My Mark

Today, I'd like to talk about things that might have been. I'd like to tell you about someone pretty unique to me. His name is Mark.

We first met when I was a teenager. It was the 1990s, the height of the rave scene, and I was a hard-partying kid. My weekends were spent heaped in "cuddle puddles" - giant masses of sweaty young bodies draped over one another in all manner of entwinement - on the dirty floors of giant empty warehouses, as the rhythmic thump-thump of Chicago's finest house music assaulted my eardrums.

Back then, I went by "Scooter" to some, "Kitty" to others, and "Bunny" to only one. My outfits were flowy and colorful, my hair was in pigtails, and there was always a flurry of glitter around me. My backpack was full of toys - Hoberman spheres, blinking lights, glowsticks, Blow-Pops, vibrators, acrylic massagers, Vick's VapoRub, surgical masks. I did not do the drugs, but I made it my personal mission to ensure that those who did them had the time of their lives, safely. My backpack and my hands were very popular party favors.

In between bouts of dancing, I'd park myself in a corner and soon I'd have a small line forming as I ran my fingertips over a seemingly endless stream of glistening skin, brought to the very peak of heightened sensitivity by my attentions and the chemicals coursing through the veins beneath. I played with hair. I nuzzled necks. I whispered my name in ears that likely never heard it, and certainly never remembered. I supplied cold bottled water where needed, and breathed tingly menthol air into the eyes and mouths of my compatriots.

I played mother hen, making sure everybody was safe and hydrated. I grinned as girls and boys I didn't know rubbed up against me, flashing me their starry eyes. I facilitated kisses and more between willing, handsome boys and my on-again, off-again boyfriend, whose normally undercover bisexuality was so easily teased to the surface by a tiny white pill and my gentle reminders that yes, baby, it is turning me on so much to watch you with him. Eyes rolled back in heads. Hearts beat hard, keeping time with the bassline. In the mornings, we gathered along the lakefront in groups of hundreds, sometimes thousands, to quietly play drums and watch the sun rise. We breathed deeply and held one another close, talking nonsense about peace, love, unity and acceptance. For a warm, cuddly girl like me, this space was paradise, and I got to visit it regularly for a few shining years.

In the daytime, I went back to being the angsty, withdrawn girl my family knew me as. My lipstick was black, my mood was sullen, and my temper was short. I didn't like myself very much, and didn't have many friends. I had a very hard time relating to other people. I was very private, preferring to spend most of my time hiding behind the anonymity of my computer, chatting with strangers who didn't know me and didn't know my story; strangers who couldn't judge. I have always made a better first impression in text. I am nowhere near eloquent in person, most of the time.

Thus, it was on the internet that I met Mark, over a round-table discussion of dance music. He lived nearby, albeit on the "bad side" of town, and attended many of the same parties. I recalled having seen him around - he was an incredible dancer, but I couldn't remember what he looked like. We chatted for a couple of weeks, and then agreed to meet. He would come to my house to pick me up. I dressed in my typical head-to-toe black, covered from wrists to ankles, careful not to show much skin, as I was not fond of my body. I went to the porch and waited. And waited. When I glanced at my watch and realized he was 45 minutes late, I turned back into the house, feeling dejected. I stepped into the bathroom, locking the door behind me. I splashed some water on my face and took a hard look in the mirror, sharply criticizing every flaw, the way I have always done when upset. He had seen a photo of me - did he decide I wasn't attractive enough? Had he found something better to do this evening? I felt hurt.

Just then, I heard a knock at the bathroom door. It was my mother. Testily, I responded. She said, "Mariel, he's here." Shit! I dried my face, checked my makeup, and opened the bathroom door. My mother was grinning ear to ear. "He's so handsome, Mariel!" she whispered. My heart fluttered. If my mother thought he was handsome, well, that was something. I walked to the front door, as she lingered in the kitchen to give me space. I opened the door. Standing in front of me was the physical embodiment of almost every teenage girl's dreamboat fantasy.

He was tall and slender but not lanky. His skin was flawless. His longish dark hair hung in front of his brown eyes in that messy, accidental way that only teenage boys can pull off. His lips were compact but his smile was wide, and he lit up at the sight of me. I'd never gotten that reaction before. I stepped out, tentatively, and went to shake his hand, only to be scooped up into an earnest hug that literally swept me off my feet. I was not a tiny girl, mind you, but he was very strong. His arms held me steady, and he made it look effortless. "It's so good to meet you, finally! I'm Mark." He set me down, and kissed my cheek. We held hands as we walked.

That night, we went to the lake. Walking through the trendy neighborhoods, women from several different age groups eyed my date and obviously approved. We talked and talked, the conversation never flagging. On the grass lining the rocky waterfront, we cuddled. He held me in his lap and stroked my arms, telling me that I was pretty. I turned around to get a better look at him, unabashedly memorizing his face and enjoying his gaze. We watched the boats light up in the summer night, floating on the inky water. It was a beautiful, innocent first date.

A week or so later, we visited a park in the rain. I love rain, and he knew it. I
climbed on the playground, revisiting my youth, chatting away about nothing in particular. At one point, he became silent and tapped me on the shoulder. Instinctively, I spun around, only to be met by his embrace. He was upon me in a moment, his strong tongue parting my lips, discovering my own. I met his kisses with enthusiasm, and we pressed our rain-soaked bodies together. We kissed for hours, as young people will do. I was delighted.

Such dates continued for several months as we got to know one another. My Mark was smart, funny and outgoing, having learned to carve a niche for himself as the middle child in a very large family. He had an easy charm about him, and was friendly almost to a fault. There were obstacles, though, as there always are. The largest of these was the fact that my Mark fancied himself a strict Pentecostal and vegetarian. Now, I was raised a good Catholic girl, but by the age of 12 I had already done my research and branded myself an agnostic. I hold firm on my refusal to hold firm to this day. In his mind, this made me a heathen, worthy of a fiery afterlife. I had no desire to debate religion. Even now, I will not engage in that.

I commended him for not pressuring me to change, but he did spend quite a lot of time
enumerating for me the ways in which Jesus was his one, true love, and how he needed to settle down with a woman who would join in his fervor for the lord. He also found my meat-eating ways disgusting, and this I was much less offended by. To this day, I feel guilty about being an omnivore. I have tried, and subsequently failed, several times to become a vegetarian. I don't know how to cook and don't own a stove, so my experiments never go well. I was willing to concede that yes, my support of the meat industry made me at least passively cruel, and that in the future, I might consider changing.

In a very short amount of time, though, these differences in lifestyle weighed heavy upon his conscience, especially when we spoke of all things sensual. I have always loved to talk about sex, even before I was doing it. I was always honest about my sexual desires, and I would tell him about my eagerness to experiment. Occasionally, I invited my best friend, Katie, to kiss and grope with the two of us. It got even worse as my roving hands got bolder and bolder during our extended lip locks. He was forbidden by his faith to have "sexual relations" prior to his marriage to his ideal God-fearing wife, and he was beginning to think I was a floozy for all my boldness. I was frustrated. He was frustrated. Over time, we drifted apart and stopped speaking.

Years passed. I grew up. The bubble burst on the party scene. I had other relationships, had sex, got a real job, learned to be social, continued to eat meat and never returned to my Christian roots. One day in 2004, I decided to check on good ol' Mark. I sent an e-mail to the address he had given me years before, not allowing myself to hope for much. To my surprise, I got a response that very night.

I could practically see his broad smile in his excited response. He seemed so happy to hear from me. He said we had much to discuss. We agreed to meet.

Again, before our second first date, I found myself deep in scrutiny in front of my bathroom mirror. I had put on weight. My hair was short. Would he like it? Would he still find me pretty, despite the fact that I was chubby and older? Would he still be as attractive as he had been years ago?

He came and picked me up again. He hugged me tightly again. He was still handsome. Older, more rugged. I was still girlishly blushing. We found each other easy company, talking as we drove. He was a plumber, and had the rough hands of a laborer. He was still very attached to his religion and an active (now vegan) member of PETA, but he said he had learned to be more accepting of others. He never forgot my kisses, he said. He still had the flowery, teenage love notes I'd written, he said. I was still pretty, he said.

Naturally, there was a catch to this.

My Mark had found himself a girlfriend. A stunningly beautiful girl named Jenny.

Anyway, Mark told me all about his relationship. He did not seem very happy. I felt awkward. Why was he telling me this? Why was it my business? Where was this leading? We continued to see one another, gradually spending more time together. Most of the time, we were at his house, watching movies together in his bedroom. Soon, we were wrestling on his bed, having pillow fights. Once or twice, we even cuddled. I picked up a belt one day, turning it over in my hands, making a joke about how my ardent vegan owned a leather item. He explained to me that it was fake and 100% cruelty-free, but that it held pants up and left marks on backsides just the same. My eyes lit up and my cheeks went pink. He noticed. My Mark had relaxed about sex, it seemed.

He worked similar comments into our conversations from that point on, trying to make them seem nonchalant. Most of the time, I'm sad to say, I took the bait and flirted, and then chastised myself for it later. I wanted to experience him in the ways that had been denied to me years earlier, but I was not about to contribute to him cheating on his girlfriend. I had been there before, and felt none too proud of myself. He was not ready to end his relationship. We were at an impasse.

One night in late July, as I was leaving his house, my Mark once again swept me off my feet as we stood under a streetlamp, his arms wrapped around me like he never intended to let go. That was the last time I saw him. I recognized what was happening, and needed to stop it before we had regrets. I was falling for him, and that would only lead to heartache for both of us. I ended things neatly, and we stopped talking all together.

Years passed again.

A couple of weeks ago, I looked him up once more. My Mark is married.