Mr. Saturday Night: Part 2

To find out how I met Mr. Saturday night, click here por favor…

For the next week or so, Mr. Saturday Night and I talked every night, and every night I found that we had even more in common. I was beginning to discover that he was basically me, only with much better hair and a penis.

After what felt like eternity, he finally asked me to hang out with him. “Hang out” is the key phrase here, and let’s keep in mind that it is very different from the phrase “go out.”

In college, “hanging out” typically meant that I would meet up with a boy and his frat boy friends, drink copious amounts of alcohol, flirt, and then get a little frisky in his dorm room… which is essentially what Mr. Saturday Night and I did every night for a few weeks -minus the getting frisky part. Oh we cuddled well enough, but nothing more. We would lay in bed at night with our arms awkwardly grasping each other, Mr. Saturday night would talk endlessly about philosophy and music while I imagined that he would shut his mouth for 12 minutes  stick his tongue in mine.

It was frustrating. I mean, I knew that he was going to be my future husband and the words “soul mate” would flash repeatedly in my brain in neon-letters every time I was around him, but for some reason the boy just wouldn’t kiss me.

One night about a month into us hanging out, we finally made progress. We had just left his friend’s house and decided to go back to his dorm room to watch old SCTV DVD’s. Unfortunately his roommate was there, firmly planted in front of the TV playing Vice City or some other nonsense shooting game on the X-Box. Nevertheless, we decided to make ourselves comfortable on his top bunk. We had been sitting there for only a minute or two, making small talk with his roommate, when he finally leaned over and made lip contact. We made out there for hours while his roommate quietly played ex-box below.

For the next few months things progressed quite smashingly on the sexual front, but emotionally? Not so much. I knew that our relationship was based on the things that we had in common, and I began to find, as with every other human being on planet Earth, that there were certain things that we didn’t agree on. For instance, he firmly believed that David Cross was the superior writer over Bob Odenkirk on Mr. Show. I did not agree. I was too afraid to express my real opinions over these things for fear that our connection would be forever shattered, and things got awkward. But still, I loved the dude.

After finals, he told me the devastating news that he had failed the semester and that his parents were forcing him to move back home. On top of that, he had started a fight with a member of another fraternity and had gotten kicked out. He wasn’t happy, and he didn’t really want to talk about it.

Over Christmas break he called me a few times, but neither of us had cell phones yet and the communication quickly faded. I was devastated, but I always thought that one day we would meet up again.