I had read Nabokov’s Lolita in high school, and loved it on so many levels. Before reading about Humbert’s obsession with nubile underage girls, I had always wondered why my father’s friends or my friends’ fathers looked at me in that strange, longing way that made me self-conscious about wearing a bikini.
“What?” I would ask, in that bold second where the indignation outweighed my shyness. Really, what did they think was going to happen?
I never got a straight answer. After reading the book, however, I had some ideas about exactly what they might be thinking and promptly formed stringent rules about only dating boys who were close to my own age.
However, it was nearly to the day of my 28th birthday that I began to notice the lovely awkward posture of the teenage boys when walking by the skate park, or how gorgeous the freshman college boys were, with their ruddy complexions and non-jaded expressions. While I am too young to yet be considered predatory, I started to pay more attention to these scintillating young men.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” I told myself. “Men mature at a later age than women. What the hell am I going to do with a kid?”
But I started to talk about music, tattoos and graffiti painting with nineteen year olds who randomly hung out with their older siblings in my group of friends, and I was always secretly pleased whenever they asked me: “What high school do you go to?
“They have to be at least 21,” R. said to me at a loft party in the Financial District. “You don’t want to date anyone in New York who can’t drink. And young guys never have money to take you out anyhow! They have to ask their parents for an allowance. For God’s sake, control yourself!”
This was the night I happened to meet Devon, a bass player who had just finished his last year of college at the New School. He was originally from California, and had that laid back demeanor, killer dark eyes, and a pierced tongue which he constantly bit on, suggesting all sorts of dirty things.
But I didn’t know how old he was until the first date.
He took me to brunch on a Sunday afternoon in the West Village. He claimed that his Catholic church was in the neighborhood, and he had time for a quick date on the way. It was raining and I had cabin fever, so I agreed.
He smoked like crazy in the streets, apologizing for the bad habit, and kept pulling up his weathered jeans which relentlessly exposed his hips. I was charmed by the awkwardness of the gesture.
“They let you wear jeans to church?” I asked.
“Yeah, it’s cool. I do what I want.”
Devon told me he made money teaching tennis to wealthy people. He said he was in four bands and that he was going to revolutionize the music industry because he was one of the best bass players ever.
“I’m already famous in New York,” he claimed. “It’s just the beginning.”
He was equal parts lackadaisical and enthusiastic. He told me he had just turned 21 a few months before, and thought it was hot that I was a few years older.
“You’re going to really like me,” he said. “But don’t get too attached. This is doomed. My parents won’t approve. They’re religious. They don’t want to think I might be corrupted by an older woman.”
“Oh come on, dear” I said. “I am not likely to get attached, and I don’t want to be responsible for any damage to your psychological development. How many girlfriends have you had anyhow?”
“One serious, and some casual dating things,” he said. “But don’t worry, I grew up in Queens. I’m tough. I am up for anything.”
What does one possibly say to a persistent young man who has an answer for everything?
Devon went off to church and called me every day thereafter, though I half-heartedly put him off while deliberating my levels of accountability.
I was thoroughly convinced he was deeply sensitive, and that I would destroy him if it went any further.
“I’m really busy right now,” I claimed.
“Then I will call you tomorrow. And the day after, and the day after that, and one of these days you won’t be busy anymore.”
I was seriously worried that recent dating disappointments had rendered me a potential heart breaker when it came to commitment issues. I couldn’t even commit to the next week, so what was I going to do with a sweet young thing who had a lot of time on his hands?
Eventually, Devon convinced me to see him again.
“Um, I just auditioned for something and I have an important gig tonight and I was really hoping you would let me just store my bass at your house for a few hours because it’s really awkward to carry around, and maybe we could go walk around your neighborhood?”
So he came over and we talked about music and I still wasn’t convinced but then he leaned over and kissed me with the world’s softest lips. He tasted of college dreams and summer romance, and I had no choice but to surrender.
He stopped by my apartment regularly after that when he was in the area, bringing me bottled water which he observed I drank a lot of, flowers picked from forbidden public park gardens, and CD’s of his band’s music.
He wrote me adorable notes stuffed into the CD’s such as:
'I knew this music would soothe you when I’m not around…'
He was cool, calm, and funny. And although he soothed me, I was keeping him at arm’s length.
I admit that the idea of his only being 21 was psychologically erotic, but I was still not entirely comfortable with it.
However, I did go back to the bookstore and pick up a new copy of Lolita. It was good summer reading, after all, and I needed some inspiration that would give me courage before I corrupted this young man’s innocence.
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