I met Chris that first summer after I had become single. Like most of my trysts, he and I were matched on a popular dating site; at the time my dating goals consisted of interacting with as many penises as possible.
Let me tell you, Chris had a nice one.
The first time we met in person was at a bar near my apartment. He was hungry; I drank and listened to him talk. Although he talked too much, he was pleasant to look at, if a little older than my usual preference -- 42 to my 34. I heard about his friends, his girlfriend who up and moved to another state, his job, possibly his drug habits. Maybe I learned about the drug habits later.
When he had walked me to my front steps, I meant to hug him goodbye but found myself disinclined to let go. When he kissed me, it made sense. So I asked if he wanted to come inside. He wasn't the first man I had asked inside since the breakup, I don't want it to seem like he was. But he was one of the first.
Come to learn, he had some beautiful tattoos and he really knew what to do with his hands. He was also thin and well-endowed so he could actually touch me with his hands while he was inside me, a new experience for me. Afterwards, we realized we had friends in common, or rather that his closest friends were acquaintances of mine, people my best friend from college knew through her husband.
When I called my friend, she squealed as is her wont. Yes, she knew Chris. Yes, she thought he was gorgeous. In half an hour she had me worked up about his potential as a boyfriend. Chris wanted a girlfriend, and had probably five women on his roster of candidates for the position.
The anxiety had started. Even though I hadn't been looking for a boyfriend, suddenly I wanted to see more of Chris, spend time with him, kiss him, fuck him, and be his girlfriend. He told me that he wanted a woman to take care of him, and I thought "I could be that woman!" He wasn't what I wanted, not really. I didn't really want a boyfriend who wanted taking care of, and certainly not one who was a walking pharmacopoeia who regularly drove while stoned. Suddenly, though, the idea of being someone's girlfriend again seemed irresistible, and my anxiety grew into a beast taking over my middle. I wanted it, I didn't want it, I wanted to be rid of the fear and stress. I called him and tried to talk him into being my boyfriend, thinking that I'd feel better if he just said yes, dammit.
He didn't. Although he seemed somewhat open to the idea, he thought I was too young and he didn't say yes, and I was so mortified at my behavior that I didn't talk to him for two weeks. When I finally reached out again, he let me know that he had decided to date another woman exclusively.
It was after that episode that I decided to see a psychiatrist and be put on anti-anxiety medication, because I realized I was making decisions based on what would make me feel better, rather than what was best for me. My experience with Chris hurt, a lot. However, he was a catalyst for what later felt inevitable -- my reliance on meds to keep my anxiety in check.
I'm not totally convinced that I want to be on drugs for the rest of my life, but relationships are scary as fuck and I don't want to navigate them anymore without the drugs.
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