Hot and Cold in the Spa
College brought me a brand new group of friends, a brand new (to me) dorm room (for it was actually very old), and a brand new sense of freedom and rules. What it didn’t bring was a new wardrobe - all my income and savings went to books, tuition and cafeteria food. So I embraced my favorite pair of jeans till they burst on my expanding all-you-can-eat cafeteria food ass. And more than the humiliation (they snapped wide open in a crowded elevator), I felt the loss. They were my favorite pair; my tight little jeans that seemed sprayed on, that attracted the attention of boys and the envy of girls, the admiration of women and the lust of men. They were more than just a pair of jeans; they were a comfortable best friend. And they made me look hot.
The rip was irreparable; a jagged mess of fabric which no thread or patch would repair. We had a good run, but it was time to move on. I outgrew them, they let me down, and we split up: me to a brand new pair, they to the rag pile.
He was my best friend in High School. The Wrestler was the boyfriend of a friend, and he and I became friends when they dated, and best friends when they split up. He had it bad for her. She didn’t for him. And we helped each other through the split (for I didn’t get to double date his friends anymore). We grew together through the tear.
He dated here and there as did I, and we shared horror stories of bad date after date over a pint of ice cream and some Monty Python. We laughed and we cuddled, went out or stayed in, shared feelings and insults; we were best friends.
A year or two in, we went to a party. The night was dark and the pool was lit from below, giving the backyard a romantic glow. Filled with half naked teens on a moonless night, we were curious and scared, and not a parent in sight. Like the water from the spa flowing into the pool, hormones were swirling; the heat flowed in and raised the temperature of the cool pool, cold was splashed onto the hot of the bodies baking in the spa, and the undecided sat at the lip – their bottoms heated by the spa with their feet dangling in the pool.
A game of Marco Polo broke up the weighted mood, but the “Marco’s” hand liked to linger a little long on the caught “Polo,” and the favor kept being returned as turns were switched. The game petered out and this couple went here and that couple went there and they were spread over the backyard and into the house, eventually leaving me and best friend alone in the pool, which was now a little too cool…so, into the spa!
It was hot. The spa was hot. We were hot. It was hot. And we were just friends – and we wanted to keep it that way. The silence of the night was suggestive and uncomfortable, so he tickled me to lighten the mood, and a wrestling match ensued. He pinned me - but we were both winning…and losing. He pinned me and I couldn’t catch my breath, not from the wrestle, but from his gaze. Then I wriggled out (all slippery and wet, and remember, half naked), and pinned him – he was locked in a death grip in my impossibly long legs. But he didn’t fight back.
His strong hand grazed my thigh, and my grip tightened and then quickly let go. We each pushed off each other and changed the subject. Floating to the other side, I raised my lean body up out of the water, stretched my arms over my head, arched my back and breathed a sigh. I knew what I was doing, but I couldn’t stop myself. “It’s so hot in here,” I falsely complained. I playfully kicked at him to splash his face, and he grabbed my foot and began to massage it.
We kept the talk light to avoid what we both were feeling, but the strong foot massage turned soft. Stop, I told myself, this is your best friend and you don’t want to ruin it, you don’t feel that way about him and he doesn’t for you, stop, stop, stop. But my head was swirling like the water as he lightly tugged my foot and my body followed. I floated to him and he gingerly placed me on his lap, facing away. His wrestler arms encircled my waist, and a bead of sweat trickled down my cheek.
There was no more talk; my head wanted to avoid, but my body said let go. Let go of me. No, let yourself go. His warm wet skin pressed against my back. His hands moved tentatively but purposely around my waist, down my hips and along my legs. His warm breath touched my neck, my ears, my face. I was scared to turn around and meet his mouth and he was scared to turn me.
We sat in the heat for what seemed an eternity, just touching and being touched, exploring if it was allowed or forbidden, and neither of us objecting or talking or turning around. I was wet from the water, the sweat and the heat. And I felt him under me. And as I felt his breath move closer to my neck, and as I felt his mouth press to my neck, and as I felt his tongue upon my neck, my head released all objections - I forgot that this would be a bad idea, and I let go.
He felt my body give in and he effortlessly flipped my long body to him, like the High School wrestler that he was, and he took his mouth to mine and we kissed. And in that moment I knew all was gone.
The next day our conversation was stilted – awkward and probing. He wanted to know what I was thinking and I wanted to know what we were doing, but neither wanted to bring it up. So we played the game and pretended our friendship hadn’t changed, just added benefits. But he was the boyfriend type and I wasn’t yet the girlfriend type and he didn’t really want to be with me and I didn’t really want to be with him. We had liked who we were, but in that fatal moment we were weak and we made an irreparable rip.
We couldn’t patch it up, we were torn. Over the years, we pieced things back together, but although we have healed, the scar still remains. I don’t bemoan the choice, I don’t think sadly upon him, I don’t regret our past. If it hadn’t happened that night, it would have happened another. We just grew apart, like an ill fitting pair of comfortable old jeans.
