Dark Roads

A girl reaching towards older and mysterious men

These days, I ride my bike to the gym after work. It’s a thrill to weave through traffic, run red lights, and get where I’m going faster than the cars. At work I ask questions, such as, “What injuries have you sustained?,” then jot them down in my yellow legal pad.

I write at the gym while doing leg presses. The serious and efficient after work crowd mills around seniors who read the newspapers in between sets. I hog the machine to sit on my phone and write.

A catchy garage rock band comes on my headphones. The song reminds me of being confident and young at the Che.

The building was packed when they played a decade ago. I stood on the side of the stage, a place I felt comfortable being as a regular volunteer. I was bold that night. When the drummer’s high cheekbones attracted me, I didn’t catch subtle glances at him. I stared.

I had been horny and desperate for touch since I was a teenager, but experienced it mostly through fantasies. At 16, my friend leaned over in French class and said, “If you still haven’t had sex when you’re in your 20s, I’ll have sex with you.”

My other friends and I laughed about it. They tried to train me on ways to be more attractive. In the back of one of their mom’s cars, they advised me to unclasp my hands and look more relaxed. We traced black eyeliner around our eyes and walked through the forest with 40s in our hands. Crushes and fantasies were always being discussed, but when I think back to it—romance was in the background. It was more conversational, and abstract. Desire was a terrain we were navigating together. Our friendship was front and center.

When one of them fucked a married teacher, we poured over his texts to her. There was an excited energy around the act, even though I was also nervous and uncertain about it. She had a crush. We were happy that she something had come out of it. We did not speak of telling anybody else, or reporting the act.

That night at the Che, I watched the drummer’s body move, the sticks flailing in his hands, and the sweat dripping off him. When his eyes met mine, I didn’t look away. When the show was done, he came up to me and made small chat in the small kitchen. He told me later, in a hotel room on El Cajon Blvd., that he’d wished we could have made out in the eucalyptus forest.

I didn’t know then that he had a girlfriend he was living with in Texas. I said goodbye, then went home to my bedroom in suburban San Diego. While my mom slept upstairs, I searched the band members’ names. When his full name came up in a recent interview, I searched him on Facebook and clicked add.

He invited me to their Joshua Tree show the next day, at which point I had to admit I was still not allowed in bars in the States. I tried to express this casually, but the words, “I’m 20,” sat, weighted, in our Facebook thread. I didn’t want him to think I was too young.

Over the next year, we became Snapchat friends. He’d watch my posts—sometimes replying, mostly not. After months of subtle messaging, we entered into a couple weeks of sexting. I checked my phone on breaks at community college, then reported back to my two friends in my late night creative writing class. Together, we crafted racy sexts and thought of the best things to say. That was our creative writing assignment.

At my frozen yogurt job, I snuck under the counter, so my bright tie dyed work shirt was hidden from the cameras view. I never sent him photos of me like that. I didn’t want him to see me refilling the yogurt, or smiling as I took customer’s punch cards. After my shifts, I sent photos in the leopard print bra my sister had given me years before. I let the truth of who I was live in the gaps in our conversations.

When he came to town again—this time with his own band—we had stopped texting for a month. I was still 20, and couldn’t attend the show. At this point, some of the excitement had worn off. But still, I thought I should meet up with him. For what? Experience? Desire? I don’t know.

After some cajoling, my friend dropped me off by the bar he was playing, since I didn’t drive. She was annoyed and felt that I was unsafe. “I’m fine,” I assured her, tipsy from the flask I’d been sipping from all day. I kept sipping as I waited outside the bar for him.

Of course I am not offering this story up so I, or he, can simply be judged, poked, or prodded. Isn’t there more living in the gaps of a story of a girl reaching towards older and mysterious men? I wanted a bigger life, and I walked with him to a dingy hotel room on El Cajon Blvd at 11 pm. I wonder, too, what dark roads you have walked down, and where you hoped they’d lead you.

That night, I let him sign the waiver and pay the 60 dollars. I unclasped my hands and tried to look nonchalant while the motel owner handed over the key.

The sex wasn’t what I wanted it to be. It was sloppy, quick. I preferred our writing— the drafting of texts when he was only a dream in my phone. After it was done, we laid in yellow sheets. He told me about his family, and how he’d cheated on every girlfriend he’d ever had. When I asked him if he was dating someone right now, he was quiet.

I felt myself then in a role I have continued to play for years. Bedside therapist, after hours audience, the girl who can listen. I let him fuck me, then tell me about his girlfriend. I sensed he was showing himself to me in ways he didn’t usually do. Excusing myself from the conversation, I stared at myself—young and naked—in the yellow bathroom. Then I tried my best to get some sleep.

The next day, his tour van picked him up, and I stayed in the parking lot alone. The sun was baring its teeth, and the heat rose off the asphalt in thin waves. I walked to the side of the road, wearing my same booty shorts and halter top from the night before. An internet friend who is now one of my closest friends was in town from the Bay Area. They picked me up and we had breakfast, then jumped into the ocean together. I didn’t tell them where I’d come from until years later.

Now I press the weights forward on an ab machine. I type into my phone and hope I will lose weight.

I sleep in the same bed with a boyfriend who I do not worry about cheating on me. He rides to the gym with me one day, and keeps his membership even though he rarely goes.

I’m probably older than the drummer was now. I’m probably close to the age of the married teacher. I resist the urge to check up on these guys and see if they’re married, or smiling with children. When his band comes on shuffle, I let the song play, then put my hands back on the weight machine and finish my set.