The summer before I left for NYC to start college, I was heartbroken from my break up with my very first love and stumbled upon a guy I thought would be “safe.” By "stumbled," I actually mean we met at a sub shop and by “safe,” I actually mean devious villain (a fact I did not know at the time). This so-called Safe Guy was kind of nerdy; tall and thin and a bit lanky. He spoke in complete sentences, lived with his grandmother and sister, and drove a nice, safe, Honda Accord. He was never going to rock my world like David had, or hurt me or break my heart; I was sure of it. So I figured I may as well have some fun dating a Safe Guy until it was time to head up north and begin my new life. This mistake—oh, and it was a mistake—almost cost me my life. Literally.
It was my first love that screwed me, literally and emotionally. I was completely taken by him from the first time we sat next to each other in drama class.
“Come by my apartment after work. Just so we can talk privately,” I read the email and immediately knew that Andrew didn’t want to just “talk privately.” Since our intense break room make-out session, we had been dancing around sex. I want it. Damn, do I want it. I want it in the bathroom, I want it in the backseat of my car, I want it on my desk; I just want him to fuck me sideways. He wants it too. But something keeps me dancing around it.
It wasn’t what I expected it to be. When I arrived at the office after a 2 week leave of absence, I felt relieved that someone else had to deal with the daily grind for a while and that I didn’t know what had gone on over the past 2 weeks. I was on autopilot walking down the aisles being introduced to the new staff members who had been hired during my time away. Autopilot quickly shut off when I ended up at his desk, staring into his deep brown eyes.