Private Magazine

Category: college

The Slut Diaries: Part I


There’s playing with fire and getting burned, and then there’s dousing yourself in lighter fluid and going full-on Richard Pryor. Ever since the emotionally-abusive cycle with Billy ended, after he spazzed off on me in a jealous rage and things went totally caput, I’ve propelled myself into a Sluttylicious Spree of epic proportions, with party favors included.

March 10:

Kurt’s on my list of guys to bone.  Actually, he’s on the list of guys I have boned. But is he in the friend zone, or is it possible to re-light a match?

We had our blink-of-an-eye fling, sure.  But it wasn’t my fault it ended.  Kurt suddenly got a girlfriend and banished me from his apartment downstairs.  I wasn’t allowed to hang with his roommates or homeboys, not when he was there anyway.  Honestly, I like Kurt – we go back, way back.  We’re in the friend zone.

This drunken date of ours was slated to happen for, I don’t know, months. Kurt just bought a house in our old college town, a spacious relic on a winding road. So we went on a date to the Italian joint. I drove down; it was a snowy afternoon and the town was empty. Where did everybody go?

Kurt’s truck rumbled up his driveway. “Come on,” he said. “We’re going to the liquor store.”

“What are you, some kind of raging alcoholic?” I said.

“We used to live in the same house,” Kurt said with a grin. “You know I’m a raging alcoholic.”

Yeah, true. We did almost burn the place down once or twice.

Kurt handed me his debit card and I ran across the wine mart parking lot.  Back at the house, we situated ourselves inside Kurt’s rustic den.  I put on John Denver and rolled a joint. The place had been owned by an “old man”  who had been a “hoarder,” according to Kurt, and one with an obvious affection for the wilderness. He left behind in the den two giant walls of books. Their musty jackets loomed over Kurt and I.  Kurt gave me one he said reminded him of me.

“Here, this is it,” he said.  “Mistress to an Age.”


Kurt swilled Evan Williams and I downed wine.  The homespun haze put us in a daze, completely under its spell, until we remembered the Italian joint closed at eight. So we caroused our way downtown, and succumbed to total drunkenness at the Italian joint. It was there I felt the psilocybin kick in. Maybe I shouldn’t have mixed alcohol with a mushroom in the den. My ravioli became something of a muse. We discussed our common Libertarian ideals and emotional instability.  Kurt ordered an excessively-huge carafe of cabernet.  Back at the house, my face was numb but I pressed it against Kurt’s anyway and we started making out in the kitchen.


Kurt inexplicably woke up at 6:00 a.m. today, even though it’s Sunday, by turning on his light and saying casually that he “had to go to work.”

“Are you for real,” I turned over. Embarrassingly enough, bootleg big booby smut still emanated on mute from his TV. Kurt put it on as we were making out after dinner.

“I have my period, sorry,” I said. “Goodnight.” And I turned over.

“Oh come on,” Kurt said.

“I can see now that I’m not your type,” I said. “I’m not a big booby uggo downloaded from LimeWire.”

“I don’t have a type!”

Yeah, of course I know men don’t have types…How else do you explain Tiger Woods?

“Shhh,” I said. “I need to get some shut eye.”

At some point thereafter, we both passed out. Dead, and still in the friend zone thanks to that carafe of wine. Either way, in the morning light, I kept repeating to Kurt that I needed shut eye, until he shouted “Shut up!!!!” and clomped outside in his work boots. I heard his truck back down the gravel driveway.

I slept for a couple more hours, smoked some weed, folded Kurt’s laundry, and then began to plot our next adventure  – for some time, Kurt and I have discussed joining the swingers club in town, and going there as a “couple,” actually…

March 23:

Let’s see, “Scotty” from The Third Hole re-emerged, in the strangest of ways. Turns out, he broke up with his fiancé. We made plans to go out to dinner, after I wound up at The Third Hole last Saturday and Scotty and I made plans while in a drunken, coked-out stupor. But nonetheless, we made plans to go out to dinner in the Falls.

But I guess he has a child and was to have custody of him for the evening or something like that? How do these things work? Anyway, a few days before, Scotty said we’d have to postpone. So I asked Mick if he wanted to go out instead. He’s always down to go out to dinner, even at the last minute.

“Let’s go to Mother’s,” I said, and I figured I would just guzzle pinot grigio to make the night more enjoyable.  Since when have I ever needed an excuse to get drunk? Mick is like 50 years old. But right before, while I was getting ready to go, Scotty texted me and said his son went to the movies with friends, and he was headed to The Third Hole after all!

Great. Now I’m stuck going to dinner with Mick, when I could be having a much more stimulating night with Scotty. Hmmmm.

Mick picked me up at 6:00, which is MAD EARLY, and especially bizarre since we were going to Mother’s and they serve dinner until 2:00 a.m.

“Why are we going out so early?” I put my sunglasses on.  “It’s still light out.”

I turned the radio dial to the pop station.

“Oh sure, change the channel,” Mick said sarcastically as “It Ain’t Me” by Selena Gomez emanated from the speaker. “Who’s going to walk you through the dark side of the morning…” I said, not nearly stoned enough. “La la la, it ain’t meeeeee.”

“Oh my God, please, can we just have a quiet evening,” Mick droned.

“Sheesh” I said while trying to take a selfie. “The lighting is really bad in here.”

“Complain, complain, complain,” Mick said monotonously, and I knew right then it would be an annoying evening.

Or would it?

When we got to Mother’s, it was totally empty.  We sat in the far dark corner by the bathroom.

“It’s so early I’m not even hungry yet,” I said, thinking maybe I shouldn’t have popped an Adderall and 15-day herbal cleanse that I had lying around from Feel Rite, but so what? I was only trying to have a pleasant evening.

“Cannot believe we have a prune mixed with a banana for a president – I mean what the serious fuck?” I said, looking at Mick but he has the personality of a dial tone, and his face didn’t even move. “This scandal with Facebook using our information and pandering to the GOP? Of course they did, and he knew how stupid everybody really is and how to manipulate them emotionally.  We impeached Clinton for getting a BJ – but we are going to allow our civil liberties to get ass raped?

I watched Mick pour steak sauce all over a bloody piece of meat until I felt about ready to puke.

“I stand up for sex workers!” I grabbed a knife. “And freedom of speech! Does the Cheeto with Easter grass for hair, does he really know how to even read the Constitution?”

Mick sat there, detached.

“Who are you talking about?” he said.

“Ugh!” I said. “Do you want to go to the Goth store after this? There’s a party at nine.”

“No, I do not want to go to the garth store,” Mick said. “What is so great about the garth store? If you want to live that lifestyle -”

“Yes, I DO want to live that lifestyle,” I stood up and tossed my cloth napkin aside. “You are insulting my community. Just meet me at Q.”

I walked down the block to Q., and after Mick paid the bill and everything he came in after me. I wonder if he realized it’s a gay bar, with all the subtle rainbow accents? Mick is totally square nowadays.

“Look,” he said, sitting down. “I think after this we should both part ways, you should just go back with Billy, both of you don’t care about anybody but yourselves -”

“Wow, really?” I got upset and walked outside again. That was a low blow, even from Mick. I dialed Scotty’s number not sure if he would be available, but he answered on the first ring.

“If I took an Uber to The Falls,” I said while walking towards Delaware Ave. “Could you drive me home later, or like, tomorrow?”

“Yeah sure,” he said. I could hear The Third Hole background noise. And that’s exactly what I did. I rolled down the car window as we approached the saloon, and smelled smoke in the air. A house fire was just being extinguished.

Harbor Inn


I’ve wanted to do nothing all day except day drink and listen to Danity Kane. Why the fuck is it still snowing? Luckily, Troy*, my platonic homebody from the past, re-emerged. We met up at a sushi joint right after my hair appointment, so I looked pretty bossed-up if you know what I’m sayin’.

But I wasn’t trying to seduce or flirt with Troy. I wasn’t sure what was going on in his love life.

We were day drinking in the Hertel jurisdiction, D-District, where it all began, back when I lived in a minuscule attic studio more suitable for three blind mice and Troy was still legally married.

But wait – is Troy still legally married? Who knows, who cares.  Either way, we watched a drunken Camilla Parker Bowles-look alike chug Michelob after Michelob at MT Pockets. We started gyrating to “Boys” by Britney Spears at Gecko’s.  Somewhere along the line, I thought maybe Troy and I were going to make out.

Little did I realize, we would soon be making out in a full-blown PDA episode inside Gecko’s! And afterwards, we staggered into the Video Liquidators theater. Apparently I’m a regular, but they really do have the best selection of slutty lingerie. Anyway, no one else was there, which was weird since it was a Saturday and we found ourselves alone. First I peed in the ladies room, which is painted a dusty rose hue.

We wandered to the back of the store.


What happens in the Video Liquidators theatre stays in the VIdeo Liquidators theatre, if you know what I mean.

But we emerged from its dark, sticky depths still in the friend zone for the most part.


“Do you want to become a mouthpiece of your generation?” I say to Pete, in front of the giant window of Just Vino that looks out upon Main St.  I’ve found myself on an actual date with someone I know, but not very well.

“I like your blog,” he says. “I had no idea you were so talented.”

Sure, you say that now… But what about after one is about you???

“It would be okay, actually,” Pete said. “That would be cool. Just change my name. Or don’t.”


I’m driving home from work, a.k.a smoking a jay and circling the block, wondering about how I’ll ever feel normal in relationships again.  But did I ever? I’m not exactly “normal.”

I’m chasing the dragon of actually caring. I feel numb to the earth. I’m waiting for The Feeling to sneak up on me again, like heroin probably does, but I’ve never done heroin.

Wait – who’s that? Chasing the dragon, right, that is until I see the guy taking out his trash – t-shirt, beard, tattoos – he looks to be moving old carpets and junk.  It looks like maybe he’s moving in…and just on the next block over too…Hmmm…


House of Tards


Kevin Spacey, Harvey Weinstein, and Louis C.K. walk into a bar.  

“What are ya having, sweetcheeks?” asks the barmaid.

“Barely-legal virgins,” says Harvey.

“Little boys,” Kevin says.

“Want to see my dick?” says Louie.  

“Ummmm…” says the barmaid.  “There’s a punchline here somewhere.”

When it comes to sexual assault, happiness is the best revenge.  Or you could do the Lorena Bobbit thing and cut off his penis. It’s all about standing up for yourself and not letting men push you around.   I have real-life tales of date rape to reveal.  Sometimes you don’t even realize something was inappropriate for many years.  Sexy women get used to unwanted sexual attention. At least, I’ve let some things slide that I really shouldn’t have.  You’re always worried that no one will take you seriously lest you reveal the sadistic desires of some people walking in our midst.  The whole #metoo sensation might have thrown some men for a loop.  Some called out perverted guys they know.  But it’s important for each man to look deep within himself and acknowledge the pervy things he’s done in the past, and apologize to the person or persons involved.

Let’s examine how some of these famous pervs are handling the negative attention, shall we?  I created a playlist and beverage recipe to correspond with each one.   Perhaps it will inspire some men out there to cop to their own transgressions.


I watched “Louie” on Netflix, and I’ll admit, I liked Season 1.  There’s a sketch where Louis C.K. and Robin Williams go to the funeral of “the biggest asshole they ever knew.”  They are the only two people there.  Afterwards they go to a strip club.  All the dancers start crying when they tell them who died, because according to them, the same guy was “the most generous man” they knew.

But as the seasons go on, the show dissolves into a serious depression.   A later episode contains a dream sequence in which non-consensual stuff happens between Louie and his crush.   The show becomes all about his strained relationship with daughter and ex-wife.  It wasn’t funny anymore.

When I was binge watching the show a couple years ago, I searched around the internet for info on Louis C.K.  It was rumored he frequently whips out his dingaling in front of female comics.  Now, finally, he has admitted to the whole thing.  Or, at least, some things…



1.5 oz. Fireball

Ginger ale

Combine in a tumbler over ice. Garnish with a maraschino cherry.

Playlist:  “Cleaning Out My Closet,” Eminem

“Age of Consent,” New Order

“Issues,” Julia Michaels



The ‘megalomaniacal producer’ is a familiar Hollywood trope.  Someone who will stop at nothing to get what he wants, until his rationality is thrown to the wayside and things fall apart.  This person is driven by power and control, and continues thirsting for more power and control.  Gwyneth Paltrow, Kate Winslet, Rose McGowan…every day, a new one of my favorite actresses I’d grown up watching spoke out against Weinstein.   He became the face of a widespread movie industry problem.

It’s interesting to note that there’s lots of porn made with the “Hollywood casting couch” plotline.  This would make one think it’s a popular fetish, but maybe the porn industry is simply commenting on the Hollywood industry, as they are two sides of a coin.  Many working in the legitimate porn industry today say they are highly respected in the workplace.

(BUT OF COURSE, there is the DARK SIDE of free Internet porn that EXPLOITS AND DEGRADES.  It’s important that your pornography is ETHICALLY SOURCED. RESEARCH THAT SHIT!!!!!!)


1.5 oz gin

1.5 oz. lemonade

1 oz. Prosecco


Halved strawberries

Fill large margarita glass or goblet with ice, add lemonade and gin, and top with Prosecco. Garnish with the strawberries.

Playlist:  R. Kelly, “Your Body’s Callin”

“Hollywood,” Madonna


I didn’t want to believe this one.  Kevin Spacey?!  I love many of his movies- Seven, American Beauty, LA Confidential. Apparently it was “BuzzFeed News”, which sounds like a complete oxymoron, who broke the story.   But when I read that “House of Cards” removed him from all future episodes and plan to carry on without him, I knew there must be weight to these accusations.  He drunkenly came onto a 14-year-old.   How messed up is that? His ‘thing’ as an actor is to portray socially-inept characters.  He has that ability to maintain an eerily-stoic facial expression at all times.

According to USA Today, there is currently a list of 15 individuals accusing Spacey of misconduct. One of the accusers is Richard Dreyfus’s son! (I had a crush on Richard Dreyfuss when I was a kid after seeing Mr. Holland’s Opus, maybe that explains my teacher fantasy?!) Anyway, Spacey is denying all of these allegations up and down.  I hate liars! HATE THEM!  They should all live together underground.


“Lies”- Thompson Twins

“Lies in the Dark,” Tove Lo

Drink: the NUMB OUT

2 oz. bourbon

½ oz. absinthe

1 oz. lemon juice

Pomegranate juice

Combine ingredients in a shaker with ice and pour into a martini glass.  Garnish with a lemon.



Charlie Rose won an Emmy for his interview with Charles Manson in 1987. Go figure, the day after Manson dies, it’s announced via CBS (Rose’s own employer) that he was terminated due to allegations from young women trying to break into broadcast journalism. This straight-up broke my heart; I was getting a pedicure when it came on the news and kept saying “It’s not true, it cannot be true,” while sniffing glitter nail polish to numb the pain.   I LOVED his show on PBS, Charlie Rose, especially his interview with Bill Gates. Bill Gates keeps alluding to artificial intelligence in a very nuanced way and it’s kind of sexy.

So if I was alone in a party with Charlie Rose, trying to schmooze, would he have invited me up to his hotel room and exposed himself? (And who doesn’t have a story about a guy exposing themselves to share?!)

So, now what? Who knows? He has no job and nowhere to turn.  The media attention is on him now… I am sure they will capture what’s next.


Pour two shots of Tequila Rose into a snifter, on top of a single ice cube.


“Rose Of the Devil’s Garden,” Tiger Army

“Kiss from a Rose,” Seal

“I Wanna Be Adored,” The Stone Roses


But my love is all I have to give. Without you I don’t think I could live. I wish I could give the world to you. But love is all I have to give. Damn, that’s poetic. Nick Carter sang those lines in the early 2000’s as front-man of The Backstreet Boys. Honestly, I was more of a 98 Degrees kind of girl; they were more sexual and obscure.

In 2004, Paris Hilton and Nick Carter dated for 10 months.  In Carter’s ghostwritten book, “Facing the Music and Learning to Talk About It,” he says the time with her was the most self-destructive period in his life. He says he did so much ecstasy that that it caused permanent depressive changes in his brain. So  that would have been around the time the girl-group DREAM (hit single: “He Loves U Not”) were also on the pop charts.

One of the members, now 33, says Carter raped her by going down on her in a bathroom, then persuading her to have sex with him, despite her pleas that she was a “virgin and saving herself for marriage.” (according to People magazine).  Nick Carter says he’s shocked and “saddened” by her proclamation, so who knows.   Let’s hope they both get the help they need.

It must be noted that Carter himself may have suffered sexual abuse at the hands of Lou Pearlman, the record exec who invented the “boy band.” He owned Backstreet Boys, N’sync, O-town, etc., and went to prison after stealing $300 million from investors. It’s alleged he forced members of these boy bands to give him “massages,” and touched them inappropriately.



Fill glass with ice. Add equal parts 99 Bananas and orange juice. Pour into cocktail shaker and then into glass. Do this until frothy and enjoy. Garnish as desired.

Playlist: “Show Me The Meaning of Being Lonely,” Backstreet Boys

“Rumors,” Lindsay Lohan


It’s the night before Christmas and all through the house, not a creature was stirring, not even …. A Democratic senator/comedian whose bad joke came to bite him in the ass.

Before becoming a senator in Minnesota, Franken was a politically-minded comedian and wrote for/performed on SNL in the 1970s and 1980s. Is he funny? Not really.  Apparently he groped a sleeping Playboy model, and also forced a make out upon a young news anchor. I mean, the man is old. He probably tastes like peppermint gum and pastrami.  If he stuck his tongue down my throat, I would have barfed everywhere probably. EVERYWHERE!

I’m not that surprised. The man is a comedian and politician. With those careers combined, he had the cards stacked against him.


2 oz. dry gin

1 tsp. Sugar

½ oz. lemon juice

5 oz. brut champagne

Shake gin, lemon juice, sugar and crushed ice in cocktail shaker. Strain into Collins glass half-full with ice and top with champagne.

Playlist: “Feels Good (Don’t Worry Bout a Thing), ” Naughty by Nature

“Tears of a Clown,” Smokey Robinson & The Miracles


This is not an attempt to make drunken mockery of a sobering situation.  Definitely do not consume these drinks in the presence of known sexual predators.  There are still so many misogynists out there wandering around in plain sight.  While it’s a good thing celebrities are speaking out, all of us “normal people” have to do the same.  When faced with situations that “aren’t okay,” tell the person that what they are attempting is not okay with you and is a violation of your rights as a human being. There’s many types of abuse – sexual, emotional, physical.  These things are hard to report to the authorities and even harder to prosecute.  If you are being victimized, collect all the evidence you can against the perpetrator, and sue him in civil court. That’s my advice.


Romantic Retardation*

*In the clinical sense of the word


Another Memorial Day, another drama. That’s my life. For the past two months, I was seeing this guy “Billy,” an electrician with peroxided hair. I thought that I knew the real him.

Our passionate connection made me feel like we were sheltered under the sunny boardwalks of Venice Beach in 1994 with nothing to kill our buzz.  I was wrapped up in his bubble. Billy skateboards all the time, and lives out in the country actually. He was kind of like an obscure record I discovered in a beat-up barn out in Cambria.

We met in a strange twist of fate and turns out, we both read Hustler for the articles. Our romance was meant to be. Billy took me out to eat and to the park all the time, brought pinot grigio and PBR for us, held my hand and gazed into my eyes… He was just so romantic.

But then the record totally scratched. Billy flipped the script. Everything changed.


The masks we wear

One week ago, Billy told me that he was too broke to take me out to eat anymore.

“I’ve been saving for a house,” Billy texted me. “I can’t spend any money.”

“But it’s impossible not to spend money when there’s a woman in your life,” I said.

Honestly, I was hurt. Why would Billy take me out on dates for two months straight and then suddenly say he can’t anymore?  I figured it meant he wanted to do his own thing, and that I should break up with him as soon as possible, before I’m the one left in the dust.

“Look, Billy…” I said. “If you’re trying to be rude and passive aggressive, than just leave me alone.”

“What are you talking about?” He texted me about five hours later. “I’m not mad about anything.”

So I’m a crazy bitch then, apparently. It was all in my head. Ugh!!



But the situation didn’t go away. For the entirety of this past week, Billy turned into a withdrawn and depressed goon who didn’t want to do anything, despite the fact I told him I would be an emotional support and wear a schoolgirl outfit to his house.

“I don’t want to bring you down when I’m in a depressed mood,” Billy said.

“It’s okay to be in a depressed mood,” I said. “Everyone gets in depressed moods, you don’t have to totally ignore me because you’re in a depressed mood.”

But that’s basically what Billy did. His personality changed. Emotionally, he disappeared. He hid away in an emotionless purgatory, and he didn’t care how I felt about it. I suppose you could say he left me high and dry, feeling abandoned, vulnerable enough to join the Church of Scientology…I mean, right when I thought that I met someone honest, it turned out to be an act.

“I actually don’t even like going out to dinner,” Billy said. “I hate going out to eat. I hate going out downtown.”

“What?” I said. “You could have fooled me.”

“I don’t know how to show my emotions,” Billy continued.

“You are a sociopath, I think,” I told him. “American Psycho!”  I hung up the phone, and then I went out for the night.


Saturday night, Allentown was pop, lock, and droppin’ from Wadsworth to Main. I decided to forego stilettos and wear pointy ankle boots which said “Girl’s Night – Not Trying to Talk to or Be With Any Men.”  Except that is, the men who were in Q. and supplying me with dollars to pick out songs by Nicki Minaj and Demi Lovato, (what can I say, I’m a great DJ at Q. late at night, when the THC and pinot grigio and Adderall are coursing through my veins and I think that 1:30 a.m. is still early and that I should call a bunch of people right away).

“Eddie!” Eddie is my somewhat nocturnal ex-bf/BFF who is definitely an emotional support.  I thought maybe, just maybe, he might be awake. “I’m tipsy and I can’t get home!” But did I really have any intentions of going home?

“I’ll be right there, where you at?”

By the time Eddie’s olive-green Honda pulled to the curb, I had already twisted my ankle while crossing the street. Damn ankle boots…I muttered, flicking the ash of a cigarette whose origins were unknown. Stupid little Billy boy…I paced the corner of Allen and Delaware amidst taxi beeps. If only he could see me now! 

“Eddie!” I hopped in the passenger side of his olive-green Honda. “Hi!’’

“So, you, like, needed a ride home?”

“Meh, I guess. But I don’t really feel like going home yet!”

Eddie drove around to a quieter street, and we sat in the car and talked awhile. I hadn’t seen Eddie for several months; but it doesn’t really matter, because we’ve known each other a super long time and there just aren’t certain pretenses between us. Except now, Eddie has a girlfriend who would chase me away with a broom if I were to ever show up at his place.

“It’s just all gone to shit,” a tear rolled down my cheek under the glow of a crescent moon. “This dork Billy, I never should have given my heart away. He’s too busy saving for a house, apparently…”

“He’s an electrician, he should already have a house,” Eddie lit another cig. “They make good money.”

“Yeah, you’re right.”

“What an asshole,” Eddie said, and I realized he was wearing finely-striped silky pajama pants the whole time.

“I like your pants,” I said.

“Thanks,” Eddie said, and I leaned over to give him a kiss.



It Started With A Syringe


I was at work the other day and ended up having a conversation about losing your virginity. Believe it or not, I wasn’t the one who brought it up.

“I was thirteen,” my co-worker, Ginnifer with the Blue Mani, said.

“I was fifteen,” said Shelby with the Mauve Lip Liner.  “And I’ve been on birth control ever since.”

“I was…seventeen, um, eighteen,” I said. “But honestly it took me that long to hit puberty.”  

We ended up trading stories about the loss of our virginities, about how, like Madonna and Britney Spears and Cyndi Lauper, we all became “touched for the very first time” and “hit one more time” and “time after time” after that.  

It all started in college. When I got to my room in Alumni dorm, I unpacked my Smiths CDs, issues of Nylon and Woody Allen movies to go out and party right away. It wasn’t long before I had a crush on a hipster I saw buying photo paper and film at the bookstore.

“He had glasses and a plaid button-up shirt – unbuttoned halfway,” I gushed to my BFF/roommate Tara as we ate mysterious dining hall casseroles. “I want to know his name.”

The very next day in the dorm,  I was listening to Belle & Sebastian and writing in my diary when our landline phone rang.

“He’s in my logic class,” Tara said. “My philosophy class. The guy with the glasses.”

“No effin way.”

I shadowed Tara’s next logic class for the purpose of learning this guy’s name. He turned out to be a senior named Tommy who said many intellectual things. I was swooning.

A couple days later, I was in our dorm searching for my clove cigarettes. The phone rang at 3:00,  about the time logic got out.

“Tommy wants to know if we can find him a syringe,” Tara said.

“My brother’s diabetic, so probably. For what?”

“His ‘Drug Life’ photo project.”

“I’ll go to LoGrasso. Have him come to our room.”

I walked to the health center, and believe it or not, there must not have been an opiate epidemic in 2005 or something, because I was given a syringe right away, no questions asked. Sweet!  I ran back to the room, and pretended to be working on something at my computer. The door swung open. Tara entered; Tommy was behind her.

“David LaChapelle, David LaChapelle,” Tommy was saying, wearing jeans completely frayed at the bottom with a giant hole exposing one thigh, Doc Marten boots, long wool overcoat and those glasses I had a thing for.

“I really appreciate you doing this for me,” he said while snooping through my bookshelf. He picked up my Annie Hall DVD. “When are we going to get married?” Turns out, Tommy was a huge Woody Allen fan.

“I have to find a few more things for the shoot,” he said. “Want to come along? I’ll grab you guys some wine afterwards.”

Oh yeah, Tommy was 21. It was all music to my ears.

“I saw The Dandy Warhols in London,” he said. We were squished in the backseat of our other friend Valerie’s broken-down Cutlass. She was the only one with a car.

We drove to Wal Mart, the only store in town, to find a “drug dealer-esqe” gold chain, Shower-to-Shower bath powder (“the only kind that really looks like coke,” according to Tommy), and a fake nail (“even though we could probably score one from a theater major,” he said). After Tommy purchased all this stuff, and a box of Franzia, we dropped him off at his place.

“Call me later and we’ll drink wine,” he said.


Tommy and I started hanging out after that – walking around campus, smoking cigarettes, that kind of thing. One night he invited me to his house – off-campus.

“Sorry, we don’t have heat,” he said, opening the door and wearing a coat.

“Oh, okay, that’s cool,” I said.

We went up to the drafty second floor. Someone with a tie-dye tapestry over their door was blaring Grateful Dead. Tommy took me into his room and closed the door. There were stacks of books everywhere, photos tacked to the walls, an electric keyboard, bong, pack of Ecstasy herbal cigs, Velvet Underground & Nico poster, and a carpet that seemed to double as an ashtray.

“Wow. Your room is so cool,” I said.

We sat on the floor. Tommy rolled a joint, took out his iPod, and put the Brian Jonestown Massacre on. We smoked, and I got super high and paranoid because I was innocent and had no tolerance for weed back then. Tommy’s face kept getting closer to mine, somehow. He was about to kiss me when suddenly a dreadlocked girl barged into the room.

“Do either of you have a cigarette?” she yelled.

I looked at Tommy. He looked at me and said, “She’s trying to quit.”

“Um..uh, here,” I extended a Marb Light her way, my hand shaking. She retreated into the hall, shutting the door.

“Damn,” Tommy said. “Sorry about that.”

“It’s okay,”  I said. “So, where were we?”

This blog never gives an explicit play-by-play because it’s better to leave things to the imagination, in my opinion. It’s classier. But when I left Tommy’s house that night I wasn’t as innocent as when I entered.

“Tara,” I said, turning the light on and waking her up. “It happened.”

“Oh. My. God!” She sat up in bed and hugged me. “I’m so proud of you!”

The next morning, we were celebrating over DIY omelettes in the dining hall when I felt nauseous.

“BLEEEEGHHHHHH,” I puked for a good five minutes in the bathroom then came out, pale and sweating. “Tara…I’m so sick.”

I was in bed for the next 36 hours, perspiring, worried I was pregnant, watching The Virgin Suicides.

“Baby girl…You can’t be pregnant,” Tara said. “It’s got to be the flu.”

Sure enough, it was the flu. The only “clean” glass I could find at Tommy’s was totally cloudy and under the bathroom sink, but I was desperate.

The following semester, Tommy left to study abroad in the UK. I thought I’d never see him again. But junior year, Tara and I took the school van down to Pittsburgh, where Tommy was in law school…