I met Terrence in 1989, when I was 14, and a freshman in high school. He was in 12th grade then, for the second time around. Respectfully boisterous, openly gregarious and magnetically compelling, he had a certain silver-tongued, salacious charm that was irresistible to girls who wanted to be with him, and guys who wanted to be him. The kind of kid who’d wear a silk suit to school with no socks, he got away with roaming the halls during class and schmoozing with students and personnel alike, while waving off teachers and even the administration with a wink and a nod. Everyone knew his name, loved to howl it out loud, and wanted to pretend they were part of his private “in” crowd, but far fewer folks had ever actually interacted with him personally than claimed to.
When I was new on campus, I could always expect to see him each morning on my way to civics, while he loafed outside the ED classroom, or on my break, while he casually cruised the lunch crowd. I didn’t think much of it… he was the type who more often than not looked like he was trying to get everyone’s attention, which was a pretty sure bet that I’d make a point not to give him mine, but, he always found a moment to stop whatever he was doing as I passed, just to watch me walk by, with an extra big Cheshire grin if he happened to actually catch my eye. Eventually, he started making a point to run into me more often. Between his black roots and my Southern upbringing, we shared a closer culture history than you might think; certainly one more familiar to him than most of the white-bred Midwesterners who surrounded us in the blue collar suburb where we went to school.
He loved the way I talked, the way I moved.
If you’ve ever known a woman you just felt incapable of denying yourself, I was that girl for him.
I became his addiction, and he had to have me.
I’d like to say I wasn’t the type of gal who could be won over by persistent inveigling from a smooth talking hot stud with a killer smile and a disarming personality, but at 14 I sure was, and in truth, I still am.
I would say we dated on-and-off over the next 8 years, but I’m not sure what we did could properly be call “dating.” We had exactly two things in common… skipping class, and screwing like bunnies. Or, actually, I guess, now that I think about it, it was really just one… skipping class TO screw like bunnies.
But that isn't really enough, is it?
Less than 6 months after I’d turned down his marriage proposal, he’d joined the Marines, and was off to basic training in Camp Lejeune. We’d stay in touch throughout his station at