How will I ever truly understand my motives? Was I curious about what my ten years of sexual experience would bring to this young virgin's education? And was that driven by ego? Was I, rather, yearning for a clean slate, one who wouldn't judge me because she didn't know any better? Or is there just something sickeningly fundamental about wanting to fuck an eighteen-year-old virgin?
It's harder for me to admit that I might have actually liked Chloe. A couple weeks in, after her mom started to suspect that Chloe and Hailey weren't as inseparable as Chloe's lies made them out to be, I even fantasized about a future together down the line. I imagined that I could shape her into a well-rounded, literate, free-thinking woman. That I would help lay her foundation, and Chloe would find me again a couple years out of college, after earning her own life experience, and turn out perfect for me.
It felt both romantic and disgusting at the time, but now it just feels disgusting.
The faults I consistently attributed to Chloe's youth finally ended up proving to be less callowness and more personality flaws. It took three strikes for me to understand this:
1. One thing I made clear before anything happened was that her teachers could not find out about our affair. I knew her high school English teacher because he used to be mine, and he hustled to get me my old teaching position. Well, the precocious auteur that she is, she couldn't resist making such hints in her creative writing assignments, and he overheard my name during class once when she was chatting with a friend. That wasn't a fun email correspondence with Mr. Derry. But I let it go.
2. She got my friend fired. Not on purpose. My friend Jeff works for a company that does focus testing. He hired Chloe as part of a group to test a product whose brand name was being kept under wraps. Afterward, while the three of us were having dinner, he spilled the beans in confidence. Granted, he never used the word secret, but he never thought she would pass his cell phone number to her New York Times reporter family friend over dinner the following week. Well, it got traced back to him and he got canned. I gave her the benefit of the doubt. So did my friend. (This is big-hearted Jeff who never thought less of me for infusing the stitch of his duvee with vomit.)
3. Figuring it only proper to show Chloe my manuscript after she let me judge so many of her essays, this time I explicitly stated not to show it to anyone. She claims she didn't recall me saying that while she proudly read it aloud to her friends to "try and get feedback on it" for me. That finally crossed the line.
In some ways, I chalk all of these mistakes up to her age, but, at the same time, I doubt every eighteen-year-old would commit these same follies. Chloe called me the day after I yelled at her for showing off my manuscript and told me that she couldn't be with someone who made her feel as bad about herself as I did. She told me that I was wrong to blame these mistakes on her age, and, in doing so, I wasn't letting her be her own person, but rather, that I was turning her into "an eighteen year old" and not Chloe.
I was surprised to hear her break up with me, mostly because I thought that I had already done that on the phone the previous day. I also thought it a mistake for her to try and take responsibility for her actions, as I was giving her an excuse that she apparently didn't want. I wasn't sure whether or not to respect that attitude.
I can't say that I regret anything that happened with Chloe, though I probably wouldn't have done it if I had envisioned this outcome. While I may repent it now, I do know that if I hadn't have fucked the girl, I would have always wondered what it would have been like. And now I know. So there's that.
Monday, February 1, 2010
Wednesday, January 27, 2010
Finish What Ya Started
I found out Chloe was a virgin before Christmas. It wasn't a shock, but the way she wrote made me hope it wasn't so. After her birthday, Chloe laid it on thick, and all of the topics I had postponed discussing because she was underage, she sucked from my brain like a thirsty embalmer. It wasn't too long before she was lying to her mom and visiting my house instead of Hailey's.
I tried to be careful with her. At first I didn't let her enter my bedroom, and when I finally did, I made sure to sit on separate furniture. I don't really know what my hesitation was, but something compelled me to release the brakes slowly.
It was the day we sat on the same couch that we first kissed. My heart lunged into my rib cage. My hands sweat, but not more than hers.
It felt wrong to kiss her and I stopped. I absolutely felt like I was kissing a teenager, not because she slobbered all over me, but because she took my cues like directives. The inequity was apparent, and I knew that this path would lead to emotional attachment, if not for eternity, than at least for longer than I could support. I tried to explain this, and, as one would expect, she denied it.
I couldn't stop seeing her. Something about the way she hugged me, letting her fingers slide down my forearms as she released, the way she pressed her cheek against mine and breathed warmly onto my neck, it was more than I could give up. She looked at me like she wanted me to change her life, and I knew that she would remember everything that I said and did.
I asked friends their opinions and the ones who read my blog wanted me to do it, and the ones who didn't thought I should be careful. No one said a definitive no, except my father. I wanted to listen to him.
I met her on the beach on Christmas, close to sunset. It was an extremely windy day and we took refuge next to a lifeguard tower. I told her that I had decided we shouldn't keep seeing each other. She asked me why. I told her that I couldn't support a relationship with her, and that she can't see now how she would get attached to the guy who took her virginity.
Her response: Then fuck me and don't date me.
After all of my deliberation and counseling, these crass words suddenly flipped a switch. It might sound awful, but those were the sexiest words I had ever heard spoken to me. All of a sudden, the realistic possibility of sleeping with beautiful Chloe seemed tangible, and my fantasies for the past two months were on the verge of materializing.
That night she made arrangements to sleep over. As we started to take our clothes off, she seemed happy and relieved. I felt a pang of disappointment when I saw that she was shaven. How did porn chic infiltrate the 18 and under crowd?
I soon found out that Chloe hadn't had any type of sex, which made me hesitate for no more than a minute. Although the situation now felt that much more ridiculous, I had already made the decision, and I was going to follow through.
It hurt her a lot, more than the two virgins I had slept with during college. Regardless, it went well. She cried appropriately and we laid together in bed looking at each other for a long time. I thought that I had done right by her, that I had made the experience everything that I could.
She told me that she was happy that I was her first, and that she couldn't imagine someone better to lose it to. At the time, I believed her, and I did for the next couple of weeks. It is only now, a month later, that I know I was deluding myself.
I tried to be careful with her. At first I didn't let her enter my bedroom, and when I finally did, I made sure to sit on separate furniture. I don't really know what my hesitation was, but something compelled me to release the brakes slowly.
It was the day we sat on the same couch that we first kissed. My heart lunged into my rib cage. My hands sweat, but not more than hers.
It felt wrong to kiss her and I stopped. I absolutely felt like I was kissing a teenager, not because she slobbered all over me, but because she took my cues like directives. The inequity was apparent, and I knew that this path would lead to emotional attachment, if not for eternity, than at least for longer than I could support. I tried to explain this, and, as one would expect, she denied it.
I couldn't stop seeing her. Something about the way she hugged me, letting her fingers slide down my forearms as she released, the way she pressed her cheek against mine and breathed warmly onto my neck, it was more than I could give up. She looked at me like she wanted me to change her life, and I knew that she would remember everything that I said and did.
I asked friends their opinions and the ones who read my blog wanted me to do it, and the ones who didn't thought I should be careful. No one said a definitive no, except my father. I wanted to listen to him.
I met her on the beach on Christmas, close to sunset. It was an extremely windy day and we took refuge next to a lifeguard tower. I told her that I had decided we shouldn't keep seeing each other. She asked me why. I told her that I couldn't support a relationship with her, and that she can't see now how she would get attached to the guy who took her virginity.
Her response: Then fuck me and don't date me.
After all of my deliberation and counseling, these crass words suddenly flipped a switch. It might sound awful, but those were the sexiest words I had ever heard spoken to me. All of a sudden, the realistic possibility of sleeping with beautiful Chloe seemed tangible, and my fantasies for the past two months were on the verge of materializing.
That night she made arrangements to sleep over. As we started to take our clothes off, she seemed happy and relieved. I felt a pang of disappointment when I saw that she was shaven. How did porn chic infiltrate the 18 and under crowd?
I soon found out that Chloe hadn't had any type of sex, which made me hesitate for no more than a minute. Although the situation now felt that much more ridiculous, I had already made the decision, and I was going to follow through.
It hurt her a lot, more than the two virgins I had slept with during college. Regardless, it went well. She cried appropriately and we laid together in bed looking at each other for a long time. I thought that I had done right by her, that I had made the experience everything that I could.
She told me that she was happy that I was her first, and that she couldn't imagine someone better to lose it to. At the time, I believed her, and I did for the next couple of weeks. It is only now, a month later, that I know I was deluding myself.
Wednesday, January 20, 2010
Drop Dead Legs
Yes, Chloe has those. She has drop dead legs, though I am historically more of a boob guy. Her boobs are small but finely shaped - I love those kind too. Recently, I have tended to desire plump asses, as that last girl, Morgan, left me wondering where to grab when she was pressed against me.
Chloe has thin, long legs, perky, smallish boobs, and a butt to hang onto...I can imagine. No, I have experienced it, and I will write about it next post. However, this post is about something else. It's about what Chloe has.
What some women don't realize, and what I didn't realize until a month ago, is that not all guys get turned on simply by an attractive naked female body. There are several things that feed into a man's sexual desires, whether they be physical, mental, aural, or olfactory. What I've found is that certain aspects of a girl that I normally find sexy might not be working for me on any given day, so the more tools I have, the easier it is to stay excited, and, let's now be honest, keep my erection.
Maintaining an erection with a new girl is easy - something is always exciting about a new body, different clit, unique sounds she makes. But, now that I'm older (it started at the ripe old age of 26), my erections have not been automatic. I use the tools of a girl's anatomy and personality to keep me good for her pleasure, but they do wear down. My friend Jon suggested that work stress and general self-confidence can also play a part in it. He may be right, but I know - and I've thought a lot about this - that I'm right too.
It happened a month into it with Sofia. To backtrack: on the second date Sofia let me under her Peruvian quilt and it was splendid at first. We had gone meringue dancing earlier that night and she made me feel like a born-again Bar Mitzvah boy - popped my first boner on the dance floor in 14 years. Her hips twisted like curly peyes, and when she rocked them against me, I couldn't help but nudge her back.
However, after a few weeks of pretty consistent sex, the condoms began to feel thicker, and her moaning turned into a good song that I played on repeat one too many times (think Paper Planes circa August 2008). While it may seem as though I am destined to tire of every girl at some point for all eternity - and I'll admit that the possibility pains me every day - the box of tools Sofia gave me, though they were powerful ones, felt like a starter kit compared to the walloping contractor's package Chloe slid under my Christmas tree that December 25th we took the plunge.
You see, what Chloe has on her side is excitement. Her legs, breasts, ass, and lips are supplemented by her sexual curiosity, youth, and impressive learning curve(s). Knowing that the songs she moans are being written for the first time, in real time, grows my sexual exhilaration. She writes well and plays piano better. She makes me laugh with terse, acute text messages, and follows my eyes when I look away. She moves like I taught her to, and she orgasms with intensity that I haven't known for a while.
It's been a month with Chloe, and while I feel there is something wrong about this, that I should have moved past this kind of pleasure by now at 27, almost 28, I still haven't softened for the girl.
Chloe has thin, long legs, perky, smallish boobs, and a butt to hang onto...I can imagine. No, I have experienced it, and I will write about it next post. However, this post is about something else. It's about what Chloe has.
What some women don't realize, and what I didn't realize until a month ago, is that not all guys get turned on simply by an attractive naked female body. There are several things that feed into a man's sexual desires, whether they be physical, mental, aural, or olfactory. What I've found is that certain aspects of a girl that I normally find sexy might not be working for me on any given day, so the more tools I have, the easier it is to stay excited, and, let's now be honest, keep my erection.
Maintaining an erection with a new girl is easy - something is always exciting about a new body, different clit, unique sounds she makes. But, now that I'm older (it started at the ripe old age of 26), my erections have not been automatic. I use the tools of a girl's anatomy and personality to keep me good for her pleasure, but they do wear down. My friend Jon suggested that work stress and general self-confidence can also play a part in it. He may be right, but I know - and I've thought a lot about this - that I'm right too.
It happened a month into it with Sofia. To backtrack: on the second date Sofia let me under her Peruvian quilt and it was splendid at first. We had gone meringue dancing earlier that night and she made me feel like a born-again Bar Mitzvah boy - popped my first boner on the dance floor in 14 years. Her hips twisted like curly peyes, and when she rocked them against me, I couldn't help but nudge her back.
However, after a few weeks of pretty consistent sex, the condoms began to feel thicker, and her moaning turned into a good song that I played on repeat one too many times (think Paper Planes circa August 2008). While it may seem as though I am destined to tire of every girl at some point for all eternity - and I'll admit that the possibility pains me every day - the box of tools Sofia gave me, though they were powerful ones, felt like a starter kit compared to the walloping contractor's package Chloe slid under my Christmas tree that December 25th we took the plunge.
You see, what Chloe has on her side is excitement. Her legs, breasts, ass, and lips are supplemented by her sexual curiosity, youth, and impressive learning curve(s). Knowing that the songs she moans are being written for the first time, in real time, grows my sexual exhilaration. She writes well and plays piano better. She makes me laugh with terse, acute text messages, and follows my eyes when I look away. She moves like I taught her to, and she orgasms with intensity that I haven't known for a while.
It's been a month with Chloe, and while I feel there is something wrong about this, that I should have moved past this kind of pleasure by now at 27, almost 28, I still haven't softened for the girl.
Thursday, December 24, 2009
[apologies]
Hi All,
I'm so sorry for the delayed writing. Work has overloaded me in the past few weeks. But not to worry, while I haven't found enough time for blogging (I actually take a really long time to write each entry), I have made time for Sofia and Chloe. More to follow...
- Laszlo
I'm so sorry for the delayed writing. Work has overloaded me in the past few weeks. But not to worry, while I haven't found enough time for blogging (I actually take a really long time to write each entry), I have made time for Sofia and Chloe. More to follow...
- Laszlo
Monday, November 23, 2009
Hot for Teacher
I got a phone call on Saturday afternoon from a seventeen-year-old girl named Hailey. She informed me that her friend, a now eighteen-year-old girl named Chloe, was receiving a surprise birthday party that night with the "surprise!" scheduled for 8pm and festivities lasting until "the party gets broken up."
The last time I had been to a party that got broken up was high school, and this, indeed, was a high school party. Hailey told me that a week prior, Chloe had written a preemptive list of the people she would want to attend her party (if she were to have one), and my name was in the top five. Hailey reiterated that it would mean a lot to Chloe if I showed up.
Now, before I go any further, I must admit something: during the process of editing Chloe's essay, she and I talked on the phone--not just about her essay. When I was an English teacher I edited a few of my students' college application essays whose themes usually reflected their lives. To improve the expression of such a theme, one must delve into a student's life, and I did so without ever an awkward moment. After all, back in 2004-5, most essays read like Afterschool Specials. Not anymore. With Chloe's essay, I had little room to pussyfoot around sexual misconduct in a foreign land and the perspective one learns from it. I recall one phone conversation regarding her abusive brother that ended in tears. There's a fine line between being an ear to cry into and taking a teacher-student relationship too far.
Still, I was flattered that I was in the top five. I liked the idea that I meant something to Chloe more than a stupid crush, and I was impressed that her friends were throwing her a party--something that shows she is respected and well-liked. Was I going to go to the party? No. Did I consider it for more than a passing second? Yes.
Lucky for me, I had a date with Sofia that night and thought it best to say so to Hailey, as it revealed that I was unavailable both that night, and to high school girls in general.
The date with Sofia was strange. I met her around 9pm at a bar that had bocce ball. I enjoyed teaching her to pronounce "bocce" and "pallino" in her Panamanian accent, but I think my sense of humor got lost in translation. She laughed a lot, but I could tell she found me silly more than anything else.
When I took Sofia home I got snubbed at the door, destroying my first-night streak. She seemed confident in her decision so I didn't press. And, in the back of my head, I was toying with the idea of wishing the 18 year old a "happy birthday" in person.
As I drove home, I called Chloe. Each unanswered ring sped my heart beat, made me question what I was doing, and took me closer to the point of no return.
She didn't pick up. Who knows if the music was too loud or the realistic possibility of seeing me with the law on our side scared her. Either way, her cute outgoing message ended my night, and I am so glad for it.
The last time I had been to a party that got broken up was high school, and this, indeed, was a high school party. Hailey told me that a week prior, Chloe had written a preemptive list of the people she would want to attend her party (if she were to have one), and my name was in the top five. Hailey reiterated that it would mean a lot to Chloe if I showed up.
Now, before I go any further, I must admit something: during the process of editing Chloe's essay, she and I talked on the phone--not just about her essay. When I was an English teacher I edited a few of my students' college application essays whose themes usually reflected their lives. To improve the expression of such a theme, one must delve into a student's life, and I did so without ever an awkward moment. After all, back in 2004-5, most essays read like Afterschool Specials. Not anymore. With Chloe's essay, I had little room to pussyfoot around sexual misconduct in a foreign land and the perspective one learns from it. I recall one phone conversation regarding her abusive brother that ended in tears. There's a fine line between being an ear to cry into and taking a teacher-student relationship too far.
Still, I was flattered that I was in the top five. I liked the idea that I meant something to Chloe more than a stupid crush, and I was impressed that her friends were throwing her a party--something that shows she is respected and well-liked. Was I going to go to the party? No. Did I consider it for more than a passing second? Yes.
Lucky for me, I had a date with Sofia that night and thought it best to say so to Hailey, as it revealed that I was unavailable both that night, and to high school girls in general.
The date with Sofia was strange. I met her around 9pm at a bar that had bocce ball. I enjoyed teaching her to pronounce "bocce" and "pallino" in her Panamanian accent, but I think my sense of humor got lost in translation. She laughed a lot, but I could tell she found me silly more than anything else.
When I took Sofia home I got snubbed at the door, destroying my first-night streak. She seemed confident in her decision so I didn't press. And, in the back of my head, I was toying with the idea of wishing the 18 year old a "happy birthday" in person.
As I drove home, I called Chloe. Each unanswered ring sped my heart beat, made me question what I was doing, and took me closer to the point of no return.
She didn't pick up. Who knows if the music was too loud or the realistic possibility of seeing me with the law on our side scared her. Either way, her cute outgoing message ended my night, and I am so glad for it.
Friday, November 20, 2009
Panama
It was a woman this time, not a girl, making eyes across the room. They were enormous and brown and easy to spot. She had amazing posture, gliding from the counter to her seat like a salsa dancer, hips caroming from side to side.
Because Van Halen concerts are few and far between these days, coffee shops are the next best place for me to meet interesting girls. This time I was there with my friend playing chess, a sure way to turn off any sexy lady. Well, except for this one.
I had a little extra dough on hand from the bonus essay I edited last weekend and tried to psych out my chess partner with a little uncommon generosity. I went up to buy him another cup of tea and checked to see if the woman noticed my cash tip.
Now, before it seems like this happens all the time, I must qualify: while I do occasionally find a teenage girl ogling me because I have certain qualities that her hairless boyfriend lacks, sustaining eye contact with a full grown woman for longer than a full second is rare.
However, this benevolent creature, this Latina beauty, was giving me a down and dirty, unquestionable eye fuck.
My chess partner was getting annoyed. I was taking forever with my move and wouldn't let him turn around to check her out.
Then, her friend got up to leave. I panicked. Would I have to chase after her? But my salsa queen didn't follow. She hugged her friend from a sitting position and pulled out a book. She glanced at me again before opening it and then settled into her pillow chair. If ever there were an opportunity, this was it. I had always fantasized about how a coffee shop pick up might go down, and I was about to enact the classic "What are you reading?" scenario.
Yet, I froze. I couldn't concentrate on two chess games at once. I was actually winning the one I was already playing, and if I tried for the girl, my friend would beat me for the eleventh time in a row.
Priorities.
But as the moments passed, her posture changed. She seemed agitated. She couldn't have read more than three pages when she tossed the book back into her purse and got up to leave.
Just as my friend grumbled "check mate" I knocked my king over and ran after her.
She was already outside and down the block a ways when I stopped her.
"Sorry to chase after you like this, but I noticed you, um...looking at me, and...well, I couldn't let you go without finding out your name..."
She gave me her number in what I found out later was a Panamanian accent. I played a nerdy trick where I didn't write it down, adding a touch of suspense and earning a questioning smile.
As she turned the corner in her car, I grabbed my pen out of my pocket and scribbled the ten digits on my hand before my brain betrayed my penis yet again. Sofia's the oldest woman I've ever wooed. If that whole sexual prime thing is really true, I may be in for a schoolin'.
Because Van Halen concerts are few and far between these days, coffee shops are the next best place for me to meet interesting girls. This time I was there with my friend playing chess, a sure way to turn off any sexy lady. Well, except for this one.
I had a little extra dough on hand from the bonus essay I edited last weekend and tried to psych out my chess partner with a little uncommon generosity. I went up to buy him another cup of tea and checked to see if the woman noticed my cash tip.
Now, before it seems like this happens all the time, I must qualify: while I do occasionally find a teenage girl ogling me because I have certain qualities that her hairless boyfriend lacks, sustaining eye contact with a full grown woman for longer than a full second is rare.
However, this benevolent creature, this Latina beauty, was giving me a down and dirty, unquestionable eye fuck.
My chess partner was getting annoyed. I was taking forever with my move and wouldn't let him turn around to check her out.
Then, her friend got up to leave. I panicked. Would I have to chase after her? But my salsa queen didn't follow. She hugged her friend from a sitting position and pulled out a book. She glanced at me again before opening it and then settled into her pillow chair. If ever there were an opportunity, this was it. I had always fantasized about how a coffee shop pick up might go down, and I was about to enact the classic "What are you reading?" scenario.
Yet, I froze. I couldn't concentrate on two chess games at once. I was actually winning the one I was already playing, and if I tried for the girl, my friend would beat me for the eleventh time in a row.
Priorities.
But as the moments passed, her posture changed. She seemed agitated. She couldn't have read more than three pages when she tossed the book back into her purse and got up to leave.
Just as my friend grumbled "check mate" I knocked my king over and ran after her.
She was already outside and down the block a ways when I stopped her.
"Sorry to chase after you like this, but I noticed you, um...looking at me, and...well, I couldn't let you go without finding out your name..."
She gave me her number in what I found out later was a Panamanian accent. I played a nerdy trick where I didn't write it down, adding a touch of suspense and earning a questioning smile.
As she turned the corner in her car, I grabbed my pen out of my pocket and scribbled the ten digits on my hand before my brain betrayed my penis yet again. Sofia's the oldest woman I've ever wooed. If that whole sexual prime thing is really true, I may be in for a schoolin'.
Wednesday, November 11, 2009
Neworld
I agreed to edit the girl's essay. I was curious. And the $200 per page Wendy offered was the right rate. At worst, I'd talk to Chloe on the phone. I wouldn't have to see her again and fear the minor temptation.
However, when I received Chloe's email on Sunday, I hadn't noticed a second set of digits below her phone number.
11-21-91.
I'm so used to seeing business extensions and secondary phone numbers that it slipped past me. At first I thought it had something to do with the due date of the essay. Then I spotted the 91. This was Chloe's birthday. And it signified the date that she would turn 18.
How coy.
Although I can't publish Chloe's entire essay for obvious reasons, I must share a tidbit that I liked. This is yet unedited by me:
I asked Christian in broken Filipino, "What will you do if you can't box?" He looked at me like he had never heard such an absurd question. I thought he was mad at me for asking.
He had over ten Manny Pacquiao posters on his bedroom wall. Last time I was in his bedroom, he had kissed me which was daring for someone in his village. Things get around quick in Nueva Ecija, and if I told anyone, he probably would have lost his privileges at the gym in Palayan, which my host father's uncle owns.
I kissed him again before he could get madder. I could tell that asking insulted him, that someone in his position, who has given his life to following the Pacquiao dream, can't think of anything else but boxing and leaving poverty. I hoped that my kiss would quench his anger. He looked out the window to make sure no one saw. Being in a situation like this three days before I went back home would only make it harder for me to leave.
He sneaked me out the back door and we said our goodbyes. He told me that he didn't want me to leave, and that his sister, who I'd become close to, had told him to propose to me so I would stay. He told me that his parents approved, and that his parents said my host parents would say it was okay as well. But he told me that he wouldn't propose. He knew that I'd say no, and that he had no delusions over that I was a western girl with western hopes and dreams, which didn't include marrying a poor boxer in the Philippines.
When I didn't respond, he knew that he was right. But I realized something in that moment. I originally went to Nueva Ecija to gain a different perspective and look into a neworld...but I soon realized that I had become part of it. It wasn't enough to gain an appreciation of the world around me. I had to understand what to do with my role in it.
However, when I received Chloe's email on Sunday, I hadn't noticed a second set of digits below her phone number.
11-21-91.
I'm so used to seeing business extensions and secondary phone numbers that it slipped past me. At first I thought it had something to do with the due date of the essay. Then I spotted the 91. This was Chloe's birthday. And it signified the date that she would turn 18.
How coy.
Although I can't publish Chloe's entire essay for obvious reasons, I must share a tidbit that I liked. This is yet unedited by me:
I asked Christian in broken Filipino, "What will you do if you can't box?" He looked at me like he had never heard such an absurd question. I thought he was mad at me for asking.
He had over ten Manny Pacquiao posters on his bedroom wall. Last time I was in his bedroom, he had kissed me which was daring for someone in his village. Things get around quick in Nueva Ecija, and if I told anyone, he probably would have lost his privileges at the gym in Palayan, which my host father's uncle owns.
I kissed him again before he could get madder. I could tell that asking insulted him, that someone in his position, who has given his life to following the Pacquiao dream, can't think of anything else but boxing and leaving poverty. I hoped that my kiss would quench his anger. He looked out the window to make sure no one saw. Being in a situation like this three days before I went back home would only make it harder for me to leave.
He sneaked me out the back door and we said our goodbyes. He told me that he didn't want me to leave, and that his sister, who I'd become close to, had told him to propose to me so I would stay. He told me that his parents approved, and that his parents said my host parents would say it was okay as well. But he told me that he wouldn't propose. He knew that I'd say no, and that he had no delusions over that I was a western girl with western hopes and dreams, which didn't include marrying a poor boxer in the Philippines.
When I didn't respond, he knew that he was right. But I realized something in that moment. I originally went to Nueva Ecija to gain a different perspective and look into a neworld...but I soon realized that I had become part of it. It wasn't enough to gain an appreciation of the world around me. I had to understand what to do with my role in it.
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