Crossing the Line
A very wise woman once said, “Oh, come on, honey. Just friends or not, you and Warren have something to work out of your systems.” The woman was Emily and, of course, she was talking to me. And, of course, I denied it. And, of course, she was right. It was early November of that first semester I lived away when Warren came down from NYU to pay me a visit. And for the first time in our friendship, all systems were go.
I’d had three make-out moments on campus prior to Warren’s visit. Three inebriated encounters that were tons of fun, but meant absolutely nothing to me and, I presume, even less to the guys I was with. Guys number one and two both happened to be named Bill, so perhaps it was in the interest of fairness that I went equally far with each of them, which wasn’t very far at all considering that they both seemed rather disappointed about the lack of action below their belts. I could’ve sworn that guy number three said to call him Chaka Khan, though I very much doubted this in the sober light of day. Regardless, I let him get a little further than the Bills. Maybe it was because “I Feel for You” was playing in my head the whole time. Maybe I didn’t want to know what his real name was. Then again, it didn’t really matter what any of their names were. I wasn’t looking for a relationship with Bill, Bill or Chaka Khan. That’s why I never had sex with any of my hookups and only returned favors by hand.
Sex with strangers just didn’t seem like something I could ever have. Sex with a guy I’d purposely avoided doing it with for two years, however—that was workable. Especially when that guy would wake up the next morning still respecting me and go back to New York. Especially when that guy had never looked better. Especially when that guy really had no shot in hell of ever really being my Duckie. Of course, I didn’t exactly see things that way when we first made our plans.
The only one at school who knew the full extent of my history with Warren was Alison. And based on everything I’d told her, she agreed with Emily about the systems thing. She wanted to give us the room to ourselves when he stayed over. But I told her no, that Warren was going to stay a friend and only a friend, no matter what. A “special” friend—that’s how I’d described him to everybody else. Everybody being Lauren, Alexa, Maddie, Cara, Tammy and Erin, or in other words, The Six. That was how Alison and I referred to them when we were alone to save breath. We never went anywhere without The Six, and as eight, we were very obnoxious. Warren didn’t think so, though. He loved my friends from the moment he met them. And they loved him right back. In fact, they could’ve eaten him up. With whipped cream and a cherry on top, if he’d been willing. I noticed this during the party we went to when the drunken Six plus Alison hung on his every word as if he were the next Messiah, though with these lingering, lustful gazes that said they were all going straight to hell. Or maybe I was just jealous. Not that I had any reason to be. Warren couldn’t take his eyes off of me.
“And you’ve never done it with this guy because?” Maddie asked when Warren walked away to use the bathroom.
“I don’t know,” I said, searching for an answer myself. “We’re friends.”
“So?” Tammy chimed in.
“I’ll be his friend,” Erin teased.
But Alison came to my defense. “It’s a complicated history. Don’t give her any grief. It’s complic—” She looked at me, suddenly confused, and started laughing. “It’s really not all that complicated, Stella. I’m sorry. Go screw the boy, please.”
“If not, at least let one of us have him,” Lauren said. Alison looked at me sharply, raising her eyebrows. I knew what she was thinking.
“You can’t,” I told Lauren. “I won’t sleep with him, but I won’t let any of my friends sleep with him, either.”
“Well, that’s fair,” Alexa said, joking but making the point abundantly clear. I was unfair. Warren was a hot, available guy who wanted me in every way. I should either go for it or release him to the highest bidder. But I needed to stop this resistance dance. Did I really fear change that much? On one hand, I was afraid to sleep with Warren because it might change our friendship. And on the other hand, I was afraid to let him sleep with any of my friends because I might not have the same hold over him anymore. He might fall in love with someone else. But I wasn’t in love with him, anyway. So what did it matter if he fell in love with somebody else? It’s not like I kept a leash on him while he was at school. That’s how he’d stumbled into Emily’s bed. And look at all the other girls who’d gotten to be with him already. Look at all the girls who wanted to. Well, I wanted to, so why couldn’t I? Hadn’t I earned the right more than some one-night stand he might never even see again? Hadn’t we waited long enough? So, why couldn’t I sleep with him? Because of a friendship? Because he might get hurt? He knew the risks as well as I did. And he knew that I wasn’t in love with him. He was the one who’d called himself Duckie. Was it my fault that the guy who’d fallen hopelessly in love with me also happened to be as hot as sin? Was it my fault I couldn’t be Molly Ringwald after three beers and seven girlfriends telling me that I was crazy? It surely was my fault, because alcohol and public opinion really had nothing to do with it. I wanted to have sex with Warren.
“Listen, girls,” I said. “Can Alison sleep in one of your rooms tonight?”
“Don’t do it if you’re not ready,” Cara told me.
“Yeah, Stella, I’m sorry,” Alison said. “Don’t listen to me. We’re all just jealous of you. I know what Warren means to you. Don’t let us talk you into something you’ll regret.”
“The only thing I’ll regret is losing this chance.”
“Then go for it,” Alison said, hugging me. “And be safe.”
Warren came back from the bathroom to find everyone gathered around me in celebration of the wonderful sex I was about to have.
“What did I miss?” he asked.
“Nothing,” I said. “Let’s go, okay? I want to show you something in my room.”
Warren didn’t object to leaving, but once we were alone, sex seemed to be the farthest thing from his mind. Then again, how was he supposed to know the words off limits had suddenly been replaced by come and get me? I certainly wasn’t giving off any signals—I’d lost every ounce of my sexual nerve on the walk to my room. How did one make a move on one of her best friends?
“So, what did you want to show me?” he asked cluelessly.
I probably should’ve just said “this” and went straight for the kiss, but even if I had been feeling that confident, Warren wasn’t just some random hook-up boy. And this wasn’t going to be a wham bam. I may not have been in love with him, but I loved him with all my heart. And for now, I just wanted to be alone with him, without all of his drooling admirers.
“I didn’t want to show you anything,” I admitted. “I just wanted to spend some time away from the noise, if that’s okay with you.”
“That’s fine with me. Do you feel all right?”
“I feel fine.” I sat down on Alison’s and my futon couch, patting the space beside me so he’d sit, too. “I just wanted to make sure we got some time alone together. But if you’d rather go back to the party, we could—”
“I came to see you, Stella,” Warren said, taking my hand. “I mean, I like your friends—your friends are great. But this is why I came—to visit with you.”
“Good.” I looked down at his hand. He’d already let go of mine. He had no idea what I was up to.
“Is there something you wanted to talk about?” I shrugged my shoulders, still looking down. “Hmm?” He cupped my chin between his thumb and forefinger, raising my face so I’d look at him. “I couldn’t quite hear that.”
I smiled—his touch had completely awakened my sexual nerve. “Do you want to go to bed?” But, of course, I said it more like I meant sleeping. After all, I needed some kind of safety net. And after being friends for so long without having sex, Warren made no attempt to read into it.
“I’m not really tired,” he said. “Would it be okay if I watched TV?” Great—now, what could I do? I was really failing at this.
“Sure.” Some seduction that had been. And now I was stuck going to bed early when there was a perfectly good party going on, a party I’d only left, apparently, so that I could make a complete fool out of myself. And poor Warren was probably wondering what the big deal about “alone time” had been if I was only going to konk out on him.
“Do you need to change?” he asked.
“Yeah.”
“Go ahead. I’m not looking,” Warren said, staring wide-eyed. And even though it was more of a joke than flirtation, his comment helped reassure me of his feelings—he did still want me. I suddenly had a brilliant idea. First, I made a face so he’d turn his head. Then I went over to Alison’s dresser and put on her “bad girl” nightie—red silk, a little lacey, a little oops, I didn’t realize this was see-through, but still sophisticated enough to be classy. Perfect seduction wear. She’d said I could borrow it anytime I wanted to impress a guy. Now was that time.
“Okay, I’m done,” I said, trying to act nonchalant as I walked over to my bed and began turning down the covers. I was waiting for him to say something, but he didn’t. When the silence finally forced me to face him, he looked stoned. “What?”
“You can’t wear that.”
“Why not?”
He glanced down at the floor, then back up at me, then down at the floor again. “Where am I supposed to look?”
“Wherever you want.”
He stood up from the couch, his eyes grazing over my chest, though I could tell he was trying hard to stay focused on my face. “Well…what should I wear?”
“What do you mean?”
“I didn’t know we were dressing up. I was just gonna sleep in my clothes.”
I smiled. “You look fine.”
He pulled off his sweater, tossing it onto the couch behind him. He still had his undershirt on, and although I’d seen him that way many times, this time was different. This time, I wanted to jump him.
“Where should I sleep?” he asked, looking around.
“Well, I could open up the futon for you.”
“Sounds good.”
“Or you could sleep in my bed with me.” Had I really just said that? Oh, well. If he laughed, I could always say Just kidding.
Warren looked completely surprised, but in a good way. And he certainly didn’t laugh. “Are you serious? Won’t Alison think that’s a little weird?”
“Alison’s not coming back tonight.”
“She’s not?”
“She likes to sleep with Lauren and Alexa when she drinks.”
“Oh, yeah?” He began walking closer.
“Not like that, Warren. Sorry to kill your fantasy.” Warren shook his head, smiling like I’d done something silly. “What?”
“You don’t know much about fantasies, do you?”
“Oh, come on. Three girls? What guy wouldn’t want to see that?”
“Try one girl.”
“One girl?”
“You.”
We were standing close together as I looked up into his eyes—those eyes that could quite possibly smolder ice. Emily, Alison, The Six, they had all been right. They just didn’t come much hotter than Warren. And to top it all off, he was actually a wonderful person. A wonderful person who thought the world of me. What on earth had I been waiting for? Permission from God?
“Warren?”
“Hmm?”
I put my arms around his neck. “I want to be with you.”
He reached forward to stroke my face. “Will you get mad at me if I ask a question?” I shook my head. “Are you drunk?”
“No.”
“Promise?”
“I promise. Are you?”
Warren smiled. “I hope not. I only had three beers.”
“Can we, then?”
“Can we what?” he teased.
“Warren!” And just when I was expecting some kind of witty torture, he leaned down and kissed me.
I felt it with all of my senses and still wanted more. I suppose that’s what two years of waiting can do. He slipped the spaghetti straps off of my shoulders and Alison’s nightie fell to the floor in a pile of silk and achievement. It was happening— Warren and me. There was no turning back now. Or was there?
“How sure are you?” he asked suddenly, pulling away.
“One hundred percent.”
“Why now?”
“I think we’ve waited long enough.”
“But what if you regret it and blame me?”
I cupped his face in my hands. “I’d never blame you. I love you.” Oops.
Warren didn’t say it back, but instead started kissing me again, convinced of my certainty, and we ended up on the bed. Most girls would’ve felt stupid or crushed that their sentiments weren’t returned. I felt relieved. It meant that Warren knew what kind of love I meant. And my underwear soon joined Alison’s nightie on the floor.
Everything Emily said about Warren was true. He was huge and he could go all night. We used five condoms from the May ’99 collection, which still left me with four to wish on. Not that I should’ve been remembering past partners as I fell asleep in Warren’s arms on that rainy November morning. But I couldn’t help thinking of John. It was Warren holding me, Warren’s cologne on my skin and sheets, Warren who now knew me in a way nobody else ever had except John. But it wasn’t Warren whom I thought of when I closed my eyes. John was all my heart wanted. All that I could see, all that I could feel. And without even having to try, I remembered the smell of his hair, the apple shampoo. That lost little boy look in his ocean-blue eyes. His stare in the rain. I remembered and I cried. Because I had just lost him forever.
I’d told Warren I loved him—during sex. It didn’t matter what kind of love I meant. The point was that I’d gone and had sex with meaning. Sex had meant nothing to John with his Lady Stella Birdnose. Why couldn’t I have just done it with Chaka Khan? Why did everything have to have significance in my life? Why couldn’t I just chalk this one experience with Warren up to great sex and leave it at that? Why did it have to spell some kind of death for John and me?
Because I had cut the cord, that was why. The sacred cord connecting me to the one person in the world I’d ever made love to, and now I’d made love to someone else. I knew that Warren wasn’t “the one,” but I loved him. And maybe the fact that he was here and John wasn’t, that I hadn’t seen John in so long, made me feel like it just wasn’t real anymore. That John and I were destined to become nothing more than a pocketful of painful memories. And all because I’d erased his imprint with Warren’s. In this case, sex with love was a sin. Sex without it would have been so much easier to wash away. I would have become a prune in the shower trying. I would have run outside naked at dawn to lie in the rain. But nothing could have saved us—me and the boy who’d been slipping away for months—because I’d finally cut the cord. I’d never love anyone as much as John. And my eyes burned from missing him every time I tried to sleep.
It was probably the rain or my tears or the ocean in his eyes, thoughts of cutting the cord, womb, water…I dreamed that John and I were swimming naked with the fish while “The Man Who Sold the World,” the song that had framed our first kiss, played on in the background. It was an appropriate symphony, appropriate that the song that gave us our beginning would also shelter our goodbye.
That memory of us in the water became real to me and was the last image I had of John for years—until I saw his picture on the back of a book. Seventeen Stories and Bloodlines. Both bestsellers, both riveting reads, and neither bearing any obvious—or even subtly implied—mention of me. Sometimes I prefer to think of myself as Camille in Bloodlines since the main character, Trevor, is in love with her. The only thing is that Camille is Trevor’s cousin and she’s got red hair and skinny legs. But since he’s willing to risk his good name and fortune to be with her, I like to think that John was thinking of me when he wrote her. Even though we were never cousins. And all we really had to give up in order to be together was a little immaturity and fear.
I suppose that was the lethal combination that kept our young love from flourishing. Although we stayed connected through phone calls and letters, eventually replacing both with e-mail, we never actually got together again, face-to-face. It’s not that we didn’t want to see each other, just that neither of us tried very hard. John’s schedule never did see freedom. He was always busy with school, his double major, clubs, internships, and his only real tie to Pennsylvania was me. There were no more Maybe I’ll see him when’s. The responsibility was on our shoulders and neither of us accepted it. In a way, though, I was relieved that I didn’t have to see him. So much had changed since our last visit. I was a different person now, not only because of what I’d done with Warren, but because of what Kevin had done to me. And the idea of being alone with John was scary. The idea of feeling safe was scary—because feeling safe might lead to spilling secrets. And there was one secret I wanted to take to my grave. Facing John would have been a threat to that, and sometimes, it’s just better not to face things.
John and I lost touch completely in 2000—two years before those Seventeen Stories gave me another face to know him by. An older face than I knew in college, but still those boyish eyes. Though they didn’t look quite so lost anymore. His hair was shorter than I’d ever seen it, but I wondered if it still smelled like apple shampoo. I wondered how weekly e-mails could become monthly could become none. I wondered where feelings went, where love went when you still felt it after so many years, but knew it would never amount to anything real, when you’d just wrapped your heart around somebody else, somebody great, somebody new. I wondered why John still managed to haunt me when I was happy. I wondered how in the world I could’ve ever been so stupid as to let him slip away.
John Lixner lives in San Diego, the first line of his bio told me. California. The other side of the country. I figured he must have gone for a girl. That he must have been happy, too. A couple years later, I read Bloodlines and decided that the California cunt must have been Camille.