Soundtrack of Our Lives: Magnetic Fields, 69 Love Songs

Editor's note: This is the third of a three-part story. Read Part One and Part Two.

A week or so went by, and Elton did his best to apologize, in his own way. I mean, he never actually verbalized the words "I'm sorry," but he e-mailed me mp3s he thought I might like, he burned CDs for me to listen to, he stopped by my cube to chat and to ask me to give him another chance. He was quite charming and I felt my resolve cracking because he seemed sincere and I was still attracted to him. Sure, the drinking thing bothered me, but it wasn't like I expected this to turn into a relationship and I had to give him points for persistence. He was obviously used to working his charms to get his way. I thought, Hey, why not? and decided to go out with him the coming Saturday.

We went to the unfortunately named Earwax Cafe in Wicker Park for dinner. "See," Elton said. "I even picked a place that doesn't serve alcohol. You know—to lessen the chance that I'll get drunk again and say something stupid."
"That's…very thoughtful of you." I hated the way the restaurant smelled liked dirty hippies—feet and patchouli. It was distracting. "You really like this place?"
"Yeah. It's good for breakfast." He leaned over the table and gave me a kiss. "Maybe you'll let me bring you tomorrow morning."
"That's awfully optimistic of you," I laughed.
He grinned, "You know, I've never worked this hard in my entire life to get a girl to like me."
"Oh yeah?"
"Yeah. I've never had to." He drank his water. "Girls usually pursue me."
As if to prove this, two hipster girls wearing skirts and legwarmers walked by our table and checked him out, smiling and giggling. One of them mouthed, "Hi." Elton waved back, but, to his credit, he looked uncomfortable. I had to admit, it was somewhat exhilarating to be keeping company with such an attractive guy.
"Did you plan that?"
He laughed, "Of course not."

We finished eating and went back to his place. This time, I was the one who felt like drinking. He brought out some beers and we sat on the couch and talked.
"So girls usually pursue you, huh?"
"Yeah. Usually."
"How many?" I'd been wondering since Little Man said that thing about Elton hitting on everyone at work.
"Oh. The numbers question."
"Sure. I mean," I pounded my beer. "If I'm going to be having breakfast with you, I'd like to know."
He raised an expertly groomed eyebrow and smiled, "Well. Okay, then." He leaned back, "But I don't want you to freak out."
"Well, how many are we talking, here? Thirty?" Elton shook his head. "More or fewer?"
He took a drink, "More."
"Oh," I said and finished my drink. "I think I'll have another."

We moved over to the futon and started making out. "Wait," he got up and clicked around on his computer. "Have you heard this?" It sounded kind of folksy, a little like Simon & Garfunkel, if Simon & Garfunkel were less earnest and more funny.
I leaned over the edge of the futon. "No. But I like it. What is it?"
"Magnetic Fields. 69 Love Songs." He came back to the futon and lay next to me. "I burned you a copy. It's on the table by the door so you won't forget it."
"That's sweet of you. Thanks." And it was, but curiosity was getting the better of me, and so was he. I wanted to sleep with him, but first I wanted that number. "Fifty? Sixty?"
"We're back to that? Okay, you're closer."
"Closer?"
"Yeah…keep going."
My beer-addled brain was spinning just a little bit. I tried to decide what number would freak me out. What number would keep me from having sex with him? Sixty-something was a lot of people, though, to me, but I wanted to know what it was like to sleep with someone who'd had that much experience.
"Does that freak you out?" He looked concerned.
"No. Not really, I mean, you're clean, right? You've been tested?"
"Yeah. Every six months." He kissed my back. "So how about you?"
"Have I been tested?"
"No—your number."
"Uh, four."
He looked amused. "Four. That's cute."
"Cute? Are you making fun of me?"
"No!" He rolled over on top of me, "Nothing like that. I just thought it would be more. I mean, you're what, 25 or something?"
"Yes. And?"
"And—it's just that most girls I know have been with a lot more people."
"Well I'm not most girls, now, am I?" I felt kind of defensive.
"Hey," he kept kissing me. "It's just a number, right? It's not a big deal."
And, in a way, he was right. I was in no position to judge anyone on their sexual history.

So, in the parlance of teenage girls' diaries the world over, things were getting hot and heavy. And we were at that point where you either stop or go forward. Liquid courage had made me physically ready, but my pesky brain! Why did I want to know the number so badly? "Seventy?" "No…"
"Eighty?"
"Yeah, around there. Give or take 10."
My eyes were bugging out of my head, "And you know all of their names?"
"Well," he paused. "No … Well, at least their first names."
"Wow…" That was quite a number. Still, it was entirely possible that he'd been safe and was clean and that this could end up being quite a good experience for me. It's just the fear of the new, that's all, I thought. It's been ages since you've seen a new person naked. Stop thinking.
"So do you—"
Stop thinking. Stop thinking. This could be the best sex of your life. Don't pass it up just because of some stupid number! "Yes…"

He tore open a condom and we went at it. And …

And Elton was very, very, very bad in bed. It was terrible! I don't know how to describe it. It was just…awful. He was graceless. Awkward. Corny. Rushed. Lots of "You like that, don't you?" and "Yeah, this is good." He had this stupid expression on his face: eyes half-closed, pouty lips. He didn't even notice that my arms were at my sides. I wasn't even touching him. He was right about the number not making a difference; he'd slept with more than 8o women and had obviously learned nothing. How could someone who was so good at everything else be such a lousy fuck? I was mystified at his ineptitude. To make things worse, the song in the background was something like:

I pretended you were Jesus/
you were just dying to save me /
I stood beneath your window /
with my ukulele …

It was all just so silly. And finally, after about 10 or 15 minutes of this, I couldn't take it anymore. It was ridiculous and embarrassing. I started laughing.
"Wait. Stop. I can't…" I pushed him off of me.
He was all flushed and out of breath, "Why? What's wrong? Did the condom break?"
"No," I tried to stifle my laughing, but I couldn't. "It's just … I'm not into it. I'm sorry."
"What?" He squinted at me, "But I'm so close!"
He tried to get back on top of me, but I rolled away and tried not to giggle, "I've got to go. I'm sorry." I sat up and looked for my clothes.
Elton was furious. "You can't do that! You can't just get up in—in the fucking middle! I'm about to come! This is bullshit!"
"Look, it's just not … fun."
He glared at me, "Well the least you could do is offer to finish me off!"
I stopped laughing.
Elton stood up, "Un-fucking-believable! Now I'm going to have to jerk off! This is bullshit," and he stomped off to the bathroom.

I made my way to the door. I'd bolted down the stairs and to the sidewalk when I remembered. "Damn!" I thought for a second about leaving them there, but I decided, Fuck it, and ran back up and opened his door. Elton was still in the bathroom, thankfully. I grabbed the pile of CDs on the side table and ran back out.

To this day, I can't listen to the Magnetic Fields without cracking up.

Magnetic Fields, 69 Love Songs
Gift of Elton, Fall 2000