Blackout_ Remembering the Things I Drank to Forget
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of six beers, “I bet you won’t kiss me right now.”<br />
He was leaning against <strong>the</strong> wall. His forehead rippled as he looked up, all squint and slouch. He<br />
looked at <strong>the</strong> parking lot, at <strong>the</strong> dozens of people around us. He looked everywhere but at me. Then he<br />
said, “I don’t think you’re going <strong>to</strong> win that bet.”<br />
The idea of coming on <strong>to</strong> men was new. In high school, this would never have occurred <strong>to</strong> me. I<br />
had waited for Miles <strong>to</strong> kiss me, for months that felt like years. My coquettish signaling: sit next <strong>to</strong><br />
him in class, play with my hair, cross my legs so <strong>the</strong>y looked thinner. I read <strong>the</strong> tea leaves of his every<br />
gesture. He called me last night. What does it meeaaaan? This was how I unders<strong>to</strong>od seduction.<br />
Keep inviting <strong>the</strong> guy closer, but sit still until he pounces.<br />
College flipped that script. The new imperative: If you want a guy, go after him. What’s s<strong>to</strong>pping<br />
you? We didn’t use words like “feminism”—a fussy term for earlier generations, like<br />
“consciousness-raising” or <strong>the</strong> ERA—but it was unders<strong>to</strong>od that we ran with <strong>the</strong> boys. Argue with<br />
<strong>the</strong>m. Challenge <strong>the</strong>ir ideas about sex and Ernest Hemingway, because <strong>the</strong>y’d been holding <strong>the</strong><br />
megaphone for <strong>to</strong>o long, and we needed <strong>to</strong> wrest it from <strong>the</strong>ir grip. I even wore cologne. Calvin<br />
Klein’s Obsession for Men. And sla<strong>the</strong>ring my neck in that rich, oaky musk gave me a kinky thrill,<br />
like I’d been rubbing up against some low-rent Johnny Depp.<br />
But my lessons in women and power did not extend <strong>to</strong> <strong>the</strong> classroom. I was not a hand raiser of<br />
any kind. I <strong>to</strong>ok a C in my Literature After <strong>the</strong> Holocaust seminar, because I couldn’t force myself <strong>to</strong><br />
open my mouth, despite participation being 25 percent of <strong>the</strong> grade. I ran in<strong>to</strong> <strong>the</strong> professor on campus<br />
one day. She had dreads and a wry smile. I didn’t even know <strong>the</strong>y made professors this cool. We<br />
chatted for a bit, and she said, “I don’t get it. Why didn’t you ever talk in class?” And I blushed and<br />
said, “I’m shy,” and she said, “Well, you shouldn’t be.”<br />
No, I shouldn’t be. I wasn’t meant <strong>to</strong> be. And on <strong>the</strong> balcony of my apartment, I was not. Under<br />
cover of night and Keys<strong>to</strong>ne tall boys, I was full of righteous fire and brims<strong>to</strong>ne. How I loved <strong>the</strong><br />
taste of conviction in my mouth.<br />
That is bullshit. You’re wrong. Prove it.<br />
I was done sucking up <strong>to</strong> men. Fluffing <strong>the</strong>ir egos. Folding <strong>the</strong>ir tightie whities. I was going <strong>to</strong><br />
smash my bottles against <strong>the</strong> wall, and someone could clean up after me, goddammit. I s<strong>to</strong>pped<br />
leaning over makeup mirrors and blow-drying my hair. I wore clo<strong>the</strong>s that stank of hamper and<br />
Marlboro Lights, and it seemed <strong>to</strong> me that men got off on this new uncorseted persona. That’s what<br />
<strong>the</strong>y said: We like strong women. That’s what <strong>the</strong>y said: Be yourself. So, death <strong>to</strong> <strong>the</strong> girl of <strong>the</strong><br />
nervous fidgets, behold <strong>the</strong> woman with a beer in her hand and one endless cigarette. No more hearts<br />
doodled in spiral notebooks. No more falling in love with every boy who looks your way in biology<br />
class. But falling in<strong>to</strong> bed—now, this was ano<strong>the</strong>r <strong>to</strong>pic entirely.<br />
That’s what Mateo and I did that night. We slinked off in<strong>to</strong> my bedroom while <strong>the</strong> party rambled<br />
on, and we ripped off each o<strong>the</strong>r’s clo<strong>the</strong>s in a blind, snarling rage. For so long, I wondered how it<br />
would feel <strong>to</strong> sleep with someone o<strong>the</strong>r than Miles. To run <strong>the</strong> tip of my nose along <strong>the</strong> powdery skin<br />
of his s<strong>to</strong>mach, soft as a puppy’s belly, and in<strong>to</strong> <strong>the</strong> feral thicket of short, wiry hair leading down<br />
below. But I couldn’t tell you what sex with Mateo was like, because all I had <strong>the</strong> next day was a<br />
flash of a memory, five seconds of a frame: me, on <strong>to</strong>p of him, my hands digging in<strong>to</strong> his chest and my<br />
hair swishing around madly. I am <strong>to</strong>ld that I screamed. The kind of excitement that travels through<br />
flimsy apartment walls.<br />
“I guess I don’t need <strong>to</strong> ask if you enjoyed yourself,” my roommate Tara said <strong>the</strong> next day over