There were others. There was Amy. There was Kate. There was a different girl named Kristen, this one with black hair and hipster bangs and a thing for Johnny Cash. There was my high school ex girlfriend Carrie, who I somehow found myself in a near-threesome with downtown before she got too drunk, puked, and needed to be driven home. I went back to the other girl’s apartment feeling unfulfilled and lonely.
There was the aborted foursome at the house party on Minnesota, where I tried dip for the first time and a Brazilian boy named Paulo sat by the bed trying to carry on a conversation about the Strokes while his girlfriend undressed and started making out with a girl I’d met the week before.
“I didn’t love them at first, but once I saw them live, I became a fan,” said Paulo.
“Make sure her boyfriend fulfills his nakedness,” slurred his girlfriend.
By Erik Wahlstrom.