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You lie to your hippie boyfriend, Matt, who drives you to the train station near his house. You’re going to visit an old friend you knew from Jewish summer camp, you tell him.  You’ll be back before midnight.

 It is the summer of 2005, you are a few months away from turning 24. You are living in the Hamptons, a waitress in the same restaurant you worked in when you were 18 and Billy Joel –the fucking piano man—threw a salad at you. You’re dating a guy named Matt who is 28 and lives with his parents, and works at a nonprofit and loves the band Phish and steals oxycotin from his disabled father.

 Then one day Jager (like the Jager in Mick Jager) which is his fucking real name and you hate him for how great and stupid it is at the same time, calls you out of the blue and says, “I’m in The City, come see me.” It’s been two years since you broke his heart and he moved to San Francisco, and the sound of his voice makes you want die and orgasm all at the same time.

 You remember the night you broke up, when you said to him, “I love you but I’m not leaving New York. I can’t do long distance.” And then you fucked on his living room couch, the leather sucking at his skin and your skin, like suction cups trying to find their grip on a tile wall, but never succeeding.

 And he was sad and teary eyed as you fucked him and he bit your back and you clawed at his thighs and he kept saying, ‘I love when you cum on my cock. I love when you cum.” You still hear the anger and desperation in his voice two years later when he says, “Come see me” that it feels like your heart is breaking all over again.

 You wonder if he is still dating the Ani DiFranco look a like who he sent you e-mails about six months before, but you don’t bother asking. Knowing about her means you can’t deny her existence later.

 Your hippie boyfriend stays with you on the platform until the train comes and you spend three hours on the same train and finally you wait for Jager in the sweltering late morning heat outside of Grand Central station. You dressed down, a t-shirt that is too tight and jeans with a tear across your right thigh, trying to look casual and like you don’t give a fuck.

 He shows up wearing expensive jeans, and a bright white button down shirt, carrying a rolled up French Movie poster from a store somewhere downtown that you know he will meticulously frame and hang in his living room somewhere near the Pacific Ocean. He hugs you so tight that you can’t breathe and he is tall and your face presses into the center of his chest and he smells like lemons and sweat. His bright blue eyes are flickering, like behind them someone has lit a match.

He points south, down Park Avenue and says, “My hotel is over here. I’m staying at the W.”

And there is no hesitation in you to go with him, just to change out of his shoes he says. He holds up his long leg and lifts up the hem of his jeans and he is wearing brown dress shoes. “I just need to put on some sneakers.”

You’re not going to sleep with him, you promise yourself. You have a boyfriend. You’re not that kind of girl.

An hour later your cheap Old Navy jeans are crumpled in a heap next Jager’s king size bed on the 10th floor of the W hotel and Jager is fucking you from behind and something about the way he moans feels like he is answering  all of your problems.

He is the answer to your shitty job, the answer to living in the same town you lived in your whole life that you swore you’d never move back to, the answer to your hippie drug addict boyfriend who is sitting at home and probably jacking off, waiting for you to call him so he can come get you from the train station.

Then Jager says it, he leans forward, grabs your neck with his hands, gently, pulls you up off the bed and whispers in your ear, “I fucking love when you cum.”

You have sex twice, three times, until the sun sets and you begin to believe that this many orgasms is exactly what has been missing from your whole lifethe past two years. That you live in the fucking Hamptons, serving over priced fish to rich people, and date a prescription pill addict because no one has fucked you right since Jager. You doze off with his arm resting on your hip, his limp dick wedged between your ass cheeks and think when you wake up, you’ll tell him that this time, you can do long distance, that this time, you can move to San Francisco, that this time you’ll give up anything to love him.

At 9pm, Jager is kissing the side of your face. You wake up and he is fully clothed, your jeans and t-shirt and bra are neatly arranged at the end of the bed. “I’ve got a big meeting in the morning,” he whispers. He pulls the covers off your body slowly and then retreats to the bathroom. You feel naked, for the first time in hours, cold and covered with goose bumps from the A/C that hours ago felt as if it wasn’t even on.

You put on your clothes clumsily, finding your flip flops, searching for your underwear. You can’t find it, but it doesn’t matter. It wasn’t a sexy pair. You rationalize that because you didn’t wear the black lace thong, that you had no idea any of this would happen today. You wonder what the maid will think when she finds your pink cotton polka dot underwear somewhere in the corner of the room. You remember Jager ripping them off and tossing them somewhere near the front door but he comes out of the bathroom before you think to look again.

“Do you need train money?” Jager asks and you remember making a joke the day before, when he called, that you were poor. He reaches into the back pocket of his jeans and pulls out a big brown wallet. He hands you a 20 dollar bill from a stack of 100. “Is that enough he asks?”

You take the money, which you don’t really need, and shove it in your back pocket. It’s enough, you say. You both stand there awkwardly, like strangers, like two hours before he wasn’t pulling your hair while you sucked his cock.

“I’ll walk you to the station?” he asks. In the elevator an old couple talks about the price of hot dogs and you laugh but Jager doesn’t crack a smile. You walk up Park Avenue. The space between your shoulder and Jager’s feels like the width of the Grand Canyon, like if you said something all you would get back was an echo.

At Grand Central he hugs you. It is quick, fast, light. You can feel the hours of sex and the humidity of the city trickling down your thighs. You don’t know what your face is doing but it is doing something because he says, “Oh, don’t look so sadd Kris. Kiddo.” So you smile, tight and hard and he hugs you again, fast and light, and he says “Call me when you get home?”

On the train ride home you call Matt, your boyfriend, you’re crying but you can’t tell him why, he sounds confused and concerned. You hate how worried he sounds. You hate that you can’t tell him that you just fucked your exboyfriend and it was amazing and you want to say, “I don’t love you Matt.” But you worry that he will not come pick you up, that he will go into his father’s bathroom, slip an oxycontin out of the medicine cabinet and snort it before you can get home. You’re just sad, you lie, you’re just sad about saying good bye to your friend and maybe it isn’t all a lie. Maybe it isn’t all a complete lie.

    The next day, back at home in the Hamptons, you write Jager an e-mail. You start it out by telling him you love him that you’re sorry you broke his heart two years ago, you apologize for being young and scared, young and scared and selfish. You promise to love him completely. You promise that this time he will get to have all of you, that you’re ready.

He writes back, five minutes later, that he needs time to think about all of this. You sit around holding your breath, turning blue, almost crying every time someone orders a shot of Jager from the bar because you have to write down his name on your order pad, the whole time holding out hope that any minute he will dial your number, put his finger on your chest and pick YOU.

You stop having sex with the hippie, because you feel as if you’re cheating on Jager. You stop calling the hippie, because you cant stand the way his voice sounds. Eventually you tell the hippie you have to take a break, and you think that this is it, that any day Jager will make up his mind. You pray to god. You promise to go to Synagogue, to celebrate every fucking high holiday. You promise to fast and keep kosher if Jager will be yours. You swear on every dead relative you love that if Jager can be yours, you will change your life. Never once does Jager dial your phone number, never once do you hear his voice.

Eventually you find a photo album on the internet with Jager’s first and last name, after crazily googling him him on the internet. The profile on Flickr says: “30, San Francisco, Taken”. It is filled with recently updated photos of Jager and a small blonde woman with huge tits in a tropical location, standing in front of a sunset just two black shadows like two fucking douche bags, pictures of their feet in smooth white sand, a picture of the girl in a crisp white bikini drinking a fucking frozen drink with an umbrella in it.

He never replies to your e-mail, not even to say he doesn’t feel the same. You never see the hippie again and you never go back to synagogue or learn how to keep kosher. You do quit your shitty waitress job and move back to the city and it isn’t as great or as glamorous as it used to be, it is just the same place at a different time.

You go back to school and you start to think that what you are doing is way better than trips to tropical locations and living in San Francisco, except sometimes you realize you never fuck anyone the way that you fucked Jager. You never find the answer to any of your problems at the end of an orgasm and you can never, for the life of you figure out if that’s a good thing or not.