was exciting and slightly dangerous. I saw it as needy and suffocating and told him I didn’t want to see him again.

So he stalked me.

He would drive by my house at night (he told me this later) to see if my light was on. He’d wait in the parking lot at work (which by this time was 40 minutes away in a Philadelphia suburb) and follow me home. Whenever he had a call in my area (he was a volunteer firefighter-slash-EMT) he’d swing by and hoped I noticed. He even stopped in once, promting a round of embarrassing questions from my mother.

I told him to stop. I was annoyed, although I never felt threatened or afraid. I had always had control of him and always would. He’d never hurt me (I’d be more likely to do damage to him). One afternoon as I tried to elude him, I flagged down a cop and explained the situation. He gave David a warning and I thought that’d be it. He even cried, a visual memory that still makes me cringe in disgust. [Aside: I hate when men cry at me. If you’re a guy, you’re allowed to cry with me — if there’s been a death or I find out I’m dying — or near me, as long as it’s because of a national tragedy or some other fittingly devastating incident, or even about me, so long as I never have to see it. But do not, under any circumstances, cry at me. I does not engender my sympathy, it only pisses me off. Am I really so alone in this?]

Then one night months later he called my work number, which rang at my supervisor’s desk. Rudy sat very still while I hissed into the phone. “I told you that if you didn’t leave me alone I’d call the cops, your boss and my father. Get ready, buddy, because the shit’s about to hit the fucking fan!” He stuttered frantically, whining about his love for me and begging me to reconsider. I hung up and made good on my promise.

In the end, he lost his jobs (in addition to the grocery and firefighter gigs, he was also — are you ready for this? — a youth pastor at a local church. Yes, that’s right; a Shepherd of God’s young lambs. Shrieks of disbelief are entirely appropriate), was run out of town, embarrassed in front of the entire community and outed to his wife, who refused to believe a word of it. I, on the other, got off scot-free and can honestly say I still feel a bit guilty about it. I knew what I was doing when I got involved. I knew it was wrong. Yes, he was thirty and probably a pervert. Yes, I was young and impressionable, but one thing I have never been is naive. I was just mad and as long as everyone was willing to believe me as the violated young victim, I was willing to play the role.

I still see him around occasionally when I go home. Still drives the same car and haunts the same places, although as a pale shadow of his former self. I ran into his wife once, with their little girl, and I got the distinct impression that she would do anything to protect the image of her happy home.

Even if it meant living with a pervert.

back to
The List