The Collision of Bodies by Sarah Gilberg

It wasn’t that she was unattractive. No, she had long wavy brown hair that glimmered softly under the dim lights in the bar. Eyes that looked straight into you, wanting to uncover all of your secrets. She looked like the kind of girl my brother Greg would bring home in high school, clean enough to get your parents’ approval but with that hint of mischief that said she wanted to make it with you in the dining room when they were asleep. She spotted me from across the room and I could tell she’d found her target and was honing in fast. I looked at how empty my beer was, quickly tallied the number of drinks I’d had before that and decided I should stop after this one. I was about at that threshold that would tip me into dangerously honest territory. And this was not the kind of girl you wanted to be honest with.

I glanced over at my man Chris, who was staring me down along his poolstick with that look that said Jim, if you don’t take her home tonight you’re a huge pussy. She introduced herself and I motioned to the bartender. I knew I had to be smooth but I was a little too fuzzy to remember any of the lines Chris taught me. I found it hard to believe that any of the girls he used them on actually thought they were clever. They were probably just eager to please. And who wouldn’t want to please him? He led us to victory in the state championship in the fall, and that glory was sure to be enough to get him laid at least until next season. Plus he was cut, blonde, and cleanshaven. I knew the girls liked that. I was a little heavier set, but I made up for it by being half-black. Chris said that was my ticket to women. You just have to act black, he always said, and they’ll be all over you like butter on toast. But he didn’t know that it was hard enough for me to even act the least bit interested in this girl right here.

She tossed her hair back and looked me up and down before taking a sip of, whatever that pink stuff was the bartender brought her. Her every move was calculated for maximum sex appeal, from the way she lifted her eyes up from the glass to show her full lashes to the way she let her lips linger on the glass to show me she knew how to use her mouth. She was going to make this easy, I knew, but I dreaded it all the same.

It wasn’t the sex, exactly, that I dreaded. I could close my eyes and just pump away. Could pretend that this soft, curvy body under me was harder, stronger. I could even tune out her moans for the most part. And I’d always get off somehow. It was the after-sex feeling though, the guilt I’d feel when I’d open my eyes and see that satisfied, loving look, that expecting look. The look that asks, was it good for you too? Or worse yet, Do you love me?

The first few times I ran to the bathroom and vomited. I felt like such a pussy. They’d be grossed out but they’d always just assume it was the alcohol and leave me alone. The more I did it though, the better I got at holding in that gag reflex. I learned to just get out of the bed and go home without an excuse, the way the other guys did it. And the girl would get mad and call me an asshole and all sorts of things for leaving her like that, but at least I didn’t have to worry about her calling me up for another date.

I wondered what names this girl would call me when we got to that point. Or what she’d throw at me, since she seemed a little more assertive than some of the others. She seemed to want to talk a lot, like she just wanted to keep those lips moving, and the more she talked the more nervous I got. Just kept thinking, when can we get this thing over with. I mean really, she just kept looking me up and down, up and down, and I thought for sure it would show. I’ve been with girls who are just clueless but this girl seemed a little brighter, a little more experienced maybe.

I nodded along and made random comments, but when she wasn’t looking I’d steal a glance at the two guys in the corner. I recognized one of them from a class and remembered thinking how confident he was, how sure of himself. He’d just stroll right on in looking all stylish and go chat with the girls. The epitome of the “gay best friend.” Now he was talking it up with another equally slim and handsome guy, and they were just hitting it off. I knew I should have been right there with them. I mean, I’m a junior in college now, and everybody always talks about how “liberal” our school is, how easy it is to be open, to be yourself. I have no excuse.

But then, I could never fit in with those guys. I belonged on the field, and I could never give that up. I lived for it – the smell of sweat, the sound of rain pelting my helmet, the taste of dirt, the collision of bodies. I’d have liked to think the guys on the team would understand, that they’d just slap me on the back, make a joke out of it and move on. But somehow, looking over at Chris, whose hard, over-the-beer-mug stare was now saying Bring it home, Jimmy, I could tell that would never happen.

There was quiet all of a sudden and I noticed that she was looking at me to respond to something. I realized that not only had I not been listening, I’d also just finished my beer that I was going to nurse for the rest of the night. I apologized to her and ordered another one. Now she squinted at me and rested her cheek in her hand as if to say she could see I was going through a rough time and maybe I shouldn’t be alone tonight.

The guys in the corner were holding hands now, and the one I recognized was leading the other to the door. As if on cue, I felt a soft hand in mine and then a slight dizziness as I was pulled from my stool and led in the same direction. I managed to steal one last glance at Chris on my way out. He nodded Cheers and turned to lift his beer mug in my direction, but just then the two guys were passing by and the beer spilled all over the one guy’s crisp button-down shirt. That was when I heard Chris say it:

“Watch it, faggot.”

I could’ve just walked out that door with her. Could have gone to bed with her and forgotten all about those two guys and that two-syllable word. Could have kept up the charade like nothing happened and gotten a slap on the back from Chris the next day. But instead, something stopped me before I hit that doorway.

I couldn’t control my lips enough to apologize to her as I dropped her hand and turned to face him, nor could I control the force of my fist as it made contact with his face. I could only hear the satisfying smack of the collision, see the red spray hit the wall as he fumbled backwards, taste my victory in his fall.

A slow grin creeped over my face as the crowd of students gathered. Teammates, ex-girlfriends, complete strangers—I watched them all rush to his aid. I watched the girl’s once-probing eyes fill with tears. “What the fuck, Jim,” I heard someone say. I smiled up at the two guys holding hands, searching their expressions for some form of admiration or gratitude or even acceptance. But instead they just stared at me like I was some kind of monster. I watched those eyes as I was dragged out of the bar, and because I wasn’t allowed to cry, I just started to laugh.

I laughed at the guys holding hands because they looked so ridiculous like that. I laughed at Chris because he finally got what was coming to him. I laughed at the rest of them because they were so dumb they still couldn’t see what I was. And I laughed at myself. I laughed at myself.