After a recent conversation with a group of friends, I was shocked and saddened to learn how few of them have ever been in love. You know, a person who makes you feel like you’re tripping over the rainbow; a person who gives you goose bumps when you know he or she is coming over. I'm talking real love, baby.
I think I’ve been in love three times.
The first man that made my heart jump was named Chris. We met at his father’s pizza joint where we both worked as waiters. He had blonde curly hair; a gymnast’s body and a sly smirk that made me forgive him anything. He sang in a punk band and I was his number one front row groupie at every dive he played. He drove a beat-up MG and sang me songs late into the night. He left me for a girl with huge boobs and platinum hair. I cried for three weeks. Years later, I ran into him and we didn’t even recognize each other.
Years went by before my next love. His name was Pete and he had a missing tooth and drove a taxi. We met on a phone sex line and his deep voice had me at hello. I used to sneak him into my parent’s basement after they had gone to sleep. He wasn’t exactly handsome, but it was the best sex I ever had. He left me for an underage Eskimo. He still lives in the same apartment and I have no idea what he is doing.
The third I will write about later.