“Let me think . . .”
A million options flood my mind, but one stands out more than the rest. I’d been dating Matt for two months and dealing with a bout of homesickness when he took me to 97 Orchard Street.
Leading her down a flight of stairs and into the belly of our famed subway system, I swipe my MetroCard and grab us two seats headed for the Lower East Side.
“Where are you taking me?” she asks once we’re settled, eyes glinting with curiosity.
“To get a little perspective.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
WEST
Trailing my finger along the spine of my personal Made Man library, I stop at the October 2018 issue, slide it out from its protective sleeve, and settle into my favorite chair for some much-needed quiet time—and to find out exactly why Elle recommended this particular article to me as she dashed out the door with my niece.
THE DIRTY TRUTH ABOUT FIRST TIMES
By Elle Napier
In light of our Halloween-themed issue this month, I wanted to share a terrifying tale. But it’s not the kind of terror that makes you sleep with your head under the covers and a baseball bat under your bed. It’s the kind of dread that makes your chest ache and your heart drop to the floor when you spend a little too much time reminiscing down memory lane.
That’s right—we’re not talking about ghosts or masked intruders. This month we’re talking about first times and the emotional goblins of regret that haunt us long after the moment has passed.
I was a knobby-kneed eight-year-old when I had my first crush. He was the boy next door, he was an impressive two years older than me, and his name was Elijah. With his giant cocoa-brown curls, a grin that took up his whole face, a swaggering confidence in his long stride, and eyes the color of Pacific Northwest evergreens, he made all the girls on Longmont Street swoon and plan their future nuptials. I should also mention Elijah was a grade A certifiable jerk—but he was my grade A certifiable jerk, therefore I was more than willing to overlook his less favorable traits and let the things I adored about him shine through instead.
Perspective is everything.
Let me say it again louder for those in the back: PERSPECTIVE IS EVERYTHING.
Eight-year-old me didn’t know it at the time, but the boy with the contagious laugh, questionable table manners, and unfiltered vocabulary would go on to be my first kiss, my first boyfriend, my first prom date, my first taste of ethereal teenage love, and also my first experience with crippling heartbreak that sent me into a bittersweet blue period until my sisters and best friends slapped a little perspective into me.
There’s that word again . . .
Perspective.
Our firsts have a tendency to live loud in our memories, unfairly drowning out the seconds and thirds and fourths. I can tell you exactly what I wore the first time Elijah took me on a real date to see House of Wax at the local two-screen movie theater: a pale-pink spaghetti strap tank top, cutoff jean shorts, a mood ring on my right ring finger that stayed yellow (a.k.a. nervous) all night, and an abundance of my mother’s Kai perfume.
I vaguely remember the guy who came after him—despite us dating for six months and him being my first college boyfriend. His name was Mark, and he was from Toledo, but most of my memories after that grow hazy.
What I do remember, though, is being so terrified Mark was going to discard me the way Elijah did that I never fully embraced what we had or made it a point to make our relationship meaningful in any way. I showed up for the relationship, but I was never fully there. Never fully committed. Only half-present. My memories of Elijah were much too vivid at the time, and I was convinced nothing could ever hold a candle to all of those “magical” firsts. For six months, I simply bode my time until our inevitable breakup, and I applauded myself for having the foresight to not get too attached.
In retrospect, I only cheated myself.
Mark was a great guy—at least from what I remember.
I was the one who sucked because I let all of those firsts with Elijah steer the ship.
Anyway, all of this is to say, I can confidently tell you that the firsts never stop, and they never get easier—or less terrifying. Think about it . . . every first date is followed by an eventual first kiss. Then a first time between the sheets (which begs its own dedicated article). Possibly the first time mustering the courage to say, “I love you.” The first time meeting your significant other’s friends and family. It goes on and on and it never stops.
Life is literally just a series of first times.