In my early twenties, I was intimate with a University of Virginia student named Jason. He wasn’t the most traditionally handsome fellow; he stood about 6'4, was a bit ungainly, and had a mass of tightly-curled red hair. However, he was always kind to me, and that meant more than the superficial judgments others made of his appearance.
Whenever I went to his apartment, I would find a raspberry-filled Lindt chocolate bar waiting for me. While I was eating the chocolate, Jason would start to wrestle with me. When I wouldn’t put the chocolate down, he would break off pieces and press them against sensitive spots on my body, so that the liquid center would burst. Jason would then trail his tongue across the chocolate and bring his lips to mine, so that we could share the sweetness.
Soon, I was visiting his apartment frequently enough that I believed we were becoming an item. However, one night I called, asked if I could come over, and he replied he had made arrangements with someone else. And though I was a bit naïve, I knew immediately what those words entailed.
We never spoke again, and when he left Charlottesville after graduation, we shared no goodbyes.
Yet, it was difficult to let go of the idea that the young man who had, initially, been so kind to me; consequently, a year or two after he had left the University, I tracked him down and gave him a call. He seemed very apprehensive when I told him who I was. I asked if I had made a mistake in calling him. He replied that he had graduated the University and that he viewed me as one of his courses. He had taken me, and at semester’s end, the class was over, and he had moved onto the next course. His experiences in Charlottesville were a part of his past, and that is where he wished to keep them.