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Worst of all, we hadn’t consummated our love. Each time she hopped in her car and drove off to visit him was a fresh humiliation. I rarely brought it up, fearing she’d choose him over me.
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People knew us as a couple, though she hadn’t broken up with Ben, her high school boyfriend, who was down the road at Yale. We wrote love letters, traveled together. The two of us lasted six months, through the summer and into the fall. We talked for a while, until a long silence wiped the smiles off our faces, and we plunged nakedly into one another’s eyes. On our first date we sat in a booth in a dive bar down the hill in Middletown. The marks were accents-she was typing in French, I discovered, when I walked out to say hello. She kept stopping to mark the page with a pencil.
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A few days later I looked out my dorm room window and saw her sitting cross-legged in the little graveyard on top of Foss Hill, typing on a manual typewriter. We talked for a while as the dining hall emptied out, and she showed a side of herself that was tender, polite, even a little shy. She was one character among many, until the day- how does this happen?-I couldn’t take my eyes off her. When a loud obnoxious guy claimed Descartes “proved” the existence of God, Odette scoffed at him, her chin jutting out sharply as she delivered a dismissive quip with a backhanded sweep of her arm. She gravitated to a table of her dorm friends who liked intellectual debate. I’d seen her often in the dining hall, long-legged and accident prone, crashing into furniture, spilling things from her tray, which caused her to laugh and drop more things. Even Tilly, who called her pastor each week from the hall pay phone, was moaning in alternate waves of what sounded like panic and relief. Walking down the hall on any Saturday night, I heard U2 and sex, Bob Marley and sex, sex between bong hits, bedsprings creaking to Michael Jackson and Fleetwood Mac, headboards knocking into walls and reverberating through the cinder blocks. When I entered Wesleyan University I didn’t quite get the memo that the main point of college was hooking up, despite all the sex going on in my coed dorm. I was madly attracted to girls, but never had a steady girlfriend. I’d befriended a gay kid in a high school where you were either homosexual or homophobic. I HAD A history of people assuming I was gay. And who do you think came walking along with his macramé bookbag slung across his hip? The first time I seriously wondered if I might be gay, I was standing at the entrance to the Center for the Arts on a crisp fall afternoon. He liked to tease me with clever digs and smiles, giving my shoulder a flirtatious poke each time we ran into each other. He was loose-limbed, with a thick beard and pretty eyes. Ravi was among the few with the courage to speak in that class, and his elegant accent-he was Indian South African-seemed to lend gravitas to the simplest assertion. For two and a half hours every Monday evening, otherwise accomplished scholars sat dumbfounded while this postcolonial deconstructionist (who was also quite sexy) goaded us to “de-fetishize the concrete.” “You Americans,” she observed, after lighting up a Marlboro, “bristling at a little cigarette smoke, while your government shoots microwaves through you.” She had once dismissed us early so she could take an overseas call from Jacques Derrida. RAVI AND I met in a critical theory seminar taught by Gayatri Spivak, a star professor on loan from Emory University. “Definitely not,” he says, looking down at my crotch. He nudges me to turn over, then plants a soft kiss on my lips. Sometimes he just caresses me, or leans down to kiss my neck or shoulder. Ravi is perched on my buttocks giving me a back massage. “I can’t believe you have Glenn Miller!” Ravi had said in a swoon when I put it on. Glenn Miller’s Greatest Hits is playing on my turntable-swing music jubilant enough to make a country forget a war. I am lying facedown on a futon on the floor of my attic room in the off-campus house I share with three English majors.