The 1990's in dog years

Dear Scott A.K.A. "Alien Head," 1990-1991

You were the first boy I liked who actually liked me back. We discussed Joy Division and P.I.L. like they were Proust or Joyce. We bonded over family troubles and our lack of enthusiasm for early morning Seminary. We used to make out on the stage in the cultural hall of the ward building. You mashed and squished and squeezed my Christian school uniformed (and at the time totally perfect) boobs until I was sore. Your breath always smelled vaguely like macaroni and cheese.
On a temple trip, in the back of Sister Ward's van you covered my ears when you thought I was sleeping so I wouldn't have to hear the flapping plastic of her dry-cleaning.
You wrote me really dirty (and grammatically horrifying) notes about "dreams" you had of us. My mom found one of these notes and forced us to break up. She made three copies: one for your parents, one for herself and one for our Bishop. When she called your folks to come over, you called me and when I told you what happened, you punched your refrigerator.
After my mom made us break up you acted like a total asshole..
A few months later we were on an Elders/ Laurels retreat and you touched my neck in the van. We got back together briefly, but I used my mom as an excuse when I wanted to break up with you for real.
I wrote this song about you when you were being an ass-wipe.

Ahhhh Alien Head!
Ahhhhh Alien Head!
You like The Cure, but there's no cure for you
You have ugly hair that looks like my poo
You make me sick and you've got no brain
Ahhhhhhh Alien Head!
Bye! Bye Alien Head
I wish you were dead
If you don't go
so so so so
who cares about you?
I know I don't.
Bye! Bye Alien Head I wish you were dead.

In 1999 I found out that you were living here in Utah. We emailed a few times and you called me once. You said that you didn't know why our relationship had been so intense because we really didn't have anything in common. Later, when you went on a tirade about hating Bill Clinton, I knew you were right. We never saw each other. I often break out the photo-copy of your dirty note to read allowed at parties.

Dear Rhet, 1991

You kissed me in the gym after P.E. You still had this really weird girlfriend at the time named Lulli and this would cause her to hate me and threaten to kick my ass for most of the school year. You were younger than me and not very bright and we had absolutely nothing in common besides liking N.W.A.
Your parents were hippies turned Jesus-freaks. You played football and said the phrase, "B.T." (big time) a lot. You got into a fist fight over me with "Big Mike" who had a crush on me and made me a mix tape consisting of White Snake, Biz Markee and MC Hammer's "Soft and Wet."
You stuck your hand down the front of my Garfield underwear and I called you an asshole. I felt major "Mormon guilt" and kept apologizing to you. Not for calling you an asshole, but for letting things "go so far."
Shortly after that you started pulling away. I didn't really like you that much, but did what most girls do when they think someone wants to break up with them... I dug in...with claws. It didn't work though. I don't even quite remember how we broke up only that it was you who dumped me and it really should have been the other way around because you were really lame. Really lame.

Dear Matt, 1992

You looked exactly like Matt Damon. Of course I didn't know that until years later when he would enter the cultural lexicon. You looked so much like him that I obsessively made sure that you weren't actually him. I'm still not convinced.
You were a summer thing. I babysat for your brother and you came to visit from California. We also had nothing at all in common and you were a really, really sloppy kisser.
I think you kept threatening to marry me even after I left for college.

Dear Mark, 1992 - 1998 (on and off, mostly off)

Ah, Mark. I was still 17 when we met in Bidwell's Acting I class. You were doing a scene from "Tally's Folly" with that really weird girl. You told her (and she told me that you told her) that she should try to "carry herself" more like me. I didn't know you at all, so that was terribly intriguing.
I liked this other guy in our class called Elliott, who looked exactly like Ichabod Crane and Malcom McDowell had a baby.
One night we were all rehearsing late at the Kirkham building. You and I and some others (I really don't remember anyone else now) walked to the mini mart together. You slowed down to walk by me and we started talking. You walked me home that night and while you were standing in my living room (in front of the "chastity door" and no, I'm not making that up) I casually brushed by your stomach with my hand and you held it there. My hand on your stomach. That was pretty much the end of everything.
We went for a walk in the botanical gardens. You told me that I was beautiful and "different" and that you felt you could tell me anything. With your head on my lap you told me that you wanted to kiss me and you did.
We kissed a lot.
Once, in your parent's basement you tried to put your hand between my legs. I pushed you away. You tried again. I pushed you away and called you an asshole (In my head, of course because bravery was never my thing when you were around). You tried again and I left your house crying.
You were doing lighting for the downtown haunted house and when I came to visit you, you took me up to the roof. You unbuttoned my hideous flannel shirt and I let you. We made out something furious that night and I saw for the first time what a male orgasm looked like. No surprise, I was terrified...and intrigued.
You didn't talk to me for a while after that, in the daylight. When I saw you in class you ignored me and wrote in your comp. book. You were never without your fucking comp. book.
I'm not proud that your ignoring me only made me obsess over you more.
You would call me on the phone and ask to meet. I would consent. We would drive to various empty buildings and lots and fondle each other all night long only to have you ignore me completely the next day. Making out with you was like being high. I would lie there on the floor of that radio station, staring at posters of the Dave Clark Five and wish the night was longer. We weren't friends, but we were connected. At least, I felt connected to you, I still do in many ways. It's sad to admit how imortant you are to my history. But, that's the truth of it.
After a while you started obsessing over the virginal and pure Antonia Decker and I decided to try and move on. I got my own comp. book. For that, I should really thank you. So, thanks for my very first "blog."
We eventually became sort of friends, but the making out in the middle of the night and the confusion and the insistence that you were NOT my boyfriend persisted. I eventually dropped the cool act and began properly stalking you like a psycho and leaving you beautifully written but terribly insane notes and gifts. (I recently watched that Audrey Tautou movie, Á la folie....pas du tout and I found striking similarities in my behavior. Luckily I never killed any old ladies).
How had I turned from the "different," hot, I can tell you anything, I have to rip off your blousey flannel girl into this stalker, this joke? Yes, I do know that I became a joke to you.
I also know that you blamed me for having to postpone your mission and you hated me because I (now how did you put it?) "wasn't worth it."
To be fair, I was never really myself when I was with you.
While you were gone I had a life. (I'll get to that in my next letter)
When you returned we became friends. We committed to not being physical and just getting to know each other.
Tawnya and I had just moved to Salt Lake and were living in our first apartment on B Street. We had a 12 inch television, a love seat, two ugly lamps, the twin beds my mom got us, the sound of the bells of the Madeline Cathedral and the best view in the city. You came down to visit a few times and of course, we made out. A few weeks later you called to tell me that couldn't happen again because you were dating someone that you "really cared about."
Not long after that you were engaged for the first time.
Not long after that I heard through friends that your engagement had ended.
No one should be surprised when I tell them you came back to me, the girl in between all of your truly great loves.
You started calling me, long distance every night. We would talk about school for a minute (by this time we had both switched to English). We would trade poems and for the first time I think we realized that we had something in common. It only took us 5 years. But, of course, as the night would wear on our conversations would inevitably turn to sex. You would talk...I would laugh. You didn't know I was laughing, but, and this still holds true...I find phone sex totally hilarious. I just can't do it. I tried, I guess. I would say a few things here and there, but I feel you must know that I was really yucking it up on my end.
You came to visit. We saw Titanic at the old Cinemark dome on 33rd South. (Back then, I thought that was so far away). You told me I was too pretty to wear glasses and we slept in a bed together for an entire night. We slept on the same bed that Tawnya and I had sat on and cried the night we found out her mother had died. Oh right... I forgot to talk about how we had gotten back together.
Tawnya and I were in Idaho for her mother's funeral. After the service (an entirely compelling story in and of itself) we were all hanging out at Jim and Elena's house. You got up to leave, but before you made it to the door, you turned around and bent my head over the back of the couch and kissed me....right in front of everyone. It was the first and only time you ever showed affection toward me in front of other people...and it couldn't have been more inappropriately timed.
The phone sex and poetry exchange went on for a little while. You would send me back copies of my poems, scribbled with your remarks, suggestions and "notes." Forgive the interjection, but, what the fuck was wrong with me? Seriously. I want to go back in time and kick my own ass.
Finally, you called to tell me that you were seeing someone.
It took me a little while to get over you. You were making wedding plans when a friend finally asked me what the hell I ever saw in you. She told me how you had been arrested for making obscene phone calls and that you were going to S.A. to deal with your sexual addiction. I think that was the moment when everything changed again. Not because I felt any sort of real judgement toward you, but because I realized that I was just the crack, the hooch, the junk. I was nobody...I was just the stuff... and for somebody to think I'm nobody was enough to make me move on.
I think about you a lot, which is annoying. I'm over feeling hurt though, and I kind of honestly hope you're happy.

Dear Brad, 1994 - 1995

We actually did have a lot in common. We traded Jane Austen and comic books and watched shitty, shitty horror flicks alongside great "cinema" together. We shared music and I even tolerated Sports Center when I was with you. We were platonic pals for quite a while in spite of my massive crushy feelings for you. We hung out every night, but sat on separate pieces of furniture. I assumed you weren't interested.
I moved to Utah and assumed things would just go on being chummy.
Tawnya and I came up to visit her mom and I came over to watch John Cusack movies. After the movie you walked me upstairs. Your hand brushed my back and I turned around and we kissed. When I remember the outfit I was wearing (Berks! and all) I'm know why it took us this long to have any sort of action.
The kissing was good. All the other guys I had kissed were on the scrawny side.... but, you ...you were bigger than me and soft and warm. You felt amazing.
Sadly, we only kissed that once. You email me out of the blue about once a year. You've been married and divorced. You were the one guy I never dated that in retrospect was truly cool.