Saturday's Storyteller: Love Hurts
Love Hurts
by Belinda Roddie
It was the first time I had ever had a legit boyfriend. It was also the first time I had ever had a bromance.
We met in my sophomore year of high school, which was a year of ponytails, bad poetry, and pubescent awkwardness. He was my creative writing teacher's TA: Doe-eyed, brown-haired, and usually stoned out of his gourd. His name was Chris, based off his middle name Christian, and he was the son of my former eighth grade physical science teacher - extra awkwardness.
He told me he first started to like me after hearing my stories, which, looking back on it, makes me cringe so hard that I almost pull a muscle behind my left eye. He finally started chatting with me at a chili festival my high school hosted in order to support the victims of the tsunami in Sri Lanka, so our first real conversation happened over lukewarm beans, dry beef, and half-congealed cheddar cheese. Clearly, the stars were properly aligned on this day.
After constantly sitting in the library together at lunch, we went on our very first date, which was watching Frank Miller's Sin City at the local movie theater. The black and white imagery of a guy getting his yellow-stained genitals ripped right off his pelvis was positively romantic. We only hugged that night, and I'm sure it was just nerves and not the cinematic gore we had just witnessed together. Our first kiss happened when we were both playing Soul Calibur II. My boyfriend-to-be played the zweihander-wielding monstrosity that was Nightmare, as I continually mashed the same buttons as the staff-swinging Killik. It's hard to describe the experience of your first kiss when it's in front of an old television set situated in your brother's bedroom, all coordinated to the dramatic soundtrack of a fighting game, so I think I'll just leave it at that.
That began a weekly routine of dates, most of them normally occurring on Fridays and revolving around the same steps. After school, Chris and I would walk to his car, and as per usual, Kurt Cobain would be growling his near incoherent rants on the stereo. I'd sing along as best as I could, poser that I was, since I had never really listened to Nirvana before going on these joyrides. We'd roll up to the local bowling alley, where my boyfriend would nail strike after strike after strike, while I couldn't figure out how to stop my forearm from crossing over my body like I was chucking a frisbee. After doing horrendously on the lanes, we'd move to the pool tables. Arcade games came next, where we pretended we were shooting down helicopters and hunting buffalo. When we were done, we got Burger King - always Burger King. I'd snag double stackers with bacon and cheese, fries, and chocolate milkshakes. We'd take our greasy bags back to his place, where we'd play Mortal Kombat in his bedroom and laugh and cuss as the blood spatters reigned supreme on the screen.
And intermittently, throughout all this, we would make out.
Chris was a weed enthusiast, an average student, a teaser, and a fun guy. He always wanted to do more than just kiss. I wouldn't let him. I blamed that reservation on naivety, on the fact that while I was intellectually up there, socially, I was grotesquely underdeveloped. He wanted me to get high with him; I refused that as well. We went to prom together, and I was sure that he would have loved to snag a hotel room and have fun smoking a bowl and getting frisky with me. But for the entirety of the five to six months we were together, he never even got to see me topless. Sad.
Not like my parents liked him much. One day, he drove me to the bowling alley again and started crying about his parents potentially divorcing. It felt so heartbreaking and sentimental - this dude was actually opening up to me! We were taking the next step forward in our relationship: Communication, communication, communication! Until I learned that he had been on E the entire drive. My parents forbade me to ride with him until a month later; I think they knew it was a losing battle. We stayed together until he took off for college, and to this day, I always wonder if the break-up was way less mutual than I told myself it was.
I mean, I was okay with it. But him? Maybe it hurt more than I could have possibly conceived. I honestly will never know if Chris wanted to keep the relationship going - the last time I saw him, I was working at the local Target, and he had highlighted his hair to the point in which he looked like a new member of the Backstreet Boys. That was back in 2009; for all he know, he's now off on a boat in Norway, fishing or selling pastries or something like that. But for a long time, I missed him. I really thought he was a good boyfriend.
It wasn't until much later that I realized...he was actually a way, way better bro. I mean, seriously. Playing video games? Eating junk food? Cheering on the Giants and singing along to grunge rock and sharing popcorn while watching Revenge of the Sith? It was a bromance! So maybe that hurt him more - that I really saw him more as a bro than as a boyfriend.
All made sense in the end. All worked out, too. I've been married now for over three years. And while it's not a bromance, she is definitely my best friend.
This week's prompt is provided by the Moth StorySLAM, which, yes, is "Love Hurts" verbatim. We'll see if I get to tell this story in front of an audience in a few days! I might switch it up, though!
by Belinda Roddie
It was the first time I had ever had a legit boyfriend. It was also the first time I had ever had a bromance.
We met in my sophomore year of high school, which was a year of ponytails, bad poetry, and pubescent awkwardness. He was my creative writing teacher's TA: Doe-eyed, brown-haired, and usually stoned out of his gourd. His name was Chris, based off his middle name Christian, and he was the son of my former eighth grade physical science teacher - extra awkwardness.
He told me he first started to like me after hearing my stories, which, looking back on it, makes me cringe so hard that I almost pull a muscle behind my left eye. He finally started chatting with me at a chili festival my high school hosted in order to support the victims of the tsunami in Sri Lanka, so our first real conversation happened over lukewarm beans, dry beef, and half-congealed cheddar cheese. Clearly, the stars were properly aligned on this day.
After constantly sitting in the library together at lunch, we went on our very first date, which was watching Frank Miller's Sin City at the local movie theater. The black and white imagery of a guy getting his yellow-stained genitals ripped right off his pelvis was positively romantic. We only hugged that night, and I'm sure it was just nerves and not the cinematic gore we had just witnessed together. Our first kiss happened when we were both playing Soul Calibur II. My boyfriend-to-be played the zweihander-wielding monstrosity that was Nightmare, as I continually mashed the same buttons as the staff-swinging Killik. It's hard to describe the experience of your first kiss when it's in front of an old television set situated in your brother's bedroom, all coordinated to the dramatic soundtrack of a fighting game, so I think I'll just leave it at that.
That began a weekly routine of dates, most of them normally occurring on Fridays and revolving around the same steps. After school, Chris and I would walk to his car, and as per usual, Kurt Cobain would be growling his near incoherent rants on the stereo. I'd sing along as best as I could, poser that I was, since I had never really listened to Nirvana before going on these joyrides. We'd roll up to the local bowling alley, where my boyfriend would nail strike after strike after strike, while I couldn't figure out how to stop my forearm from crossing over my body like I was chucking a frisbee. After doing horrendously on the lanes, we'd move to the pool tables. Arcade games came next, where we pretended we were shooting down helicopters and hunting buffalo. When we were done, we got Burger King - always Burger King. I'd snag double stackers with bacon and cheese, fries, and chocolate milkshakes. We'd take our greasy bags back to his place, where we'd play Mortal Kombat in his bedroom and laugh and cuss as the blood spatters reigned supreme on the screen.
And intermittently, throughout all this, we would make out.
Chris was a weed enthusiast, an average student, a teaser, and a fun guy. He always wanted to do more than just kiss. I wouldn't let him. I blamed that reservation on naivety, on the fact that while I was intellectually up there, socially, I was grotesquely underdeveloped. He wanted me to get high with him; I refused that as well. We went to prom together, and I was sure that he would have loved to snag a hotel room and have fun smoking a bowl and getting frisky with me. But for the entirety of the five to six months we were together, he never even got to see me topless. Sad.
Not like my parents liked him much. One day, he drove me to the bowling alley again and started crying about his parents potentially divorcing. It felt so heartbreaking and sentimental - this dude was actually opening up to me! We were taking the next step forward in our relationship: Communication, communication, communication! Until I learned that he had been on E the entire drive. My parents forbade me to ride with him until a month later; I think they knew it was a losing battle. We stayed together until he took off for college, and to this day, I always wonder if the break-up was way less mutual than I told myself it was.
I mean, I was okay with it. But him? Maybe it hurt more than I could have possibly conceived. I honestly will never know if Chris wanted to keep the relationship going - the last time I saw him, I was working at the local Target, and he had highlighted his hair to the point in which he looked like a new member of the Backstreet Boys. That was back in 2009; for all he know, he's now off on a boat in Norway, fishing or selling pastries or something like that. But for a long time, I missed him. I really thought he was a good boyfriend.
It wasn't until much later that I realized...he was actually a way, way better bro. I mean, seriously. Playing video games? Eating junk food? Cheering on the Giants and singing along to grunge rock and sharing popcorn while watching Revenge of the Sith? It was a bromance! So maybe that hurt him more - that I really saw him more as a bro than as a boyfriend.
All made sense in the end. All worked out, too. I've been married now for over three years. And while it's not a bromance, she is definitely my best friend.
This week's prompt is provided by the Moth StorySLAM, which, yes, is "Love Hurts" verbatim. We'll see if I get to tell this story in front of an audience in a few days! I might switch it up, though!
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