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Memories of a past relationship tucked to sleep

Raúl A. Añorve

I met my first "real" boyfriend in 1991 at a time when I knew I was supposed to be thinking, feeling and doing all the right things for my career and life. I was going to love a Latino man who could enhance my life. It was a period in my life when I had stopped hanging out at bars with all the other boys. No more dark corners, waiting 'til 2:01 am, drinking and sleepless nights. All I knew was I wanted to sleep and wake up with the same man for the rest of my life.

On a Saturday night at a place called Woody's in Silverlake, I met my boyfriend. That night would be the end of desperate exchanges, glances and gestures that took precedence over the dancing. He gave me his phone number at 3:30 a.m. He got off from serving drinks at 4:00 a.m. His name was Juan.

I had always noticed him from previous Saturday nights. Juan was 5 feet 9 inches tall, toned, dark-skinned. He had shiny black hair and a mustache. He said he noticed me a long time ago. I looked great that night. I looked like a buffed guy from West Hollywood. Tanned, white sleeveless T-shirt, white 501s, a Ralph Lauren Mexican leather belt and matching Tony Lama suede boots. My curls were slightly relaxed and slicked back. A Laminance shine. My diver watch and a silver bracelet. We hardly spoke but we stared at each other a lot. It was the start of an amazing, angry and tiring two years.

I began to learn how little I knew about Juan's inner self. He ran away from home in Mexico at 17 years old. No relationship with either parent or siblings. It's hard to describe what we talked about for two years. I mean, I expressed emotion and thoughts, but Juan never reciprocated the same. I think I was in love with the idea of being in love. Or maybe he spoke through his body.

Juan never had a problem expressing his wanting to fuck me all night, every night. He controlled the sex by being the inserter. I presumed sexual pleasure ­ dominance and control ­ for him made up for all the voids in our relationship. After sex, he'd sleep like a little boy. I would stay awake. When I wanted to sleep.

I wanted him to express himself verbally, too. Juan told me to be patient. He told me to respect his "space." I was patient. I gave him "space." I just got tired, tired of waiting. I spent sleepless nights figuring out whether we were together or not. I wanted to sleep again. I know I became less persistent. I let him take his time. I got tired of his lies. I only asked him questions because I cared about his feelings, thoughts.

I suppose waiting for him without pressure and tolerating his lies once, maybe twice, was OK ­ because we all make mistakes and are not perfect. I don't think he could have opened up to me. Juan never did seem to know what he wanted and probably still doesn't. Why did I wait for him after two breakups, I continually asked myself. And the answer is: I was committed to him, myself and us. Good things take a long time, right?

He treated me with no respect. I remember how far his jealous and possessive rages took him. Just my second beer on a night I turned heads. He noticed. He jumped up on the bar and shoved a drink (with a cherry), especially made for me down my throat, forcing my head back by pulling my hair. My curls were straightened. Minutes later we were angrily punching each other in the middle of the dance floor after last call, lights on. Our relationship was a boxing match. I was so sleepy that night.

I was tired of being played with. Are we coming or going, Juan? How many times he asked I come into his life. All along Juan kept stringing me along, leading me to think there was a possibility between us. It was he who didn't want to break up back in July. So I waited. I guess I chose to wait for him, but also in a way, he misled me. To this day, I don't understand the significance of "Raul" on his left arm. I was not honored. I felt bad that he needed to prove his love. I needed no such proof. Juan did.

I was not perfect either. I recognize my behavior toward him was an issue. A result of my insecurity, more so than his actions. I never expected him to change his ways from one day to the other. Change doesn't come overnight. Patience and determination guided me. I always hoped to find my dreams come true, regardless of our ups and downs, because I always dared to hope for the most in our relationship. I consistently asked the same from him. I never did him wrong.

Perhaps there was some truth when Juan said he didn't deserve me. I had basically communicated all my thoughts. I had much more to say, but I left it for another day. I wanted to wake up to a new life. I did not see my pain as a sign of failure, but of emerging self awareness. I wanted to wake to a dawn I could see. I always hoped, if anything, we could remain friends; I'm not too sure about that now. Before I got under the covers, I wanted him to say something. Juan still never talked. Older and less angry. Tired, but not willing to concede to talk.

I thought the day I would leave him would be because I didn't love him anymore. The truth is I did love him. The truth is I had many scars. Victories are not won without battle scars. My old wounds have healed. I am now tucking our relationship to sleep.

Añorve is a UCLA student currently taking graduate level courses. His column appears on alternate Fridays.