The Men and the Boys: Marco

Another night, another party. Again, my house.

It wasn't a kegger or a massive social gathering, just a casual little soiree, 20 or 30 people. Marco was with me, as were many of our friends, and the time passed pleasantly enough.

As the night wore down and the alcohol set in, as it got later and the music got slower, it became a different setting altogether. I wasn't a makeout party afficianado in high school (strict parents, remember), but I'd been to a couple and knew what they were all about. I also knew that when you were in University, when there were no parents and/or guardians around and you had your own room a few steps away, it could go to a whole new level.

The room was hazy, couples were drunk and all over each other. Everyone had a necking partner, except me and Marco. The sexual charge in the air was overpowering, and everyone was in heat. Including me and Marco.

We sat on couches directly across from each other, and I knew his eyes were fixed on me. I was too busy trying not to notice, concentrating on my drink, ignoring the insanity building inside of me, anything to not look back. I knew I would have to eventually though, and so I looked up. Right at him.

That was the first time in my life when I knew exactly what a man was thinking. And it was the first time in my life that I knew we wanted the exact same thing.

But I was young and inexperienced with men. I didn't or couldn't understand the concepts of casual sex, seize the day, live for the moment. I honestly thought it was better to walk away and never have the experience, never know what you were missing, instead of having those minutes and suffering the loss when they would inevitably be gone. In the long run he could never be mine, and I could never be his. We both knew that. Why bother?

I was scared. Not of what could possibly take place next, but of losing him. I knew I was going to lose him soon and I'd made my peace with that, but losing him that way I just couldn't bear.

So this is what I did. Ridiculous, level-headed, practical me took a deep breath, put my drink down and stood up. I looked him in the face and said, "Goodnight, Marco."

He looked back at me, and it was all I could do to keep my knees from giving out. He was hurt, but I knew he understood. I never needed to explain myself to Marco. He stood up and took me into his arms for a tight hug. "Goodnight sweetie," he said quietly and I noticed, held on for longer than usual.

I must have been beet red. As normally as I could, I went up the stairs and to my room, where I promptly sat down at my desk and started the first assignment on top of my "To Do" pile for the paper. A commentary about the ineffectiveness of campus police, if I recall. I wrote it in record time with headphones on, blaring whatever the fuck the radio was playing so I wouldn't hear my second guessing.

We were still friends. It was as if nothing had changed. We talked, we joked, we met for lunch and went to pubs together. This is for the best, I told myself over and over, until it was burned into my mind. This was for the best, I did the right thing, and we're both better people for it.

By the time I'd regretted my decision, Marco's time at our school was up. He was already home.