The Boyfriend Chronicles: Glen
The Boyfriend Chronicles: Glen
October 1994 March 1995
(Originally posted 9/5/2003)
Glen happened to me when I was 20 and he was 33. My parents had suddenly become fanatical about their chiropractic health and were having their spines cracked regularly by a doctor whose office rested at edge of a busy highway leading into the heart of Amish Country. I put up with it like I did every new health fad of my mother’s, until one afternoon I had nothing better to do than accompany them for a bone-cracking appointment of my own.
I remember the way I dressed then. Those cowboy-boot-shoes were in and I had them in black leather and brown suede and wore them often with faded jeans, thin turtleneck sweaters and blazers from Eddie Bauer and J. Crew. It was relaxed corporate, which I felt I’d earned, slaving away at a huge, direct-mail insurance company. (Remember those Veteran’s Life Insurance commercials with Lorne Greene? That was the place.) I was on my own in every way except the only way that mattered, but for some reason I didn’t really mind that I still lived with Mom and Dad. I was only 20, after all.
Then I met Glen. That afternoon, he took me into a deserted exam room and explained very simply and in a very grave manner the exercises I needed to do in order to prevent my spine from twisting up like a Slinky and fusing that way. He was so serious, with his serious olive-green corduroys and serious white oxford and serious wire-rimmed glasses. He was stocky with broad shoulders, brown eyes and curly brown hair. He had square, capable hands and very straight teeth. I didn’t take him as seriously as it seemed I was expected to, which didn’t bother him at all. Turns out he had a pretty decent sense of humor.
My parents started dropping hints about him to me, and probably about me to him. He didn’t need any prompting. One afternoon as I lay face-down on the table, I felt a small square of paper pushed into my hand. “Don’t open it until you leave,” he whispered. I could barely get through my appointment and only waited until I got to the parking lot to rip the thing open. It said something to the effect that although this was not his chosen method of asking me out, he felt that rifling through my medical files for my phone number was somehow worse. He gave me his phone number and asked me to call and leave a message on his machine. I think he even put a “will you go out with me please circle one yes or no” at the bottom as a joke. I still have the note somewhere, I’m sure.
I called his machine and told him that yes, I’d like to have dinner or coffee or whatever with him. He called back and asked me to meet him at the office, as he was renting the apartment above. It was a slightly awkward date at an Italian restaurant with me being nervous at driving in unfamiliar Lancaster on a rainy night. I don’t remember much about that first date, or the seven after, except that that’s how long it took me to sleep with him.
I didn’t intend to. I had been raised to believe that sex was something to you saved for marriage and that only bad girls or girls whose fathers had been cruel to them ever sought the solace of sexual relations outside the marriage bed. And they all got pregnant and divorced and lived in squalid trailer parks with their mothers and their six runny-nosed wild brats from different fathers. The Jerry Springer Show had been a favored cautionary tale.
I resisted for a while. I even cried as he kissed me goodnight once while fumbling with the zipper on my Levi’s. Sex was for bad girls, and I was not just a good girl, but a Sunday School teacher and the valedictorian of my tiny graduating class at the local Christian School. Never mind that my past already had a former drug user and a married pervert in it, I was reformed! I was pure! I was morally blameless! I was so fucking horny it only took me seven dates to whip my clothes off and give in! [Aside: It was truly a night of firsts. After sex, I sat up and decided I needed a taco and a beer. Never mind that I had always hated the taste of beer. Seems the act of losing my virginity also gave me a taste for the stuff. Weird.] The next morning, as I bent over the rim of the bathtub at home to wash my hair, I waited for the ‘morning after blues’ to hit. I had always been told that sexual promiscuity led to misery, and I braced myself. But it never came. I felt nothing. Were the preachers lying to me or was I just born to be a loose woman?
The sex wasn’t bad, although at the time I didn’t know the difference. Glen was mostly respectful of my inexperience, but got a little demanding from time to time. I, on the other hand, found I had a natural knack for all things seduction related. I wore a black merrywidow and garters an older girlfriend gave me under a short plaid skirt and turtleneck to greet him after a weekend trip. I got a rush out of his response when I…eh…got down on my knees (he still talks about that 9 years later — do men never forget a blow job?). I eventually got my own place because it was so inconvenient to drive 45 minutes to his place and then try to get home in time to meet my father’s ridiculous curfew (midnight). Eventually, he left the practice and moved into the New Hope condo his gay brother shared with an Urkle-like boyfriend who wore tight white jeans, had an affinity for shoes and a very pronounced lisp. Thus began my education.
I have always claimed that I’ve never been innocent, but one certainly isn’t born knowing how the world works. Glen exposed me to a universe of new ideas, places, people, theories, practices, lifestyles and rules. He was so thrilled about having scored a little virgin (at least, that’s my take on it) that he didn’t mind the constant tutelage. We fought once or twice, but generally got along pretty well. He’d spend a weekend at my place, then I’d spend a weekend at his. I like weekends at his place better, since my apartment was so tiny and cramped and perched above an old lady’s garage.
We must have had a big fight one weekend, because I distinctly remember sitting my the table my parents gave me in my sunflower kitchen, crying to my father that I never wanted to see Glen again. I remember my dad comforting me and taking my side (well, duh — once I started dating the guy, suddenly my father hated him) and telling me it’d be okay. He obviously wasn’t aware of a woman’s right to change her mind, because Glen showed up a week later, my dad found out about it and called me to tell me how pissed he was. Seems my sister-in-law drove by my apartment that morning and noticed Glen’s car in the drive. Why she saw the need to report this to my parents, I will never, ever know. But three hours later, as I sat in the bath and Glen sat in the kitchen enjoying frozen waffles and the paper, there was a knock at the door. A moment later, Glen stuck his head into the bathroom.
“Your mom’s here. Should I let her in?” I rolled my eyes and sighed.
“As long as she’s alone. If my dad’s with her, don’t answer it.”
About five minutes later I heard shouting in the kitchen and surmised that my dad had somehow gotten in. This did not bode well. I stuck my big toe into the dripping faucet and strained to hear what was being said. Glen was defending himself, saying he was just having breakfast. My parents were accusing him of…something…and my mom started crying.
‘Fuck!’ I thought. ‘I do NOT need this!’ I climbed out of the bath and wrapped a towel around me and opened the door. Not a smart move. (To be continued…)