Dichotomy

He was the first to want me over the other girls--really want me, with all of my baggage and insecurities. He was the cliche--tall, dark, devastatingly handsome, and older, with a white smile and a big laugh. He was gentle with me, as if I were a glass menagerie in his large, strong hands. His patience won my trust, and his compassion won my heart. He was also older, more worldly, and much more experienced in ways than I had ever known.

"So, we need to discuss the boundaries," he said one night as we lay in front of my TV.

"Boundaries?" I asked naively, "Like what?"

"You know, like, where can I touch you and what's off limits." I must have immediately turned red, because he instantly added "Just so that I don't make you uncomfortable, that's all."

"Well, we can kiss, and you can touch here," I pointed to my neck, "and here," I lifted my shirt to touch my naval, "and then here," I touched my thighs. "But nothing weird or gross."

He laughed. "By 'weird' and 'gross', you mean...?"

"You know, like, that stuff."

"You mean sexual stuff?" I felt my face get hot again as he laughed. "You say that like it's so far-fetched."

"But isn't it? I mean, who really does that anyway?" I felt myself turning more red as he tried to contain his laughter.

"You're almost 16 years old. Do you mean to tell me that you really believe no one your age is having sex?" He paused to catch his breath and stroke my hair. "Oh, my sweet Rain, you really are a gem."

I felt myself starting to get angry at the thought of him ostracizing me. "I'm just saying that I'm not a loose girl, and if not being a slut is a bad thing, then fine, I don't care!"

He grabbed my hand in a light way and pulled me close to him. "No, no, I mean it--I love that you're pure and actually care about these things. I love you for not just giving yourself up like other girls do so easily, and I promise not to push you." I knew what he meant--he loved that I wasn't like the girls he'd dated before me. I knew he was experienced, and that thought was the one part of our relationship that scared me a little. And I knew that he meant what he said about not pushing.

My mother found all kinds of reasons to never come home, and when she didn't, I was too afraid to stay alone. He stayed with me, this boy, and would leave early in the morning to go home to get ready for school before his dad found him gone. Never once did he invade my space--he always slept in a sleeping bag on the living room floor, rather than pushing himself into my room. More often than not, I'd lay next to him with my own blanket and pillow, but he never asked for more. His presence was a protective figure in my life, saving me from the dangers of the drug addicts and pedophiles that lived on our street--to be expected for the ghetto in which we lived. He was safe, this boy, but he made me question the things I wanted to know about myself--the feelings I didn't want to have, the desires that I didn't want to feel. But he was dangerous, too, this force that was bound to upset the balance in my life.