The Boyfriend Chronicles: Patrick One

The Boyfriend Chronicles: Patrick One

Sadly, I barely remember Pat. No, that’s not right. I remember him, just none of the circumstances surrounding our sexual encounter. Yeah, you heard me – encountER. Singular.

Pat was my first one-night stand.

He was a friend of a friend who worked with me at the graphics place, and I remember the first time I met him I was like, ’Whoa – cute Irish guy at 10 o’clock!’ Of course I was informed immediately that he had a girlfriend. And of course, I immediately dismissed her as a small obstacle that could be overcome. My ‘Search and Seizure’ phase of dating was in full swing and no one was safe, not even a short, small-dicked accountant who looked like Ed Burns if he’d been lopped off at the knees.

I think we met at Jeff’s house party, and damn, he threw the best parties. Tons of cute guys and kegs upon kegs of ice cold beer. We even had our very own policeman in the mix, just in case things got out of hand. Unfortunately, the cop was usually the first one to strip out of his skivvies in the snow and streak around the neighborhood with his hoo-hoos flapping in the breeze, but whatever.

I’d had my eye on Pat all night, even as I flirted with Pete and played Asshole with the boys. He made me laugh so hard I sprayed a mouthful of beer across the table, where as luck would have it, the cop was sitting. For three full seconds, nobody moved. I just stared open-mouthed at this gigantic bear of a man staring back at me with beer dripping off his ears and nose. To my horror, I started giggling. Fortunately, he either had a good sense of humor or a decent buzz on, because he let out a gigantic guffaw, which got me laughing so hard I slipped off my chair and lay on the floor gasping for breath, tears running down my face. At some point, Pat helped me crawl, still howling, to the kitchen for napkins to clean up all the little beer puddles, and when we got there he snuck a kiss. Beer puddles were immediately forgotten. I wanted him.

Later, when he went upstairs to the bathroom, I followed him. I slipped into the bedroom next door, and when he walked past, I stuck my hand out, grabbed a fistful of his shirt and yanked him inside for a thorough smooching. It was nice. No bells, no fireworks, no ‘ka-POW!’ – just fumbling hands and insistent kisses registered through the groggy haze of a good beer buzz.

I barely remember the rest of the night after he followed me home. I remember the scarf he wore, for some reason, and his cute little wire-rimmed glasses that got steamed up when I kissed him. I remember it wasn’t good, but I can’t remember why. It was probably the same problem I seemed to encounter with a lot of guys in their early twenties. You know, the one that results in me lying in a vaguely chilly puddle, taut with frustration, trying to reassure him that I took it as a compliment, really I did.

I remember we still talked after that, and stayed friends for a long time. I knew I didn’t want to get into bed with him again (amazing how far a guy’s market share will plummet for a mere three-minute transgression, but there it is), and we eventually just drifted apart. I’ve never thought of him very much until just now.

It’s probably better that way. For both of us.

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