He was a college freshman. I was a high school senior.
He was my first in more than the obvious ways.
We attempted motorcycle riding, rafting.
I tried out attending jewish holidays, passing fake IDs.
It began at our friend Ben's house party at a basement rave.
Andy was glowsticking with his shirt off. All eyes were on him.
At least mine were.
My gaggle of girlfriends were leaving in a Honda Accord,
but I convinced them to let me stay.
Andy and I stayed up until our eyes fell closed in the early morning.
He rushed a University of Maryland fraternity,
so I slept over in the house on the row often,
and drank Red Bull vodkas with him and his brothers.
We went dancing a lot. I remember the scent of Jean Paul Gaultier.
We also broke up a lot. Especially at the end, which makes sense now.
I went to college in North Carolina, and he gave me an FAO Schwartz pup.
I'd hold the pup late night, talking softly on my portable land line so not to wake my roommate.
Once it was long distance, it didn't make sense.
We'd still meet up when I was home. For more months and years then I'd like to admit.
There's just something about your first love. Letting go gets easier, later.