Tuesday, May 11, 2010

The Friendly, Platonic Bed

Conspiracy Theory always emphasized friendship. He and I were friends. That word – friends – would come up again and again throughout our relationship, even years after we broke up. And it came up the first night he asked me to stay over at his apartment.

I wasn't invited over as a potential girlfriend or a potential lover. I was invited over as a friend.

Conspiracy had recently moved into a beautiful two-bedroom apartment a couple blocks west of the Yale campus. The floors in his apartment were shiny, blond hardwood. The floors in mine were old, dark hardwood.

I had recently run my hands down the rickety banister in my building, splotched with peeling, dark green paint, and gotten a splinter. When I told Conspiracy Theory, he scoffed. The landlords who rented to Yale students were slumlords. They knew we would only be there for a semester, so they didn't put any money into the place and they didn't care if we complained. I shouldn't have to live in a place like that.

I roomed with two other girls. One was the same year and the same residential college as me. Even though she was two inches shorter, 20 pounds heavier and three shades darker than me, the white kids couldn't tell us apart. The other girl was a year ahead of us, a senior. She was Korean-American, from California and a rock star who'd been tapped by a secret society.

There was nothing wrong with my roommates, no overt conflicts, no drama.

I just didn't feel close to either of them. I felt alone and invisible in my own apartment, even if I was sitting at the dinner table, holding a conversation.

So I spent more and more time with Conspiracy Theory, who offered interesting conversation, complimentary observations and my favorite, free meals.

He invited me to stay the night at his place, even though he only had one bed, a full-size futon.

He assured me that we were friends. And friends could share a bed without it being weird or even sexual in nature.

I took him at his word, and climbed into his friendly, platonic bed.

Some time before daylight, things got decidedly less platonic. There was kissing. There was touching. And there was Conspiracy Theory whispering in my ear, "Thank you so much for the gift that you're giving me."

Oh, my God, he thinks I'm a virgin.

It was a surreal moment.

I was a bit shocked by the sexual overture, but not at all unwilling. It wasn't a bad experience ...

... until I realized I'd been had. In a totally premeditated way.

He had stashed condoms under his pillow. He'd planned to have sex with me all along. All that friendship crap had been a ruse to get me into his bed.

I didn't push him away, I didn't recoil, and I didn't confront him about his little white lie.

The condom-under-the-pillow incident became a microscopic stain on our relationship that only I could see. It was the secret betrayal I never got over, never forgot and never talked about to anyone because it was proof positive that I was gullible and stupid.

Conspiracy Diaries Part 3 of 25 (1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25)
Conspiracy Lessons Learned 1-4 (1 2 3 4)


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