Don't Be A Slut: Nondescript

I met the next character in my cavalcade of lovers while performing in the musical Showboat. I played Queenie, the mammy character, and he was one of the chorus members. We were about the same age, we were both black, we were both Ivy League graduates, and we were both stranded in Charleston.

It started the way most of my relationships started. A night in the sack, followed by a flowery declaration of love in my diary: "You've heard this so many times before, each time with increasing certainty. This time, I know it's true. I've found the man I've been praying for & he's found me."

I waxed poetically about how we spent the whole weekend together, talking for hours and hours about everything. And then I got down to the details: "We had the most relaxed, wonderful, comfortable sex I have ever had in my life Friday night after the show. At my insistence."

Yep, I went there.

As we were walking down the street in the wee hours of the morning, with an unbearable warmth radiating from my groin, I took a deep breath and said very clearly, "If you don't think it would be too forward and if it won't turn you off, I'd really like to spend the night with you."

Initially, he turned me down.

But when I'm horny, I can be very convincing.

I ended up having my way with him.

And there, laid out in one weekend encounter, was the central problem of our relationship.

He was an uptight preacher's kid who was convinced that our fornication was a sin that would lead him away from God. So we had long discussions where he expressed his desire for a platonic relationship, and I expressed my utter disdain for the stupidity of that idea.

"I can't and won't abide by it," I scoffed to my diary. "If he didn't want me, I'd concede. But he does, so I won't."

I was ruthless and relentless. The next day, I showed up at his apartment wearing a knee-length red jacket and almost nothing else. The sex started out very, very good, and it ended with him being very, very angry because I kept urging him on to greater feats, not realizing he had already climaxed.

Talk about humiliation. He told me in no uncertain terms whatsoever that he would not have sex with me ever again "unless I marry you," and he even went so far as to tell me he would never let me in his apartment again!

This is probably a good time to mention that for all my ardor, I barely remember this guy. Everything about him was nondescript. He was 5'5" and not particularly good-looking. Except for the unforgettable Cat on a Hot Tin Roof sexual politics, I can't remember the contents of a single conversation or the details of a single shared activity.

Based on my memories, or lack thereof, I figured that I probably dated Nondescript for two or three weeks, tops.

But my diaries tell a much different story. I pined and whined and obsessed about this guy for four-and-a-half months, blaming myself the whole time for being greedy and manipulative.

High-Score Diaries: Part 5 of TBD (1 2 3 4 5 TBD)