Adam

He was the first man, so it's fitting that his name was Adam.

Well, not the first first, exactly. Not like the first ever. But rather, the first after Mary killed me. What I mean to say is that I kissed two boys before I was a lesbian. But those were one-time-only deals. One was a drunken dare, the other was a drunken one night stand that ugged me out in a creepy beyond belief way, though it wasn't the guy. It was me. So then I was a lesbian for five or so years and then Mary killed me. The first person I was ever in real love with. And while she was sitting there stabbing and pulling back out and stabbing again with a serrated knife so that the wounds never fully healed right back up the way things were put originally, she said to me, "You're going to date men, aren't you? All of them turn straight after me."

And I said, "No!" Heavens no, I wouldn't do that. I wasn't like that. And I certainly wasn't going to be like them. And then later, when opportunity presented itself and in order to giver her a final Fuck You, I did.

Of course, I half didn't want to because of pride. Like I was giving in to the curse she had given me. But stronger than that was the overriding Fuck You. Yes, Mary, you turn everyone straight. After dating you, none of us can stomach giving ourselves over to another woman again. To get fucked so desperately hard.

Backing up, when I was in high school I used to go to the Bargain Trader in Atlanta all of the time. Used books and CD's, and really great selections. At that time, long hair on guys was sexy and one of the clerks had it and thus was a god.

Flash forward a hundred years, or maybe five. And I'm bleeding to death and need a little music. I moved out of my college town and back home to get away from the site of my murder. Let me rest in peace. So I went to the Bargain Trader. When I arrived, the parking lot was empty and I looked at the sign on the door and I looked at my watch, and both of them said 1:00. Then a guy walked up to my car, looking frustrated and pissed off that an overeager early bird customer got there before him. "It'll be about ten minutes," he said. Then he looked at me and said, "Well, actually, you can come in." He unlocked the door and we immediately set to chattering like old friends.

I spent about an hour looking at stuff and when he was finally ringing me up I said, "You've worked here a while, haven't you?"

He said, "Seven years."

"I thought so," I said. "Because I used to come here in high school and you look familiar."

He took this to mean, "I've always had a crush on you and you're the man of my dreams and I think we should fuck now."

"So would you like to go to a movie sometime?" He asked. I didn't have any friends. I just moved to town. "Sure," I said. Thinking we'd be pals. He was, after all, fun to talk to.

So we went. The first date I made him so nervous, he hit a car in the parking lot. But we went out again. He revealed his obsession with Tori Amos to me. Should I mention at this point that I had long red hair and was often mistaken for Tori by Tori fans, meaning boys and girls who were obsessed with her wanted to date me. Despite this, I made out with Adam. It wasn't great, but it was a good way to really let Mary have it. Although she didn't know. I wished she was psychic. I hoped she could picture this and that it was killing her. As I grinded against his pants, I wanted her seeing me.

But it was always him who called. I never did. Until finally one day, I felt guilty that he was putting forth all the effort, not me. This was at about the two week mark. The length of time, I was slated, for the next several years, to date anyone.

After work, I stopped by the Bargain Trader on my way home. It was monsoon season in Atlanta—one of those famous pouring rains. When I got there, he was happy and surprised. He wanted to show me some new Tori Amos posters they got in. He went into the closet. Then I heard him grumble obscenities. When he came out he flung the posters across the floor, screaming Goddamnit at them.

Customers looked up. They darted their eyes back and forth. I shrank in the corner, hoping not to be suspected of being affiliated with him.

He kicked at the posters. He stomped on them. I am not making this up. He threw a temper tantrum. A full-scale, child-sized tantrum. I said I was sorry and I had to go. Later or the next day he called me and wondered when we could go out and I said I didn't think it was a good idea. He asked why not, began whining at me, freaking out that it was maybe his choice in places that we went. I assured him it was not, but I needed an excuse and somehow didn't think the poster thing was a good one because then he'd try to convince me out of it and I wanted something permanent, so I said, "I think I'm a lesbian after all."

He said, "Don't ever do that to anyone again."

"I'll fucking do whatever I want. I'll do it every fucking time, if I want." In fact, I thought it was a very good idea. An excellent excuse. And I did use it again and again. It was really the best way. Until it got old and I began to feel bad about it. Later in life, I started using more legitimate excuses. Things closer to the truth. But for now, it was good.

Two months later, he called me drunkenly and begged me to go out with him, saying, "Do you know how hard it is to find a good woman? Someone like you?" Yes. In fact, I do think I did. I knew exactly how hard it was. And I was sorry, but he wasn't one of them.

And really, I cursed myself anyway, because I always wonder how many times I'm being told by someone that they are a lesbian, when really they're breaking up with me because I'm a poster stomper?