I would have lost my virginity to you on my birthday, but your girlfriend started throwing up after we got back to your place.
You'd shown up at my house and dragged me out to one of those grungy gay clubs that aren't there anymore, in a basement on Gottingen. The bartender kept mixing us some orange shit and I just came along when you said we were leaving. The three of us went to your room and then she started feeling sick from the orange shit. I waited on your bed for a while, until it occurred to me that I should go home. I hurt my foot tripping over a pipe buried under the snow when I left your house, and by the time I next saw you my ankle was fine again and I'd lost it to somebody else.
It wasn't until the spring that I even kissed you, one of those April nights before it's really warm enough to sit outside. We were drinking cheap champagne out of the bottle, under the bleachers on the Common, you, me and my best friend. I said something about one of your tattoos and you were impressed, pushed me down on the ground and kissed me hard. When we finished the champagne you dropped the empty bottle off the bleachers. I was cold by then, so we walked to my apartment, folded out the couch and laid out across it, you, her, me. You reached for my hand across her body, I brought your fingers up to my mouth. She sat up and said, "I'm going to go sleep," and went in my bedroom and shut the door. I thought she hadn't noticed, but I wasn't so astute back then.
You and I started kissing and you took off my pants. When we were both naked you looked up from between my legs. "We can't have sex, things get weird when I have sex," you said. How are they not already weird?
I let you push me around because you were five years older and I still thought you were cool. There was nothing for you to do but leave and as I watched you heading across the park I thought about how you'd said to call tomorrow and how I wasn't going to. The next time we got drunk on the Common it was summer and I left without saying goodbye.