Kerry Cohen - Loose Girl - A Memoir of Promiscuity

that has the same installation of small kites as she has in her home, she tells me she and Donald are getting divorced. Angrily, she explains Donald has been seeing another woman. She tears up as she speaks, obviously in pain, obviously resigned.

“I did so much for him,” she says. “He just changed all of a sudden. I don’t know him anymore.”

For the first time ever, I feel sorry for her. I put my hand on hers.

“I’m sorry, Mom.”

“I don’t understand what happened.”

I think of Terri’s words about the people we choose, how they’re mirrors of ourselves. I want to say something about this, but I’m afraid she’ll misunderstand.

“I never liked Donald,” I say instead.

“You didn’t?”

“He was spineless. He allowed you to turn him into whoever you needed him to be.”

“That’s not true. We just had the same taste.”

I sigh, knowing we won’t see eye to eye.

“Either way,” I say, “I’m sorry this is happening.”

She looks down at her coffee. “Me too.”

That evening, lying awake in her guest room, I think about her—how, like me, she doesn’t know how to keep love in her life. It pains me to think of her like this, lost and wanting, desperate for love. She’s gone so far into her life, and yet she’s still like a child, tugging on sleeves, pushing people over, trying so very hard to get what she needs. I’m like that too, aren’t I? That little girl inside, clawing her way through life, wanting, always wanting, never ever getting enough to feel filled. It’s so ugly. So profoundly sad and ugly. I don’t want to be like this anymore.

Back home, I go out a few times with friends, testing the waters. In a bar, there’s a boy. He’s heavyset and scraggly. Nice eyes. He sits down in front of me, ignoring my friend, ignoring everything but me.

“Can I help you?” I ask.

“Definitely.” He smiles, a nice smile, but I can see from the way his eyes aren’t completely focused that he’s drunk. “Take me home with you.”

I lean forward so my mouth is near his ear, aware of the way my hair falls over one eye. I smell soap and alcohol. He smiles.

“In your dreams,” I whisper.

“Already been there,” he says before he gets up and walks away. I do take him home that night. And a few nights later, we wind up in bed again. We have sex, but I don’t want to have a real relationship with him. This is new for me, keeping these two things separated, having the perspective to know I don’t really want to date a drunk.

One night he says, “Marry me.” He’s drunk, which isn’t a big surprise.

“Let’s just stick to drunken sex,” I say.

A few weeks later, I meet Michael. He lives with a boy I slept with during my summer of love, but this doesn’t stop us from taking an interest in each other. I like his sharp intelligence, his sense of humor. I like the way his smile lights up his whole face, how, when I talk to him, he really listens. A group of us see the documentary Buena Vista Social Club, and after, recounting an emotional scene from the movie, Michael tears up. He leaves silly messages on my answering machine, pretending he’s someone else. I like this guy. He’s someone I could be friends with, someone I could see wanting to have around. When I’m with him, it feels different than it usually does. I don’t feel like I’m jumping out of my skin when I’m next to him, like if he doesn’t touch me I might die. One afternoon, out in my car, I see him biking home. He follows me back to my place where we sit outside in the yard. I get us water, and we stretch out in the sun on lounge chairs.

“So you write,” he says.

“I try.”

“I was an English major,” he says.

I turn to look at his light hair catching the sun. “You were?”

“Why does no one tell you not to be an English major?” he says.

“Unless you go on for a doctorate, you’ve basically set yourself up for a career as a waiter.”

I laugh. “No kidding.”

“Guidance from parents might have been helpful too.”

“What happened there?”

“I think my dad didn’t have time for it,” he says. “I have six brothers and sisters. Obviously my parents didn’t know when to stop.”

“Wow,” I say. I pour him more water. “So your mother’s a slut.” I smile at him.

He laughs. “Actually, she’s dead.”

“Oh, my God.” I cover my mouth. “Oh, God, I’m such an idiot. I’m so sorry.”

“No worries,” he says, still smiling. “She died when I was six. It was a long time ago.”

“Sometimes I do stupid shit,” I warn him.

He shrugs. “Don’t we all.”

A few days later, we go to a movie together, a real date, and talk for hours afterward over beer and wine. He tells me more about his family, and they sound so, well, normal, so completely different from my own family. When we get back to his house, he kisses me in the hallway. Soon, we’re on his bed, stripping off clothes, but when he gets to my underwear I stop him.

“I don’t want to have sex,” I say. This is me talking, the same girl who usually can’t wait to get a boy inside her, who’s always looking for the moment when she can make a boy totally and utterly hers. Something important is happening here, and it isn’t just that I’m not jumping to sex. I’m realizing love might look different for me than I thought it would. I don’t have to feel all that craziness to be in love. Instead, I can feel like I do: calm, satisfied, and whole. He smiles and pushes my hair back from my face. “Whatever you want,” he says.

A month later, he tells me he loves me. Four months later, we move in together. Three months after that, we get engaged. This is what I’ve been waiting for, what I’ve been hoping for practically my whole life, and now that it’s here I’m thrilled. But I’m also surprised to find that I’m scared—terrified, actually. I’m still not sure I won’t screw it all up somehow, but I try to trust myself for once. He spends time with his friends. I do the same with mine. I stay focused on my work. We enjoy each other’s company, which is so different from all those times I sat with a boy, desperate for him to notice me. I give him the space to love me. I used to think I would get married when someone finally loved me enough to choose me. But this isn’t about Michael being willing to love me any more than those other guys might have. This isn’t a story about how some guy finally saves me from myself. I’m my own hero here; I do the saving. One night, lying in bed together, I tell Michael the truth. I tell him about all the boys, about the desperation and running. About all that loss. I wait, afraid this will be it. He’ll see me too clearly. He’ll call everything off. But he just nods.

“I understand that,” he says. He turns and holds me. I breathe in his familiar scent. “I think a lot of people probably do the same thing.”

“But I’m also telling you something here,” I say. “I’m not good at this.”

“At what?”

“At this,” I say. “At having a real relationship. I get jumpy and needy. I’m afraid I might freak out, do something stupid.”

He holds me closer. “We’ll be fine,” he says.

“Do you hear what I’m saying?” I say, irritated now. “I may fuck up this whole thing.”

“We’ll be fine,” he says again.

I try to pull away, but he holds me tight. “Why do you keep saying that?” I ask, still bothered.

“Because,” he says. “It’s what I believe.”

My mother offers to take me shopping for my wedding dress, so I go to Chicago once again. I never thought I would be one of those brides, taken up with things like centerpieces and flowers and what font is on the invitations. I surprise myself a lot these days. My friends laugh at how obsessed I am. But I know how hard it was to get here. I deserve to have this fun. My mother and I visit Barneys’ bridal shop and various specialty boutiques. I settle on a twopiece silk organza gown with stitching that looks like water rippling across. I turn around and around in the mirror. A bride. In the airport heading home, I hug my mother.